The Campground Caretaker Spied on Me Through the Window

After the night with my boyfriend’s best friend, something between us had opened up and wouldn’t close again. The next morning at breakfast, looking me straight in the eye, he’d confessed that he loved seeing me tease other men. That he got hard just imagining me walking past a stranger in a blouse that was too thin. The strangest part was discovering that the idea turned me on too, especially when I could pretend I didn’t notice the looks.

That’s why, when we booked that long-weekend getaway, I deliberately chose the loneliest place we could find online: a tiny three-cabin complex lost among eucalyptus trees, an hour from the nearest road. When we arrived and the owner told us we were the only guests in low season, I laughed to myself. Empty pool, empty barbecue area, empty paths. Just us.

And Don Eladio.

Don Eladio was the caretaker. He met us at the gate wearing a straw hat and enormous hands stained with dirt. He must have been in his sixties, maybe older. He walked a little hunched over, but he had that alert look men get when they’ve grown used to living alone and watching everything. He told us he handled maintenance, the grounds, repairs, and that he lived in an old cabin at the far end of the property. If we needed anything, we were to call him.

“Anything at all, miss,” he said to me, not to my boyfriend.

I held his gaze a second too long. Just long enough for him to lower his eyes. And in that half second I thought: this old man’s cock has been hard for a while.

***

After lunch, my boyfriend asked if we could go in the pool. Don Eladio said yes, that he was just finishing the chlorine treatment and it would be ready in half an hour. I had put on a bikini that left me more naked than dressed: a tiny triangle barely covering my nipples, another triangle in front, and in back a string disappearing between my ass cheeks. Over it I wore a white sarong, almost sheer.

My boyfriend got the game and dragged the loungers right up beside the edge where Don Eladio was skimming leaves with the net. We sat close enough that he had to keep lifting his head every time I moved. They talked man stuff: the weather, the roads, the diesel prices. I listened without listening.

When I got tired of pretending, I stood up, looked at the sun as if it were my only audience, and let the sarong fall to the floor. I did it slowly, without theatrics, the way a sheet might slip off a bed. But when I looked up, Don Eladio had stopped working the net and was staring at me with his lips parted, as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. It took him three seconds to realize he was being rude and he turned his face back toward the pool. But I saw the bulge straining beneath his work pants. An old cock that had come back to life.

“Pass me the tanning lotion, babe?” I asked my boyfriend.

My boyfriend handed it to me with a little smile only I understood. I rubbed cream over my shoulders, my chest, my stomach. I cupped my tits with open palms as if moisturizing them, but dug my thumbs into my nipples until I could feel them swell against the triangle of fabric. Then I crouched down, my back to the caretaker, and rubbed lotion up my legs from my ankles very slowly. When I reached my thighs, I spread my knees a little. I knew exactly what he was seeing from his angle. I knew the string fabric wasn’t covering anything in that position: it was wedged between the lips of my cunt and showing him the pink flesh at the sides. It was showing him my asshole too. Everything out in the open, for an old man who had only seen cows for years.

Don Eladio cleared his throat. He said he was going to put the cleaning supplies away, that if we needed anything we should go to his house. He left almost tripping over the bucket, his right hand adjusting the bulge in a way that wasn’t remotely subtle.

“You got the poor old man hard,” my boyfriend told me as soon as he’d gone.

“Lies,” I said, laughing.

“No, seriously. You should’ve seen his face. He was going to jack off as soon as he got back to the cabin.”

“Poor thing. He probably hasn’t seen a pussy like that in a thousand years.”

“Exactly. You’re his day of the year.”

The idea lit me up. It turned me on so much I could feel the string fabric getting damp against my skin, the wetness soaking through the triangle in front. My boyfriend noticed, slipped a hand under the sarong while we laughed, and ran two fingers over the wet fabric.

“Look how wet you are,” he murmured. “Such a little slut.”

“Shut up,” I told him, but I grabbed his hand and pressed it against my cunt so he could feel how soaked I was.

Then we got in the pool, swam for a while, drank beer in the loungers, and the thing faded. By the time we got back to the cabin, it was night.

***

We ate something light and my boyfriend collapsed onto the double bed. The trip had left him wrecked. I, on the other hand, wasn’t sleepy. I took a shower and let the warm water run down my back longer than necessary. While I soaped myself up I kept thinking about Don Eladio. That face. Those three seconds when he forgot to breathe. I ran the sponge between my legs and lingered there, pressing my cunt against my hand, imagining the old man’s huge hands spreading my ass cheeks apart. I almost made myself come in the shower. I held back. Something told me the night wasn’t over yet.

I got out of the shower wrapped in a towel. So as not to wake my boyfriend, I went to dress in the small room next door, a bedroom with bunk beds and a big window that looked out onto the path at the back. I turned on only the little desk lamp, left my clothes on the lower bunk, and started brushing my hair in front of the mirror.

Then I heard the dogs.

Don Eladio had two old dogs that followed him everywhere when he did his night rounds. I heard them barking in the distance and knew, without even thinking, that he was coming. I leaned out the window for a second, without opening it, and saw him: he was coming down the path with his flashlight off, letting the dogs mark the way. He was still about a hundred yards away.

My heart sped up in a way I hadn’t felt in years. Not from fear. Quite the opposite. I felt my cunt throbbing against the towel, swelling, getting heavy.

I started opening the curtains with absurd slowness, as if they were made of glass, so they’d part by themselves and it wouldn’t look deliberate. The truth was he couldn’t see me from that far away, but I wanted the scene to build itself, as if whatever was about to happen wasn’t anyone’s fault. I propped my phone on the bookshelf, leaning it against a mug, and hit record, pointing it at the window. I wanted to see his face later. I wanted proof of that face.

When I heard his footsteps getting closer, I started walking around the room. Still just in the towel. I went back and forth pretending to look for something. I picked up a pair of shorts, put them down, opened a drawer, closed it. My head wasn’t deciding anything because this wasn’t a head choosing clothes: it was a body waiting for an audience.

And then I saw the shadow.

A long shadow, cut out by the yellow light outside, crossed the wooden floor of the room. Don Eladio had leaned into the window frame. It lasted only a blink: he realized it himself and shifted to the side, out of frame. But it was too late. I had seen him. And he didn’t know that I had seen him.

I dropped the towel.

I let it fall to the floor with my back to the window, without looking, as if I were just fixing my hair. I was completely naked. The dogs whimpered outside, one scraped the wall with its claws, and I, purely by actor’s reflex, tilted my head as if I’d only just heard them. Don’t let it show that I know. I paused for a moment, frowned at nothing, and went back to what I was doing.

I picked up the jar of body cream. I started with my shoulders, just like by the pool, but this time without any rush. I rubbed my neck, my breasts, my sides. I kneaded one breast with my open hand, as if massaging it, and felt the nipple stiffen against my own palm. I pinched it. I rolled it between two fingers, tugging it outward until it hurt. Then the other one. I knew he could see my hips, the curve of my back, my ass lit by the desk lamp. I knew that on the other side of the glass he couldn’t move. I knew he was unbuttoning his pants. I knew he was taking out his cock.

I turned just enough, three-quarters in profile, so he could see from the side the way I was working my tits. I brought one to my mouth — I’m thin, I could reach without effort — and sucked the nipple like it was a blowjob. With the other hand I went down over my belly and slipped my middle finger between the lips of my cunt. I was soaking wet. The fingertip came out shining, with a sticky thread, and I brought it to my mouth and sucked it while looking away, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if I didn’t know that an old man behind the glass was watching me eat my own juices.

I crouched to put cream on my legs. I took my time. I went from ankles to thighs with both hands open, and when I got to the top, I spread my legs a little more than necessary. Not for him. For me. To feel the cool air touching the place that was already wet. And then, unable to help myself, I ran two fingers through the slit of my cunt. Just two fingers. A long stroke, from back to front, that started at my asshole and ended at my clit. A gasp escaped me. I disguised it as a tired sigh, as if I were stretching my back after a long day.

At the end I deliberately dropped the jar. I wanted it to roll a little, to act innocent on the floor, but the traitorous thing burst open and the cream spilled into a white puddle beside the bed. For a second I was scared. Then I thought: even better.

I grabbed several paper napkins from the desk, knelt down, and on all fours started cleaning it up. With my back to the window. With my legs apart. No hurry. I was giving him the full view: my cunt open between my thighs, lips swollen, shining with wetness, and above it all my asshole. Everything framed by my spread cheeks, lit by the yellow lamp like it was a stage. I moved the paper in tiny circles over the floor, agonizingly slow, arching my back like a cat, while part of me wondered what face he was making, another part was dying of laughter, and a third, the most honest part, felt the wetness running down the insides of my thighs.

I took one hand behind me, hidden under my belly, as if I were adjusting myself. In reality I shoved two fingers into my cunt, all the way in, and pulled them out slowly. I pushed them back in. I drew them out shining, soaked, and slid them between my clit and my entrance, making circles. All on all fours, all with my back to him, all while pretending to clean. I bit my lip not to moan.

I heard him breathing. I swear it. Through the glass, in the silence of that windless night, I heard Don Eladio breathing the way men breathe when they’re jerking off. Short, rough, jaw clenched. I heard the faint, wet, rhythmic sound of an old hand going up and down a cock that hadn’t been that hard in years. And then I gave myself permission: I rested my forehead on the floor, lifted my ass higher, and rubbed my clit with three fingers while I counted to ten in my head so I wouldn’t come yet. I didn’t want to come in front of him. I wanted him to come first.

I got my wish. I heard a muffled grunt on the other side of the glass, a shaky old-man “aaah” held back, and then the sound of something thick hitting the wood of the windowsill. He’d come. Don Eladio, in his sixties, had come jerking off against my window like a teenager.

I stayed like that for a long while. Then, slowly, I sat up and started getting dressed. I put on a little lace panty, very slowly, sliding it up my legs as if I were trying them on. I adjusted it over my cunt with two fingers, pressing the fabric against my wet lips. The bra. A pair of denim shorts. A T-shirt. Each garment was a curtain closing.

Before turning off the lamp I looked at the phone, without making it obvious. On the screen, against the reflection in the window, I saw his silhouette coming just as I finished pulling up my shorts. The shadow moved fast, the dogs followed him away, and everything went silent.

Only then did I dare watch the recording. The face he had, the eyes wide as if he’d seen something he shouldn’t, the clenched jaw, one hand braced against the window frame so he wouldn’t lose his balance, the other out of frame but moving with unmistakable rhythm. Don Eladio, in his sixties, had held his breath for a full twelve minutes so he wouldn’t miss a single gesture of mine. And at minute eleven, mouth open and eyes closed, he’d come against the glass.

I turned off the phone. I tiptoed to the bathroom. I sat on the toilet, pulled down my shorts and little lace panties — they were soaked, the fabric dripping — and spread my legs wide. I started with my clit, using two fingers in quick circles. With the other hand I shoved three fingers inside my cunt, all the way in, and started pumping like it was a cock. I thought about Don Eladio’s huge hands gripping my hips. I thought about his old mouth sucking my tits. I thought about his old but rock-hard cock entering me from behind while the dogs barked outside. I bit the towel so I wouldn’t make a sound and came with a long spasm that shook my thighs. I didn’t even pull my fingers out. I left them inside, feeling my cunt clamp down on them in waves, and rubbed my clit again until I came a second time, harder, with the whole towel stuffed in my mouth. I came twice in a row. When I pulled my fingers out, they were soaked all the way to the palm.

When I got back to bed, my boyfriend was asleep on his side, hugging the pillow. I kissed the nape of his neck and he muttered something in his sleep. I stayed there looking at the ceiling, smiling in the dark, my body still trembling and my wet little panties stuck to my swollen cunt.

We still had two more nights in the cabin. And Don Eladio was going to keep making his rounds every dawn.

But I’ll tell you about that next time.