The Holy Week That Changed Everything with My Cousin

The heat in Iztapalapa is unforgiving, especially during Holy Week. That afternoon the sun hit like it wanted to melt the concrete of the building where the whole family lives crammed together. My mother had sent me to scrub the hallway and the second-floor stairs, so there I was, bent over, in soccer shorts and old sneakers, sweating like an animal.

The property is a jigsaw puzzle of floors that were added the hard way. First my grandparents arrived, then my mom built her place, then Aunt Marta — Camila’s mother — and finally Uncle Andrés, Beto’s father. Everyone built upward however they could. It’s a noisy place, where you hear the kitchen arguments and the music from after lunch all at once. That closeness means everyone knows everyone else’s sins.

I was scrubbing an oil stain near the landing when I heard her voice from above.

—Since you’ve got the broom out, don’t forget to clean over here too —Camila shot at me.

I looked up. She was leaning on the iron railing, pointing at the door to her place with that little smile that knew damn well the effect she had. From where I stood, her denim shorts looked even shorter, and her white legs gleamed in the light from the skylight.

Camila is the fair-haired one in the family, one of those girls with green eyes and skin so pale her cheeks turn red with any effort. She’s slim, but with curves you can’t ignore: tits that seem ready to spill out of every neckline, a waist you can grab with both hands, and an ass that fills out her shorts to the last thread. She’s smoking hot and she knows it; that’s why half the neighborhood is after her. Even though she swears to her mother she’s a homebody, I’ve seen her making out outside the building with any tough guy from the neighborhood when I get back from university. It gives me a mix of anger and jealousy I don’t quite know how to name.

—Nah, you lazy bitch, you do it —I said, wiping the sweat off with my forearm.

—Ugh, so annoying. That’s what you’re for —she laughed, coming down a couple of steps with a slowness that set my nerves on edge.

Seeing her like that took me back to that Friday four years ago. She was still in high school and I was eighteen. We were alone at her place watching a movie. I went downstairs naively, and it was her who launched herself at me. It started as a game, little digs in the ribs, shoves, and we ended up making out on her bed. I remember perfectly her green-and-gray plaid skirt tied in a knot, her blouse half-open, my hands on her tits. We were inches from letting everything happen when we heard the key in the lock. Aunt Marta came in yelling that she had forgotten the keys to the shop. We sprang apart, she straightened her skirt, and I was left with my heart in my throat. After that nothing happened again. I got together with a girl I stayed with for three years; in the end she dumped me for someone else.

—You spaced out, Damián —Camila said, already a few steps below me—. You’re still thinking about your ex.

—Shut up. Don’t mention that chick —I answered, trying to sound tough so she wouldn’t notice what having her this close was doing to me.

Just then, the downstairs apartment door flew open. It was Aunt Marta dragging a rolling suitcase and my uncle carrying a cooler.

—Damián! Good timing, son —Aunt shouted, hurrying—. We’re leaving. Your uncle got it into his head that we’re spending all of Holy Week in Veracruz with his family.

I froze, the broom dangling from my hand.

—The whole week?

—Until next Sunday. I’m counting on you to look after Cami, since she didn’t want to go because she’d rather go to Beto’s party. Keep an eye on her, okay? Don’t let her get drunk. With me she’s safe, you know that.

—Don’t worry, Auntie. I’ll take care of her —I said, feeling my face burn with pure hypocrisy.

I watched my uncles say their quick goodbyes to beat the highway traffic. Camila stayed on the last step with a saintly face nobody bought. When the gate slammed shut and the car pulled away, silence took over the hallway. Only the two of us remained, along with the smell of bleach and the heavy afternoon heat.

Camila slowly turned around and looked me up and down, stopping at my sweaty chest. She no longer had to pretend in front of her mother.

—So you are going to Beto’s party? —she said with that same smile, biting her lip.

—Yeah. He asked me to bring a couple of cases and invite some girls from university.

She arched an eyebrow. Her green eyes locked on mine, defiant.

—Your girls who get wasted on the third beer? They act all high and mighty and can’t handle a thing.

I felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the weather. I knew damn well it stung her every time my friends showed up, because her parents barely let her get to the corner.

—Watch your mouth, Cami —I told her.

—That fucking Beto is the shit and so are you for backing him up —she muttered, coming down another step. She smelled like a soft, sweet perfume.

She turned and started back up. Her ass moved with a rhythm that made me think of things my grandmother would call sins of the flesh. She stopped on the landing and looked down at me again, once more with that vertical advantage. The hallway was absolutely silent, and between us that old debt was still burning, the one that had been there since high school.

***

Good Friday arrived. Around five I went down to the patio with two cases of beer and Brenda, my university friend, right on my heels. The other girl canceled on me at the last minute. Beto already had the speakers outside, and the patio smelled of charcoal and cheap beer.

—About time, asshole! —Beto shouted when he saw me.

He was with the other cousins and the usual suspects, a bunch of neighborhood loudmouths. I greeted them with a nod, feeling a little superior for bringing Brenda, while the rest of them scanned her like starving dogs.

We sat down and started drinking. I tried to talk with Brenda, but my eyes kept slipping on their own toward the stairs. Then she appeared.

Camila came down as if she’d rehearsed the entrance. She was wearing a black top that looked one step away from giving up under the weight of her tits and jeans so tight you could see the black thong strings peeking over her waist. The silence in the patio was almost ridiculous. Even Beto was left with his mouth open.

—What’s up? You already started without me? —she said with a saintly face.

She bent down in front of the cooler to take out a beer, pulling the lace taut against her pale skin. Then she sat in front of us, crossed her legs, and swept Brenda with a look of contempt that felt like a block of ice. Then she fixed her eyes on me and bit her lip.

—What’s up, fucking Dami —she greeted me, using that diminutive only she ever used to get under my skin.

Ten o’clock came. The patio was already a boiling mess of drunk laughter and empty cans. The band was thundering against the walls; the trumpets felt like blows to the chest. Brenda had completely forgotten she came with me: I saw her disappear into the back storage room, hand in hand with one of Beto’s friends.

I was left alone at the table facing Camila. Her eyes were glassy and she laughed at everything. Without getting up from the bench, she moved to the music’s rhythm as if inviting me to something.

—See, Cami, you can’t handle it —Beto shouted, mocking her—. Better go to sleep.

—Shut up. I can drink more than you and all these losers put together —she shot back, then stared straight at me—. Right, Dami?

—Go on, Dami, take her out to dance and maybe she’ll sober up —Beto insisted, more worried about his own beer now than about us.

I stood up. It wasn’t to play along; it was because my body couldn’t stand being away from hers anymore. I held out my hand and she took it without hesitation. Her skin was hot, damp with the muggy heat.

We went to the center of the patio. A slow band song was playing, one of those songs you dance cheek-to-cheek to, the kind that forces you to forget who your family is. As soon as I put my hand on her waist, I felt the rough denim and the softness of her skin right where the black threads began. She looped her arms around my neck and pressed herself against my sweaty chest like she was looking for shelter or war.

She danced well, very well. She wasn’t the idiot her mother thought she was. Her ass pressed against my thighs with every turn, and I felt the sweat and desire rising to my head more than the beer ever could.

Midnight came. The patio was already a graveyard of cans. Beto had entered that stage of drunkenness where alcohol turns into sorrow: he grabbed the microphone and started singing Juan Gabriel with a slurred voice.

Camila pulled back just a few inches. She was all flushed, her eyes shining.

—That’s enough, Dami —she said in a hoarse voice—. Walk me up, otherwise I’m gonna break my ass on the stairs.

I put my arm around her waist and we started up. Every step was work for her and torture for me. A few steps in, I realized she wasn’t as drunk as she pretended. Her steps were far too steady once Beto couldn’t see us, and the way she pressed herself against me wasn’t the way someone walks when they can’t stand; it was the way someone presses in when they want you to feel them.

***

We got to her door. The echo of Beto singing Juanga sounded like it was coming from another world. Camila pulled out the keys with an agility that finally confirmed everything was an act.

—Thanks for bringing me up, Dami —she whispered, pressing herself into my body—. You staying a little while?

She opened the door and went in without waiting for an answer. She knew that if I crossed that threshold there’d be no turning back. I stood there for a second in the doorway, feeling the cool air hit my sweaty skin.

—I’m heading out, Cami —I said, but my feet didn’t move an inch. It was the biggest lie I’d told all day.

I went in and closed the door. The bolt dropping sounded like a sentence. You couldn’t hear Beto or the band anymore. We were alone.

She pulled me toward her bedroom. She threw herself onto the bed, jeans and all, and patted the mattress.

—Lie down, Dami. Jesus already died for our sins.

I sat on the edge. The bed creaked under my weight. I remembered what my grandmother used to say: we must flee the flesh or we’ll be condemned. But there, looking at her, hell scared me less than going on wanting.

I lay face down, turning my back to try to calm myself. It didn’t even last a minute. I felt her fingers poking my ribs and a little laugh in my ear that raised every hair on my skin. I twisted on the mattress.

—Knock it off, Cami! —I shouted, laughing.

She didn’t let go. She climbed on top of me and hugged me from behind, pressing her tits against my shoulder blades. I whipped around and caught her by the wrists to stop her.

—Now you’ll see —I told her.

I started tickling her back. She writhed on the bed, letting out bursts of laughter that shattered the respectful atmosphere that was supposedly supposed to exist in that house. In the struggle, her legs tangled with mine. Suddenly, our hands stopped. The air grew heavy.

Her green eyes stared at me, shining with desire. There was nothing left to say. I leaned in and kissed her with all the rage and hunger of the years we’d lost. Her lips tasted like beer and forbidden fruit. In that instant I understood that I didn’t care she was my cousin; all I cared about was that this time nobody was going to open the door.

The kiss turned into a battle of tongues. My hands ran over her ass through the denim, following the pattern of the black strings that had driven me crazy all afternoon. She let out a moan against my mouth and started rubbing herself against the bulge in my pants.

I ended up on top of her, sinking into the mattress. There was no tenderness in this: it was pure instinct, the kind you’re taught to repress but that explodes in your face when you’re alone. Camila grabbed my neck hard and, in one quick move, flipped us over. She ended up on top, sitting on my thighs, her top stretching to the limit.

—Fucking Dami —she whispered.

I slipped my hands under her top and pulled it up until the fabric gave up. Her tits sprang free, white and firm, with hard nipples. I took one into my mouth and sucked hard, feeling her arch her back and bury her fingers in my hair.

She sat up, finished taking off her top, and threw it into a corner. Then she tugged on my shirt to get it off me. Her hand slid down my stomach until it got into my pants and closed around my cock, squeezing it with a strength that made me growl.

—Take this off —she ordered.

I grabbed her by the waist and, in one quick move, put her on her back against the mattress. She was left panting, her hair spread across the pillow. I didn’t waste time. I positioned myself between her legs and opened the button of her jeans. They were so tight I had a hard time, but as soon as I pulled the zipper down I felt the victory was mine.

I yanked her jeans down with desperation. When the pants gave way, the first thing I saw was the triangle of black lace disappearing between her lips. She was soaked; the lace couldn’t hide anything anymore. I pulled her jeans off completely and left her with only that tiny piece of fabric.

She sat up, undid the button of my pants, and together with my boxers pulled them down in one hard yank. Then she knelt between my legs, her tits swaying in front of me, and grabbed my cock with her hot fingers. She looked at me straight on with a shamelessness that sent me into ecstasy. Then she took it in her lips.

She sucked me with such ferocity it made me arch my back against the mattress. She went down and up with a desperate rhythm, gripping my thighs to pull me closer. Seeing her, my cousin, devoted to that task, made me forget every last trace of decency I had left.

She stopped for a second, letting the sound of suction break the silence. Her lips were red and shiny.

—Do you like it, Dami? Tell me if you like it, little cousin —she whispered.

—I love it, Cami... don’t stop —I growled, burying my fingers in her hair.

She went back to work for a few more minutes, until she pulled away with her breath coming in gasps.

—Okay, Dami... put it in me.

She arranged herself on her back, arching her waist. Her fingers hooked the black strings, stretched them against her white skin, and the thong fell to the floor. She spread her legs in front of me. She was completely exposed: her pussy gleamed, soaked from four years of dragged-out desire. The jasmine scent in the room was swallowed up by the more primitive smell of her arousal.

—Come on, little cousin... come take care of me for real —she said, stretching out her arms.

I got between her legs and ran my cock along her lips, feeling all that wetness. She moaned softly, arching her back every time the tip brushed her clit.

—Come on, Dami... please —she begged.

I pushed in slowly, enjoying the resistance of her tightness and that heat that seemed to swallow me. She was unbelievably tight, hot as an oven. Camila let out a long moan, a sound that had nothing innocent in it and everything to do with relief, while her legs tangled around my waist to pull me deeper.

I went all the way in. I stayed like that for a second, breathing in her perfume mixed with beer and the raw scent of the two of us. Then I started moving. The sound of our sweaty skin turned rhythmic. She lifted her hips to meet me.

—Like that, Dami! —she shouted in my ear, biting my earlobe while her tits bounced against my chest.

I slipped my hands under her lower back until I reached her ass, sinking my fingers into her flesh to set the pace. I felt like I owned every one of her gasps. I fucked her with the urgency of someone who knows he’s stealing something forbidden. Every thrust echoed in the bedroom silence.

Suddenly, Camila shoved me backward. I ended up lying down, panting, while she sat on my thighs with a catlike agility. The hallway light outlined her silhouette: firm tits, a short waist, round hips.

—Look at me, little cousin —she said with a wicked smile, bouncing on me—. Look what you missed by being such a good boy.

I grabbed her waist, digging my thumbs into her hips as I sped up. Every time she came down, I felt her clit rubbing against my base. I felt that pull at the root of my cock, the warning that tells you there’s no turning back. I tried to pull out, but she dug her nails into my shoulders and sank down harder.

—Don’t pull out, Dami! —she panted in my ear—. It’s fine. Cum inside me, asshole!

Those words were the trigger. I grabbed her ass with brute force, hauling her down while I thrust upward with everything I had. I came with such fury I lost track of where I was. Camila let out a muffled cry and clung to my chest, trembling over me as I flooded her completely.

—Oh, Dami... you filled me up so good, fucking little cousin —she whispered, collapsing onto my chest.

We stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the smell of sex and jasmine. The party music could still be heard in the distance, like it was coming from another planet.

***

The awakening on Holy Saturday wasn’t with water, as neighborhood custom dictates, but with her hand searching for me again. There were no words, just the hunger to keep sinning. We spent the whole day locked away, ignoring the family shouting as they got wet in the patio. I pressed her against the wall, lifted her onto the dresser in front of the mirror so she could watch me sink into her. Camila was insatiable; she was looking for my cock with her mouth the second she saw me even slightly recovered. We were two animals locked up, celebrating our own glory.

Resurrection Sunday arrived. While the bells were calling people to mass, we were still resurrecting desire in every corner of the apartment. We were in the kitchen, she sitting on the formica table, when we heard my uncles’ car park outside. It was like a bucket of ice water.

—They’re here! —Camila whispered, hopping off the table.

We got dressed in a rush. When Aunt Marta came in, she found us in the living room, me with my phone in my hand and her pretending to watch TV.

—How was it, my children? Did you behave? —she asked, giving me a kiss on the cheek that tasted like pure hypocrisy.

—All quiet, boss —Camila answered with such natural ease it gave me chills.

That answer was the seal on our pact. From that Sunday on, life in the building changed flavor. Aunt Marta kept bragging about her good little homebody daughter and her good nephew, never suspecting that every time we could, we were still settling the account in any available corner of the building.