Jamey Visits Uncle Ron Ch. 01

I felt Uncle Ron's hands on my shoulders. "Stop that," he said. He lifted my chin with one hand, "Look at me, honey," he said. It was his right hand. His fingers still under my chin, his big, gentle thumb wiped my cheek, pushing the tears aside, and the emotion was too much and I cried out loud, a little stifled, stuttering wail.

I looked at him, then took a breath. He took one too. "Go downstairs and wait for me in my study. I'll find something. It'll be fine. We'll figure out later what's really wrong. For now, let's go for a swim and relax a little, okay?"

I nodded. I stopped on the way to pick up my shorts. "Jamey, no," Uncle Ron said. "What are you doing? Leave those here--you won't need them for the pool, will you?"

"Oh," I said.

Reluctantly I put the shorts on the bed and then walked out the door, into the hallway, and down the stairs in my underpants and t-shirt, and then into Uncle Ron's study.

The Study

It was small, like a small bedroom, not dark really, but with only the natural light from the windows the room had a subdued atmosphere. Again, like upstairs, out the window through the blinds I could see the other buildings and the recreational area, cars in parking lots and swimmers behind the pool fencing. Faintly, the noises of normality--voices, birds, a car's horn--stirred my ears in the quiet study, while I stood awkwardly in my shirt and underpants, waiting for my uncle.

Prints of a fox hunt and a sailing ship were on one wall, and there was a whole wall of books on floor-to-ceiling shelves. The walls and shelves were a chalky sky blue. He had a desk and credenza, across from a small sofa and reading chair.

I barely had a chance to look around when I heard Uncle Ron coming down the stairs, and he was already talking. I sat tentatively on the front edge of the reading chair and took another breath. Why hadn't my mom packed the orange swimsuit for me? Why hadn't I checked? I felt a little shudder as he came across the foyer area, speaking his confident, no-nonsense assurances.

"See, I told you it would be fine," Uncle Ron said as he came through the door holding bunched nylon garments in his right hand. He went behind his desk, sat in his desk chair, which creaked as he settled into it.

"Come here, Jamey," he said. I stood, and walked warily toward him and his desk. I looked at the bundle of fabric he'd just dropped on his desk, and, seeing the slight sleekness of the cloth, the colors, I took another breath to try and contain my feelings of sudden shame and dread and reluctance. There was a yellow pair, and a maroon pair, and they did look a little like swim suits. But they looked more than a little like women's or girls' underpants, too. Because that's exactly what they were, even if they were specialized versions.

"But Uncle Ron," I said, hesitating by the front of his desk. "Those aren't swimwear..." I turned my head away, not wanting to look at them. "Those, those look like p-p..." I trailed off. I didn't even want to say the word. Panties.

His face was stern as he looked at me, his patience having run completely out.

"Get over here, now," he said. "I'm tired of your dawdling."

I went to him, but stopped and stood there, at the side of Uncle Ron's desk, still a yard from where he sat in his swivel chair.

"Now look hon," he said. He picked up the panties again, separating the pale yellow pair from the maroon ones. "These are what's called tennis bloomers, and they're very similar to a boy's bathing suit, look--" he dropped the yellow pair onto the desk and pushed the maroon pair inside-out to show me. "See, they have the same cotton lining, and the nylon shell. Nobody will care. It's better than a bikini bottom, which would look much girlier. So let's have an end to this nonsense and we'll go to the pool." Uncle Ron was looking at my face, and I guess my trembling mouth just took him even beyond the limit of his patience.

The chair squeaked again as he moved, decisively. Leaning forward, he reached for me, taking hold of one of my elbows firmly, and pulling me to him. One of my thighs touched the leather front of his desk chair. He steadied me, standing awkwardly between his spread knees. Again, I was so very conscious of his masculine strength, and how much of a little boy he made me feel, how immature, in just my t-shirt and underpants. Still feeling shy, and even more nervous and so insecure, I crossed my hands again over my crotch.

He sighed, and reached out. I felt his firm hands gripping my wrists.

"Here, honey, let's not be so modest," he said. He moved my hands up out of his way, so that they were up against my chest. He lifted my t-shirt. "Hold this, honey," he said, and he made me hold the bottom edge of my shirt up and out of the way.

I felt his strong hands on my waist, his fingers decisively sliding into the elastic of my underpants, then swiftly pulling them down. Completely surprised, and with a jolt of appalling shame I squirmed as the waistband slid over my penis, as I felt the stretchy waistband scrape over it and then tickle my scrotum as Uncle Ronny yanked them down to my knees and then further down.

I hadn't expected this. I felt my face flushing, getting hot. I was embarrassed, exposed. I felt like the combination of my own dithering confusion and his natural authority and lack of patience had taken something intangible from me, and I was still trying to grasp at what it was so I could really understand it. My own mature male confidence had somehow slipped away, in Uncle Ronny's presence. I wanted it back, even before I knew what it was I had lost, and I also felt somehow that it was gone, for good. And, looking back, I have to wonder if maybe it was nothing I really never had, with any confidence, in the first place.

"Step out, hon," he said, "And we'll get you into these p- er, into this bathing suit so we can go enjoy the pool."

I stepped out of my underpants, and Uncle Ronny gave them a quick fold and laid them on his desk. He picked up the maroon bloomers, shaking them out and holding them up by the elastic waistband, finding the front and getting them lined up. He leaned forward in his chair, his hands stretching out the tennis panties for me, opening them up, down low and ready. "Step in, now honey," he said. I did. One foot, then the other, I stepped into those maroon nylon panties, and he pulled them up. He stopped when he reached my thighs, and straightened the garment out a little, then pulled the tight elastic up across my balls and my penis, and snugged it around my waist.

My knees felt weak. This all felt so wrong. But that big wrong feeling had another sharp but weird little feeling inside it that I couldn't quite wrap my brain around. A queasy jittery turmoil in my stomach, but inside the turmoil feeling, something else twisted and moved. I felt my penis twitch and move a little too.

It was confusing. But Uncle Ronny was already standing, his hand on my back, urging me.

"Let's go, Jamey, c'mon we've fooled around here long enough!" I felt his hand pat my bottom--my panties--and I squirmed a little. I couldn't help it.

***

Half an hour later, I was back in the study, waiting for Uncle Ronny to return. The time at the pool, well, it hadn't gone very well.

There weren't a whole lot of people there, and I was really glad about that, but I was still quite uncomfortable making my debut in the improvised "bathing suit". So Uncle Ron tried to get me to take a swim, "C'mon, m'boy, cool off, get your blood going, do a couple laps..." and he leaped in, but at first I was so self-conscious about myself and what others might think that I claimed a sudden interest in sunbathing and lingered in a lounge chair with my swim towel draped over my midsection.

I maintained an uneasily modest attitude, pretending bored disinterest. But my throat was dry and I was generally nervous, self-conscious. I was looking around, without trying to look like I was looking around, trying to see if anybody was looking at me. And naturally, people, mostly the younger set, were checking out the new kid.

Eventually my nervousness and the heat and Uncle Ron's stern expression finally got to me, and I did pick a discreet moment to slip the towel off my hips and swiftly but nonchalantly walk to the edge of the pool and slide in. The water felt so good. And once I was in the water, I felt less anxious about the feminine garment, and relaxed a little.

A few minutes later Uncle Ronny had left the pool and grabbed us a couple of sodas, and I noticed him stop and talk to a woman his age, together with a younger girl in her late teens, as he made his way back to our towels and lounges.

When he saw me look his way, he beckoned, calling out to me. "Come meet Mrs. Lane and Stephanie, Jamey."

I shook my head. Now I was in the water, I didn't want to get out and be examined. As much as I was interested in girls, and meeting a cute one, this wasn't the time, not while I was temporarily wearing cousin Sheila's maroon satin tennis bloomers.

I shook my head, and had we been able to communicate in some secret way I'm sure he would have seen the pleading in my eyes. But Uncle Ronny wanted what he wanted, and he seemed insensitive to my shyness, and feeling myself squirming between the "rock" of maroon tennis panties and the "hard place" of his stare, becoming stern and even sterner the longer I dawdled, I got out of the pool, but I went for my towel first. Maybe wrapped around my hips it was a little like a long skirt, but somehow that seemed better, in the circumstances, than the bloomers. The lesser, or at least less feminine, of two evils. But still, I felt very awkward, and uncomfortable, all through the introductions and subsequent conversation. The girl, Stephanie, barely looked at me, and I was glad of that. She was a year or so my junior, and even cuter up close.

After introductions and some small talk, the ladies left. They had already been on their way back to their apartment when Uncle Ron stopped to chat.

Uncle Ron looked at me. I could see the disappointment in his face. He shook his head slightly and gave me a push, then I felt his hand on the back of my neck. He steered me back to the lounge chairs where we'd set up. Something about the strength and authority of his touch...made me shiver slightly inside, in spite of the humid August heat.

"You were rather rude, or at best, Jamey, you were unfriendly. What's wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry Uncle Ron but I need a real bathing suit."

"They didn't even notice. What they noticed was your complete lack of interest in being civil."

I felt his disappointment, he had a way of making his reactions very personal, very subjective. I felt like I was shrinking as he looked at me, shaking his head slightly as he sat down on the edge of the nearest lounge chair.

"Go back to the house now, Jamey. I'm going to sit here and think, and take a few more laps in the pool. But you go back and think about your actions, or lack thereof. Go wait for me in the study."

Then he swung his strong, hairy legs up and lay back on the lounge, looked at me one more time without smiling, and again I felt his emotion toward me, his disappointment, making me feel sorry and unworthy. And small.

And I still felt that way, as I sat in Uncle Ron's study, waiting for his return.

***

The Study II:

I heard Uncle Ron come in. I heard the door, opening and closing, his footsteps in the hall. He was coming to the study. The slight creak of the flooring, the slap-slap of his sandals.

I'd been sitting on his little sofa, but when I heard that he was home I stood up.

Uncle Ron loomed into the doorway, in just his blue and white speedo, with his towel over his shoulder, and his eyes focused on me. Eyes that squinted a little from coming into a darker room from the sunlight outside and being outside in the open by the pool for so long.

"Jamey," he said, "What did I tell you to do?"

Now, I felt even more anxious. I had done something wrong?

"Uncle Ronny, you told me to wait in the study, and I am!"

"You changed out of your bathing suit. You've got your shorts and t-shirt back on. I thought I told you to go straight back to the study and wait."

"But Uncle Ronny, it was wet! And it was... it was panties."

"Yes, Jamey, and from now on, in my house, you follow my rules. You'll do as you're told." He came toward me, still looming, large and masculine. "Is that clear?" he said. I wanted to stand up to him but when he was three steps away I felt myself shrinking, and backing up a step.

"Yes sir," I mumbled. I was getting that feeling again, his firmness affecting me, shifting my emotion to shame, my lower lip trembled and I struggled not to be overcome, to not fall completely apart in front of him.

"Come here," he said, but the words were spoken just to get my attention, he was still coming toward me, and for me. "But, but," I said, and as I spoke I could hear how whiney I sounded, "But you didn't want me to sit--" I gestured at the cushions of his green sofa,"--there in a wet swimsuit, did you?!" My voice quavered as I spoke, my voice too high, my lower lip trembling, my mouth crumpling around the words.

Uncle Ron watched me, waiting as I struggled to keep myself in control. His eyes twinkled a little, something I would remember and wonder about later. Then his mouth flattened into a resolved expression, almost a stern grin, as he took a firm grip on my arm, pulling me away from the sofa. "No, honey, I intended for you to stand in your wet--in your wet panties--and think about how rude you were to Mrs. Lane and her daughter. To sit quietly and think about your behavior, until I got back here to give you a little lecturing. In other words, to do as you were told. No more, and no less. You've been rude, your attitude continues to be sullen and discourteous, you're acting like a bad little boy, frankly, and I don't intend to let you just get away with it." He looked at me, looked in my eyes, and I could see his smoldering masculine anger, and I felt small and weak and very anxious suddenly.

"Now go find those panties, put them back on, then get back here. And quick!"

I felt his strength as he pulled my arm and sent me on my way, scooting me toward the door, and then I felt his big right hand swat my bottom and I found myself trotting out the door with a little whimper.

Why was I just going along with this? Why wasn't I simply walking out the front door, instead of walking up the stairs as I was told? Or going straight to the phone to call my parents about this?

What was wrong with me?

As I reached the top of the stairs and went toward the bathroom where I'd hung up my damp improvised swimsuit to dry, I felt a surge of emotion, a criss-cross of resentment and anger and something else I was still trying to process. Without really thinking directly about it, I'd always known Uncle Ron was a strong personality, the masculine, in-charge type, but now his controlling influence was directed firmly on me, and it simultaneously felt like my own strength, my male reactive essence was being suppressed by his, and also like something else was being created inside me to replace my waning, or draining masculinity.

That something, whatever it was, felt like something I had been missing, some guidance and self-discovery that served an important purpose. But my every fiber cried out no!. How could something that I didn't like, and that I didn't want, be something I somehow needed, and even, on some level, craved? I felt a little choke in my throat as I walked, and I tried to make my steps more straight and masculine, but something in me resisted and just then I heard Uncle Ron again, calling up to me--"I said move it, honey," he said, and I felt an anxiousness in my center as I quickened my steps, urged by his stern tone to a bouncy little nervous prance. With a little moan of confused pain and shame, I scooted up the rest of the steps and hurried down the hall.

I got to the bathroom and stood trembling for a moment, just staring at the maroon tennis bloomers hanging over the edge of the tub. Seeing the slick, still damp nylon, the feminine shape of them draped there, caused a little twist of fluttering down deep in my belly. I shook it off, and then I quickly pushed my shorts and underpants down, and my penis sprung straight out. Something about this whole, awful, humiliating situation was causing this response, and when I thought about it, I wanted to stop thinking that way. I wanted this feeling, this mixture of shame and stimulation, to just stop. I moaned, an emotional little whimpering sound, and then caught myself, stifling my voice. I didn't want Uncle Ronny to hear anything. I let my shorts and underpants fall to my ankles, and I stepped quickly out of them as I eyed the tennis panties.

I picked up the bloomers, the panties--they were still damp of course--and stretched them open and stepped in with my left foot, and then my right, and pulled them up my legs. Panties. In spite of Uncle Ronny's assurances, I couldn't help but think of them as panties. And yet, as wrong as it felt, something about them seemed right, too, or at least if not right, interesting, or sensual in a new way, as I snugged them up and felt them encase me--my hips, my bottom, my sex--tightly in their feminine shapeliness. I felt my body give a little involuntary shiver, and also felt my face turn a little warm. Again, confusion mixed the shameful cocktail, but I had nowhere to go, and I knew I still had to go downstairs and face Uncle Ron.

I looked down. My penis was still swelled, pushing out the front of the panties, maybe even harder now than it had been when I pushed down my shorts and underwear. I cupped my hand under the gusset of the panties, because I didn't want to touch my swelling penis. Actually I wanted to but I didn't dare.

I jumped, just then, because Uncle Ronny's shout interrupted my thoughts, again.

"Jamey!" he shouted, his voice rising from the hallway downstairs, just as I was cupping my left hand under where the damp cotton-lined nylon crotch of the maroon tennis panties hugged up against my scrotum, keeping my balls tightly enclosed. My testicles were starting to ache a little for some reason, and when I jumped, surprised, I cried out softly because of the tenderness there.

"I'm coming down, Uncle Ronny," I hollered, my voice straining, with my tension and reluctance. I didn't want to go yet, to go to him, I was erect, and it was so embarrassing, to be seen like that. In the tight panties, it showed. My arousal was obvious.

I looked at my gym shorts, lying on the floor with my underpants inside. I knew Uncle Ronny didn't want me to put them on. He'd told me to put the tennis panties back on, and come right back downstairs. But I had an erection and I was thinking about Uncle Ronny waiting for me, and the erection wasn't softening, and I didn't want him to see, so I made a quick decision and grabbed my shorts, separating them from my white cotton underpants. I put the shorts back on, and I was already on my way back out the bathroom door and walking to the steps as I was pulling them up over the panties.

I thought Uncle Ron might be standing at the bottom of the steps, but he wasn't.

As I came down the steps, he was watching me, though. He stood, very still, in the doorway of his study, still wearing his blue-and-white speedo and with his towel still slung over his shoulder.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

I looked at Uncle Ronny. He wasn't smiling. He leaned in the doorway. His eyes moved down my body, back up. He was looking at me, and his expression did not change.

I felt something, I felt his power, his masculinity again, and felt my own...faltering. He didn't have to say anything. I looked down at myself.