The Secret of the Summer House
The summer heat in the countryside was oppressive, the kind of humidity that made clothing cling to skin and thoughts drift toward the forbidden. I was spending my break at my aunt’s estate, occupying a rustic wooden guest house in the backyard. It was a secluded spot, built with old planks and wide gaps that offered a voyeuristic glimpse into the main house if one knew exactly where to look.
One afternoon, while organizing a large wooden chest, I found myself kneeling on the floor. Through the narrow slits in the wall, I could see into the living room. Max, the family’s large German Shepherd, was sprawled on his back beneath a small plastic table, panting heavily as if he had just finished a long run. I didn’t think much of it until I heard the soft scrape of a chair and the rhythmic sound of someone writing.
I stood up and peeked through a higher gap. My cousin Maritza was there. She was tall, blonde, and possessed a cold, distant beauty that usually kept people at arm’s length. She sat at the table, her expression stoic and focused on her notebook, her legs crossed. She wore a short, lightweight house dress that barely covered her thighs, and her feet were bare, her toes wiggling with a subtle, restless energy.
Curiosity drove me to climb atop a wardrobe to reach some boxes, placing me level with the ceiling beams. As I looked down through the gap, I saw something that made my heart hammer against my ribs. Maritza wasn’t just writing; she was engaged in a secret, sensual act. With a completely neutral expression on her face, she was using her bare feet to stimulate Max. She rubbed the dog’s length against her soles and between her toes, her movements calculated and firm.
I felt a surge of heat rush through my body, my own desire igniting as I watched the contrast between her icy demeanor and the primal act she was performing. The dog was in a state of pure bliss, panting and twitching as Maritza continued her rhythmic friction. She shifted her position, pushing her chair back to get a better angle, pressing her feet more firmly against him, slowing the pace to a teasing crawl.
The tension peaked until Max finally reached a climax, the release sudden and messy. I watched, mesmerized, as the evidence splattered across the floor and over Maritza’s pale feet. Instead of recoiling, she seemed to enjoy the sensation, rubbing the warmth into her skin with a slow, deliberate motion. She remained silent, her face a mask of indifference, even as the dog began to lick her feet clean.
As she finally spoke, her voice was a low, commanding whisper: “Good boy.” I sank back against the wardrobe, breathless and trembling, knowing that the quiet, antipathetic woman I thought I knew held a side to her that was utterly intoxicating. From that day on, I found myself constantly searching for the gaps in the walls, waiting for the next time Maritza decided to play.
