MY PERSONAL SLAVES - AUNT & COUSIN UNDER HYPNOSIS

I was sitting in the back seat of an Uber, already feeling sick from the weird smell hanging in the air — a sour, damp stench, like someone had pissed on the seat and tried to cover it up with cheap disinfectant. At least the driver didn’t put on any awful music or try to make conversation. That was already a win. I was going to give him five stars just for the silence. My backpack was on my lap, the suitcase in the trunk, and I kept watching the neighborhood streets crawl by through the window, mentally praying the ride would stretch out as long as possible, even though I knew it was useless. The destination was already set.

Twenty minutes. That was all that separated my house — or what was left of it, covered in blue plastic tarps, surrounded by stacked bags of cement and full of construction dust — from Aunt Linda’s house.

Aunt Linda’s house.

Iza’s house.

Just thinking their names made my stomach tighten. It was a physical sensation, almost nauseating, like someone had shoved a fist inside me and started squeezing.

My house was a complete mess. The construction workers had ripped out the entire living room floor. Now there was a huge hole of packed dirt right in the middle of what used to be the center of our daily life. My dad kept repeating, with that irritating optimism of his: “It’s just a matter of weeks.” My mom, more realistic, would correct him quietly: “A month, God willing.” Me? I didn’t trust either of their timelines. Renovations never finish on time. I’d seen it before.

The original plan was simple and made sense: we’d all stay at my grandparents’ house while the work was going on. Spacious, family, the obvious choice. Except that, around the same time, my grandparents decided to take in my uncle, my aunt, and my three cousins, who came to “stay for a couple of weeks.” Classic line from people who never know when they’re leaving. Suddenly the house that should have comfortably held five people was packed with ten. People sleeping on mattresses on the living room floor, lines for the bathroom every morning, arguments about who used the last clean towel. A quiet, constant hell.

There was no room for one more.

It was my mom who suggested it, with that tone of someone who already knew I wasn’t going to like the idea:

“Carlos, you could stay a few days at your Aunt Linda’s. She offered.”

I remember exactly the face I made. I didn’t even need to say anything. My expression had already said it all.

“I know,” she added, sighing. “But it’s only until the renovation is finished. Two, three weeks at most.”

Three weeks.

Three weeks under the same roof as Iza.

I would rather have slept in the dirt hole in my living room, using the cement bags as a pillow, than spend more than a single day in that house.

Aunt Linda, my dad’s sister, was tolerable. She’d always been polite to me. We weren’t exactly close, but we got along in that vague, civil way relatives who live relatively nearby do. She’d ask how my parents were doing, sometimes save me a plate of food when she cooked something special. She was decent enough.

But Aunt Linda had a massive blind spot, and that blind spot had a first and last name: her daughter. My “beloved” cousin.

Because no matter what Iza did — yelling, hitting, shoving, humiliating, belittling, mocking me in front of other people — Linda always found a way to smooth it over.

“You know how she is.”

“You two have always been like that, since you were little.”

“She doesn’t mean it that way, Carlos.”

“She’s just got a strong personality.”

As if a “she doesn’t mean it that way” could erase years of jabs, shoves, slaps, public teasing, the “get out of the way, idiot” said with that smile of someone who knows she’ll get away with it.

My cousin had always been like that. It seemed like she genuinely got off on messing with me, on humiliating me. There was a regularity to it, almost a ritual.

I still remember that Truth or Dare night perfectly. One of the girls dared Iza to kiss me. The dare was just a simple peck on the lips. Any normal person would have given a quick, dry kiss and been done with it. But that bitch milked it for all it was worth. She just stared at me without saying a word, a dirty little smile at the corner of her mouth, deliberately taking her time. Then she leaned in and almost devoured me in front of everyone, moaning in a completely unnecessary way, her tongue pushing into mine, her body pressing against me. I could feel her tits clearly against my chest. My cock got hard instantly. There was no way it wouldn’t. When she pulled back, she looked straight down at the bulge in my pants and started mocking me in front of everyone:

“What a fucking loser!”

“Can’t even kiss a girl without getting a hard-on!”

“You wanna fuck your cousin, is that it, Carlos?”

“Disgusting little incest freak!”

I was so embarrassed and the mood got so heavy that I walked away from the game. I still got a “you quitting the game, little fag?” and a “just looking for an excuse to kiss me, huh? So pathetic. Just leave, no one will miss you.”

Linda wasn’t cruel. But she was complicit. And complicity hurts almost as much as direct cruelty — because you realize that even with someone there, even with witnesses, you’ll never really have anyone on your side.

The Uber turned the corner and there it was.

Linda’s house.

My sentence for the next few days.

The afternoon sun was hitting the front of the house straight on. For a second I just stood there on the sidewalk, staring, like that was somehow going to give me courage. It didn’t. I took a deep breath, adjusted the backpack on my shoulder, and walked up to the gate. Before I could even ring the bell, the front door opened.

And there she was.

Iza.

Leaning against the doorframe, her body outlined against the weak light coming from inside. She was wearing thin black shorts that barely covered anything and a loose yellow shirt that only made the whole thing more provocative, showing off part of those big tits. Her dark red hair fell over one bare shoulder. Those green eyes swept me from head to toe with a calculated slowness, lingering on my shoulders before meeting mine. It was the kind of look that seemed to undress you out of pure boredom, assessing the damage it caused.

“Oh, right,” she said, in a lazy, drawn-out tone. “I forgot we were getting a houseguest… look how cute.”

“Hi to you too,” I answered, forcing my voice to come out firmer than I felt.

“I didn’t ask for a ‘hi.’ I’m just calculating how hard I’m gonna have to try not to strangle you every single day for weeks. Or would you rather it some other way?”

“Some other way?”

“Stop playing dumb, you fucking idiot. I bet you jerk off thinking about the night I kissed you.”

I ignored the comment and let out a long breath.

“Relax. The suffering will be mutual.”

She let out a dry little laugh from the corner of her mouth. She came down the two steps of the entrance with deliberate slowness and stopped right in the middle of the path, invading my space so much that I could feel the heat of her body against my skin. My heart gave a slight jump. I hated that reaction.

“I heard about this whole mess. Looks like I’m gonna have to put up with you for a while. Jesus Christ…”

“The house is under renovation, Iza. It’s not like I was lonely. I wouldn’t want to be stuck with you for days either, you know?”

“Pff… It’s basically the same thing. You couldn’t stand being alone over there anymore and showed up at my door. If that wasn’t it, why didn’t you just pick another house?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Come on… if only it were that simple.”

I gripped the strap of my backpack tightly, feeling the blood speed up in my veins and my whole body respond to that closeness in a way that was anger and… something else. I admitted it. That old, persistent tension. I hated admitting it, but that bitch was a piece of bad news. I’d lost count of how many times I’d jerked off thinking about her — bending her over, spanking that ass until it turned purple, forcing her mouth open. Sometimes I wondered if she didn’t do all of it on purpose.

“You gonna let me through? I really need to take a piss.”

She didn’t move.

“Just move out of my way. But… oh right, you’re too much of a pussy for that.”

“…” I didn’t even have a reaction to that.

She gave a small, cruel smile. For a second I thought she was just going to stand there planted, just to watch me lose my patience. It wouldn’t have been the first time. I remembered a Christmas past when she did exactly that in the kitchen doorway, just to stop me from grabbing a plate.

“If you want me out of the way, you’re gonna have to move me by force. But I know you’re a coward who’s too scared to touch a woman.”

That’s what she said, cutting. I remember that, in pure rage, I shoved her. She just let out a little laugh and added:

“Look at that, the little fag trying to show he’s got some backbone. How adorable.”

What a pain in the ass.

She took another step forward, getting closer than I wanted, and poked my chest with two fingers, hard enough for me to feel it.

“Here’s how it’s gonna go: you stay in the guest room, at the back. Far from mine. Don’t even dream of touching my stuff. You’re not gonna walk around the house like you own the place. No porn on the wifi, you got it? Or I’ll block your phone. House chores are on you. This roof isn’t free. Dishes are your job, floors are your job, breakfast is your job, cleaning the pool is your job. No loud noise, no TV at night, and no jerking off in this house. I don’t want you getting cum all over the place, understand? And if I find out you’ve been spying on me in the bathroom, I swear I’ll break that face of yours! The way you are, I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“You’re not gonna whip me too?!”

“I’m dead serious, Carlos. This is my house and you’re here as a favor. Don’t think you’re anything more than that. It’s already bad enough I have to look at your face every day.”

“It’s your MOM’s house, Iza. Not yours.”

She smiled in a way that didn’t reach her eyes.

“You gonna lecture me now? You’re not in your own house to be acting all bold, you know? My house, my rules.”

I almost answered. Almost. But before any word could come out, Linda’s voice cut through the air from inside the house.

“Iza! Get out of the boy’s way and let him in, for God’s sake.”

Linda appeared in the doorway, drying her hands on a kitchen towel, with that easy smile she always had for me — genuine, at least on the surface. Short, long brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail, still wearing an apron tied around her waist.

“Carlos, honey, sorry for the wait, I was just finishing lunch,” she said, coming down the steps and walking toward the gate. “Come in, come in, let me help you with that.”

“You don’t have to, Aunt Linda. I can manage.”

“Yeah, Mom, leave it. He’s a man, it’s the least he can do to carry a little weight like that.”

“Nonsense.” — She had already reached out for my suitcase, and out of politeness I let her take it. — “Your mom called me this morning asking if everything was set for today. I told her of course. You’ll be in the back room, it’s nice and quiet, you can study properly there.”

Behind her mother, Iza made a discreet face, just for me to see, silently mocking the word “quiet” with an exaggerated bored expression.

Linda didn’t see it. Or if she did, she chose not to — which, in the end, was almost the same thing.

“Thanks, Aunt Linda. Really. I know it must be a hassle.”

“What hassle, nonsense!” — She laughed, lightly patting my arm. — “We’re family, for crying out loud. You and Iza grew up together, you won’t even notice the time passing!”

We went inside. The house was exactly as I remembered: organized, full of family photos on the walls, the smell of home-cooked food in the air, a big couch, a giant TV on some random afternoon channel, and a pleasant scent of cleanliness. It was hard to believe that such a cozy place was going to be where I’d live through hell.

Linda led me down the hallway of bedrooms, pointing out the bathroom in the middle, explaining where the towels were, telling me I could use the kitchen “like it was my own house” — a phrase that, coming from her, almost seemed sincere. She showed me the guest room: a made single bed, a small wardrobe, a wooden desk pushed against the window. Simple, but enough.

“Feel free to settle in,” Linda said, setting my suitcase on the bed. “If you need anything at all, just call. And, Carlos…” — She hesitated for a moment, looking toward the door, maybe checking that Iza wasn’t nearby. — “I know you two have a complicated history. But I’m going to try to keep things lighter while you’re here, okay?”

It was the kind of promise I’d heard before, and had already seen fall apart. But I nodded, because arguing wouldn’t change anything, and because, despite everything, I didn’t doubt her good intentions — I only doubted her ability to make them stick.

“Alright, Aunt Linda. Thank you.”

She smiled, gave my shoulder a gentle pat, and left, leaving the door slightly open.

I stood there alone, looking at the room that would be mine for a stretch of time I still couldn’t calculate precisely. Three weeks. Maybe more, if the renovation ran late — and renovations always run late.

I sat on the edge of the bed, dropped the backpack on the floor, and let my head hang forward a little, elbows on my knees.

Three weeks.

Three weeks of Iza giving orders, poking, provoking, hitting, treating that house like her personal territory where I was, at best, tolerated.

I had no idea, in that moment, sitting in that borrowed room, that the real problem in that house wasn’t in the living room, or the hallway, or in any provocation Iza could invent.

It was underneath it.

In the basement I hadn’t even seen yet.