Jamey Visits Uncle Ron Ch. 01

"Yes, Uncle Ron thank you. And thank you for letting me stay with you."

"You're welcome here. How about in a half hour or so, we go take a swim? We'll check out the bikinis together, eh?" He winked.

"Yes, Uncle Ron," I said.

Then he nodded, and with a little parting grin, left. I heard Uncle Ron's footsteps as he walked down the stairs. In the coming days, I would get used to the sound of his walk, and how one or two of the steps creaked a little as he mounted or descended the stairs.

Then, after he settled into his study, this unfamiliar house was suddenly very quiet. I explored my rehearsal room a little, pushing the window shade aside and looking out at the parking lot. This room had the twin beds. I looked in the closet, felt a little snoopy seeing a few dresses and skirts and tops there, presumably Betty's and Lulus. I touched a ruffled hem, remembering how Uncle Ron had inspected Sheila's closet across the hall just a few minutes ago. "I'd better unpack and get my mind off these weird thoughts," I told myself, taking a good long breath and closing the closet door.

I crossed the hall, went and sat on the big bed next to my suitcase, and listened to the silence.

My mind wandered. My own voice saying Yes sir, and Uncle Ronny's saying Good boy. His subtle way of asserting himself over me. And my feelings wandered on their own, to places--and thoughts--my mind resisted. I thought about his eyes on me. His male smell as I squeezed past him in the doorway. The dark hair on his knuckles, his masculine hands, opening and closing dresser drawers, gripping the handle of my suitcase. Big manly hands, reaching into the closet and pushing colorful dresses and frilled skirts and satiny blouses left and right on their hangers.

Did his fingers linger on the silky material of a dress for just a brief moment? Or was that my imagination, or more specifically me imagining my own thumb and fingers, the soft hem of one of Sheila's dresses between them? Brief thoughts of Shiela in her dress twisted in my head, and fell away as I thought of his voice again. How confused it made me feel. Even just his voice, the things he said, made me feel off balance, and I was sure he was being intentional the way he talked to me, with almost parental tones, but why? I was a college man, but somehow when Uncle Ron talked to me, I felt...not younger exactly, not childish or juvenile, but...boyish next to his mature manliness. Good boy...

He had mentioned checking out the bikinis by the pool. My body, too, seemed to have its own ideas, pushing sensual emotions upward, surfacing, as I thought about these things Uncle Ron had said, and remembered his body language. Back at home the last few days, what with getting ready for the trip up here, and so much other activity, wrapping up my summer, being with my mom a lot, helping me pack and get ready.

I hadn't had a chance to...well, to be alone with myself for even a few minutes. I hadn't been able to release the hormonal "build up". I was nineteen and I hadn't...well, I hadn't masturbated for almost a week--and even then last Monday it was just a quick opportunity in the shower, which circumstances always seem more like a duty-paid release than a leisurely moment of pleasure.

Now it was Sunday. Six days since my last...relief. When I thought about it my penis throbbed a little, and I pushed my knees together and absentmindedly reached down and brushed my left hand against the front of my shorts. I took a deep breath. For sure I hadn't had any actual sex for, well, for too long. Last time for anything of that sort was me and a girl named Brynn french-kissing and making out in a car at the shore in late June, and even then...well, at least it was her hand, not my own.

I felt another little shiver of lust remembering getting my own hand up in the leg of her shorts, fingers working their way inside her panties and hearing her moan as they slid into sticky moisture, how she leaned back and let her thighs open.

Thinking, feeling, sitting there on the bed, mind swirling with Uncle Ron's manly oddness, and thinking about college girls in little shorts in cars, in their panties, and more girls right outside too, here at the pool in bikinis, I realized I was getting erect in my navy gym shorts.

Once again my thoughts were interrupted by sounds intruding, just breaking into my busy thoughts. I heard Uncle Ron's footsteps. Somehow in my reverie I hadn't even really noticed him coming upstairs--footsteps on hardwood, a stair step squeaking under his striding weight, and then his footsteps are close, he's already in the hall. Suddenly I felt very self-conscious to be sitting there--with an erection. The bedroom door was still open so quickly I stood up and turned to face the bed, and reached for the suitcase to open it up. Had a half hour somehow gone by while I'd been daydreaming? I glanced at my watch. Yes, it had.

And I was very aware of him, hearing him moving up the hall--footsteps, slight creaking of the boards, hoping he would just walk past, so I felt sort of mechanical as I opened the suitcase and listened, and heard him stop right there in the doorway, starting to speak even before he got there. I could feel my heart beating.

"Jamey, I forgot to mention the linen closet in the bathroom has all the towels in it, help yourself. In fact, go ahead, get yourself ready and get us each one of the big yellow towels for the pool, will you?"

I turned my head and looked at him over my shoulder. I was still awkwardly semi-erect inside my pants and underpants, and I didn't want it to show. Untimely erections are embarrassing no matter who is there, male or female. I hadn't been able to "adjust" and my shorts stuck right out.

"Uh, yes, okay. Yes sure Uncle Ron." Caught off guard, I was wanting, willing my penis to soften, but perhaps because my mind was thinking about it, and now that Uncle Ron was standing in the doorway again, the tent stayed up! Oh no, I was sticking out against my underpants, the erection pushing them and my shorts out!

Uncle Ron sensed something. "Are you okay, son?"

I kept silent and started pulling things out of my suitcase. Then I thought of the mirror, and before I could think or do otherwise, I looked. And I saw him looking, actually staring straight at me through the mirror. Was I showing?

"What are you doing there, Jamey?" I could hear the hint of teasing in his voice. "Hey, I told you to stay out of Sheila's things, didn't I?" he said, but now not so much teasing. I looked at him, dropped my eyes. He had that serious, stern-parent look again, and I inside I shuddered a little.

"I wasn't!" I blurted.

"Uh huh," he said. Uncle Ron stopped looking at me for a moment to look at his watch. I saw that he was in his swim trunks already. The speedo kind. He was coming in, coming toward me. Moving as little as possible I grabbed some clothes and held them bunched in front of me and turned a little toward him. I found myself still looking at his speedo for half a second, then looked up at him.

He chuckled, stopping halfway into the room. "Well honey you settle yourself down, get yourself calmed down, you got a handful there don't you? Socks and t-shirts, eh? Anything else in there, honey?" His eyebrows lifted, but he didn't pursue it further. "Anyway, I'm going back down to my study, I have to go make a quick phone call... and then we'll head for the pool okay?"

I couldn't think straight, I nodded and mumbled and held those socks and shirts in front of me while Uncle Ron scratched his head and then turned and went on out the door and on down the hall. I heard his sandals slapping down the stairway and then his study door opening, closing.

I tossed the clothes on the bed and took a deep breath. My tent was still there. I pushed my shorts down, and stepped out of them. In my white Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs there it was, poking forward. Had Ron seen it pushing out my shorts? I reached down and did what I hadn't had time to do when he had surprised me; adjusted it, pushed it in--still erect but pointed up so it wasn't making the front of my underpants stick out so much. I thought maybe I should, um, should take care of it now so it wouldn't embarrass me again today.

I stuck my thumbs in the waistband of my briefs and pushed them down around my thighs. I took the head between my fingers, and then closed my hand around the shaft. Now that he was gone, I was so hard! Why? Why now, why was I harder than I had ever been? With my thumb and fingers closed around the length of my shaft, my circumcised glans stuck out like a coat button, clearing my fist by a half-inch or so.

I stroked, and moaned quietly. But I realized that I probably didn't have time, even though the way I felt, so horny and oddly and confusedly emotional, it wouldn't take long at all to...to finish. But I also, well, he was right down at the bottom of the stairs in his study and I hadn't even shut my door and I'd just gotten here a few minutes ago and was Uncle Ron's guest, after all. Then, I heard his door open downstairs, heard Uncle Ron moving again.

"You ready, Jamey? What's the hold up son?" His voice was raised a bit, calling up from the bottom of the stairs. I found myself feeling startled, unbalanced. I was a confused mess. What was happening to me? My nerves were frayed and I was already tending to overreact.

Quickly I pulled my underpants up and reached into my suitcase, searching through my clothes.

"Um, yes Uncle Ron, coming." Where was my bathing suit? A panic started to rise in me, from my middle. I flipped the suitcase and dumped everything on the bed, underwear, shirts, pants, shorts and socks.

"What's going on up there, Jamey? Darn it boy, do I have to come up?" Now he was beginning to sound irritated.

I didn't seem to have a bathing suit packed among my things. I turned the suitcase over again, shook it, but...nothing else. What I was looking for was a deep orange in color, and more the swim-trunks style than the brief or speedo style. I knew it should be here. My mom had helped me pack, it was summer, and we had talked about a swimsuit, so I thought she had taken one from the clean wash, and she must have thought I had packed it. Miscommunication.

"Um, uh, wait, Uncle Ron, um..." I called out.

"Jesus Christ Jamey what the... what's the problem?" I heard him coming up the stairs. I started to panic. He was coming fast. There was something angry about the sound of his footsteps, firm and fast on the stairs, and the irritation in his voice.

I was still in my underpants, and I hadn't even gotten around to closing the door. Panicking a little, I spotted my shorts on the floor, and quickly went and picked them up, just as Uncle Ronny came in the door.

I bent over and stepped into my shorts, and looked up at him.

"Stop," he said.

"Oh," I said. I stopped. The tone in his voice, and the way Uncle Ron was looking at me made it clear there was no question of doing otherwise. I let my shorts drop, and straightened up. Reflexively I held my hands in front of my underpants.

"Jamey, what the hell have you been doing all this time?" He said. "Why are you putting your shorts on? You should have had your swimsuit on five minutes ago? What's going on up here?"

I felt my face turning red and I'm sure I looked very guilty.

"Stop it," he said. "What's wrong with you, aren't you listening?"

I was standing in just my underpants and my t-shirt, my face flushed red and my shorts around my ankles, bashfully covering my front with my crossed hands.

He looked at me and shook his head, walked past me and went to the bed, and looked at my clothing strewn across it.

"What have you been doing up here, son, playing with yourself? I told you to get ready."

"No..." I felt so ashamed that he thought that, but it was sort of, well, I had been thinking about it... "I'm sorry Uncle Ron, I don't seem to have a swimsuit."

"Oh, well why didn't you say so? Why are you standing around in your underpants?"

"I don't know, I'm sorry I, um, I was...please Uncle let's just skip it."

He leaned against the bed and looked me up and down. I lowered my eyes.

Suddenly with a part of my mind I was remembering seeing Uncle Ronny just like this years ago, irritated and disappointed. Those times a few years ago when our families were together and one of his daughters had disobeyed or misbehaved. And a specific time, when he took Lulu upstairs for a "good talking to." Suddenly it seemed like yesterday, for some reason.

I remembered listening to their muffled voices filtering down from upstairs. Uncle Ron's deep voice, Lulu's higher, feminine, defensive. The rest of us nervously glancing at each other, pretending not to listen as we heard Uncle Ron scolding her, and her whining answers, audible but unintelligible. And, after a short, quiet pause, that unmistakable sound; Uncle Ron's swift hand, landing repeatedly and relentlessly, and the answering sound of crying, the result of fatherly, bared-bottom discipline. I remembered, too, the feeling in the pit of my stomach as this went on for several minutes, before a red faced, ashamed Lulu returned to the room, not looking at anybody, and sitting down rather gingerly.

Why was I thinking about this? Why now? I found myself blinking, back in the present with my Uncle, and his growing frustration with my continuing fussiness.

Uncle Ronny sighed. "It's warm and I want to get over to the pool, Jamey. But I don't think we can "skip it" as you say. Maybe this evening, when we can relax, we'll figure out what seems to be confusing you. You're a grown up, a quarter of the way through your college education, but sometimes you seem to act like you're still a child. And you're up here fiddling around unable to get ready. You know what you remind me of? My teenage girls, the way they'd fuss and dither when it's time to go."

I'm still standing with my shorts around my ankles, being talked to like a naughty child. When Uncle Ron paused his lecturing, I squirmed and said "Uh..." and I was going to try to really say something, explain or defend myself, but I guess I wasn't quick enough. Uncle Ronny made an exasperated gesture, pushed off from the bed, and stood looking at me, his head straight and shoulders broad, and I felt myself shrinking again. I actually felt like I was getting smaller.

I wanted to pull up my pants, but I just stood there looking at him. I looked at his feet, and I briefly looked a little at his bathing suit. Bathing suits were the topic at hand, I couldn't help it! His was pale-blue nylon, with white bands running down on the sides, the current style. I saw how close it fit on him, and the good-sized lump in front where it held his...his package.

Uncle Ronny chuckled. He seemed capable of shifting between irritation and amusement quickly, perhaps even showing both simultaneously. He stepped decisively toward me, put a hand on my shoulder, and lifted my t-shirt with his other hand, to look under. I squirmed and kept my hands covering myself. He tilted his head and looked at me.

"Move the hands, Jamey," he said. I just stared at him. "Don't be so bashful, hon. We're both grown men, here, no need to be shy. I'm trying to size you up, see if we can find you a swimsuit." What he called me felt a little weird, but I remembered Uncle Ron calling all children, female and male alike, back in the day, hon.

"Oh," I said, and the sound was more of a little embarrassed moan than a word. But I lifted my hands so Uncle Ronny could see me in my underpants. I felt a little squirmy as he looked at my typical white y-front boy's briefs.

While he looked me over, he put his hands on my waist and kept speaking. "So, what happened, Jamey? Your mother still packing for you, did mommy forget to pack your swimsuit?"

I was so embarrassed, all I could do was nod and make a noise, something mixing yes with I don't know, all delivered in a whining tone reflecting my objection to his mommy's-boy inference.

He was looking at me, at my personal private region, my hips and waist and thighs. I felt like I was being inspected. And I was, visually anyway. "Let's see what we can do, Jamey," he said. "Turn around, hon," He moved one hand to my hip to turn me. I turn, a bit awkwardly because my shorts are still down around my ankles, and he's lifting my t-shirt in the back, and now he's looking at my bottom.

"Size of your waist, you're still so slim, you don't quite have a man's waist yet do you hon?"

"I don't know," I said, holding my arms up out of the way so Uncle Ron could size me up.

"Pretty small waist, son. Your hips, kind of round...you're still almost like a girl aren't you?--from the chest down you are, at least." He chuckled a little, and I felt so very small, so scrutinized and unfairly judged, but at the same time so powerless. "Sorta like one of my girls, but maybe just a little less in the hips. Not much though." He chuckled. "Over here, now hon." He let go of my t-shirt and I felt his hand on my back, a little push, then another little push, his hand shifting even lower.

"Let's see if there's something in here that fits." I felt his hand on my bottom, and I flinched, then another little push, and he was leading me to Sheila's dresser. I stumbled a little trying to step out of my shorts--with Uncle Ron inspecting me and putting his hand there on my hip and his fingers touching my bare back and almost on my bottom.

I was flustered and distracted and forgot that the shorts were still there around my ankles. Stumbling, I felt his strength as he caught me, stabilized me, one hand more firmly on my hip, then on my bottom again, this time directly and firmly, the other on my chest to straighten me up. My mind was still trying to cope with what he was suggesting.

"But that," I said, "that's girl stuff in there."

"Well, we'll have a look, maybe there's a little 2-piece in there, blue or black, the bottom part might work as a little boy's swimsuit until we can get you a proper one."

"No, Uncle Ron I don't want...I won't wear a girl's..." I said. I trailed off. My voice was whining, I realized I was sounding like a brat, but Uncle Ron was sort of tugging me by my t-shirt, another hand on my waist. I could feel his manly strength and I could even smell his summer sweat, his mature masculinity right next to me, making me feel timid and small. He was calling me honey and treating me like a...well, almost like a child--or a little girl--and he had made me show him my underpants and he had put his hand on my bottom and....

I don't know what came over me. Just a sudden wave of emotion. I felt so off balance, so suddenly powerless and just so...out of my element. I started to cry. It was exactly the last thing I wanted to happen.

We arrived at the dresser, and he let go of me to open the top drawer.

Uncle Ron yanked it open and plunged a hand into the strewn items there, pawing through the colors and fabrics. He hadn't noticed yet that I was...so upset. I felt my eyes filling, and my mouth trembling, and although my intense emotion hadn't broken through quite yet, I continued to struggle to hold it back, to keep my tears, or at least the audible evidence of tears, from breaking loose. I watched Uncle Ron looking through the dainties there, his big male hand fingering pairs of panties, pretty pinks and soft nylon whites, trims of lace and little satin bows, pushing all this aside looking for bathing suits.

Finally, the emotional pressure pushed its way out, and a single quiet sniffle escaped, and Uncle Ron looked at me. He stopped sorting through the clothing, and though I was looking down, I felt his eyes on me. Suddenly, everything was so still, so quiet. Tears spilled from both my eyes and I felt them running warm down my cheeks, and I used the back of my right hand to try to push them back, and a little hiccup slipped out, a little involuntary double whimper thing right behind it, and I tried to stifle myself.