Jamey Visits Uncle Ron Ch. 01

"I put my shorts back on," I said. The words came out weakly. Meekly, even. Maybe my voice was a little defensive, but I certainly didn't feel at all defiant. Uncle Ronny didn't say anything. I needed to breathe, or stop breathing, or something. I was feeling his emotion toward me and I tried to inhale and the air came as a long, ragged breath, and a little bit of a high involuntary sound at the end. Did I just whimper? Yes I think I did, a little.

I exhaled and took another breath and looked up at Uncle Ronny again. His unsaid command was clear, somehow expressed in the stern look in his eyes. So I reached down and pushed my shorts down to my knees, and moved my knees together a little, and my athletic shorts fell to my ankles. I stepped out of them, and started to walk toward Uncle Ronny, and the study, wearing just my t-shirt and damp swimsuit.

"Pick them up, honey," he said. I stopped, and sighed another little breath, turned back and picked up my shorts. "You can hang them there," Uncle Ron said, nodding at the newel knob terminating the banister rail at the bottom of the stairs. "You might not even need them the rest of the day. We'll see."

I looked at him for a second, and he still hadn't changed his stern face. Another sudden flush of shame twisting inside me, I hung my shorts on the knob, then turned to face my uncle. His expression was steady and unemotional, neither smile nor frown.

"Now get in here," he said. His voice was quiet, and low. And very, very serious.

* * *

He remained standing in the study doorway, and so I had to squeeze past him again. I could feel the heat of his body, smell him, a little bit of a chlorine smell from his still-wet hair; his skin and his whole body, rinsed by the pool but unsoaped, had a masculine smell without the tang of sweat. Why was I inhaling as I shrank past him? Sometimes instincts make things happen that our reasoning minds would resist?

Uncle Ron moved, though, just as I cleared the doorway into the study. I felt his fingers on my back, the small of my back, then his palm. Why did his hand always seem strong, so intentional, even when his touch was casual?

He urged me forward, his impatience obvious. "Come along now, hon," he said. "We're going to have our little talk, aren't we?" Behind us, he closed the door. And then I felt the palm of his hand slide down from my back, to cup my bottom, palming it, giving a little firm push. Feeling his hand there, through the doubled satin of the bloomers, made me tighten and squirm a little, and I recoiled from his hand, quickening my steps across the small space in the study. I lost my momentum halfway across the room, and I paused awkwardly. So what now? Standing there, I jittered a little, oddly unable to summon the dignity of stillness.

Uncle Ron gave a little pat to my bottom, then went past me and leaned back against the front of his desk, tossing his towel onto the sofa. He folded his arms, looking me over.

I stood, a little awkwardly, on the oval rug in the middle of the small room, wearing just the damp tennis panties and t-shirt. I clasped my hands together and flexed my toes a little on the rug. Nervous.

Uncle Ron shook his head slightly, and I shivered, sensing his disapproval. He was breathing calmly, regarding me steadily, but a little distractedly, as if not really thinking about what he was seeing, but considering, weighing. Figuring me out. I felt his eyes, and somehow I could feel the mystery of his mind, a little, too. His half-vacant eyes on me, and that unknown intention, combined to push a pulse of anxiety up into my center, my belly. Seconds passed, ticking along slowly, as we both settled into the quiet, with the late afternoon sun slanting in from the window, angled onto the floor a few feet from where I stood. I felt my knees shift, tremble, and I tried to hold it down but then an unbidden shiver passed upward across my body and my shoulders shuddered, and I took a sudden breath, also involuntary, in reaction.

This seemed to wake Uncle Ronny up a little. I found that he was now looking at me, looking at my face, and with his full attention. I exhaled and drew another breath. There was still a little narrowing of his eyes, and an almost imperceptible motion of his head and narrowing of his lips...a small nearly inaudible grunt of reaction, all generated by my little trembling shudder.

"Yes," Uncle Ronny said, looking at me. I looked down at my hands. "We're going to have our little talk. We're going to figure out a few things about little Jamey. Yes, honey."

This time when he said honey, and emphasized the way he pronounced it, I felt that trembling again, another shiver. Being called that, the way he said it, an endearment, as if to a female, a girl, even. I felt my face getting warm again, with some emotional mixture of resistance and curiosity. No, I was thinking,Don't call me that... But I didn't say anything. I should have, I wanted to. But I didn't.

He was staring intently at me. I could feel it even though I didn't look up. Uncle Ronny unfolded his arms, and pushed against the desk with his hands, straightening himself up, moving slowly, but deliberately, closer to where I stood.

"Yes," he said, and I felt his eyes on me. "You reacted a little there. We're already finding some things out, aren't we, hmm?" I kept looking down at my hands, and at my feet, and I felt that anxiousness inside me, moving up and down my arms, making me jitter and tremble. "It was when I called you honey. I saw that." And Uncle Ron gave a little chuckle, a hollow little chuckle that was mostly just a puff of exhaled breath, with the tip of his tongue against the back of his front teeth. Making me squirm amused him, and somehow that made me squirm a little more with the shame I felt. It felt like my body was trying to get smaller.

Uncle Ron walked around behind me, and slowly circled me, getting closer. Again, I could smell him, his skin, feel his maleness. But I didn't want to look up, I didn't want to see his eyes, I didn't want to set off another shudder.

As he moved behind me, I thought I felt a light touch, perhaps on the back of my shirt. My heart skipped and I felt the little light hairs on my arms and legs rise. I tried not to, but startled, just a little. A slight twitch. I sensed Uncle Ron pausing behind me, as if he was listening, observing. Again I felt a touch, or an almost touch, in a different place, and I had to take a shuddering breath. "Yes," said Uncle Ron. "Yes, honey, very very sensitive. That's good. You always were a sensitive boy. You still are, honey."

He was moving again. I could hear him, feel him, behind me, beside me, then circling in front of me once more. A moment later, he was standing just a foot and a half away, facing me. My jittered nerves had me continuing to clasp my hands together, and I was looking down at my hands, and feet. I could see Uncle Ron's feet now, too, the light brown hair on his shins and the brown woven leather of his sandals. With just a little shift of my glance, just moving my eyes and not my head, I could see the rest of his legs. His knees. His swimsuit. I found myself staring briefly at his swimsuit. I could see the shape, the mound there under the cling of the blue textile, when I looked at the front Uncle Ron's speedo, how the stretched synthetic wrapped and outlined the shape of his manhood, and again I felt a little electric surge that I didn't want to show.

He chuckled again, and I felt myself blush as I shifted my eyes to look down at my feet again. I felt Uncle Ron's fingers lightly touch the side of my neck, then my cheek.

"Look at me, Jamey," he said softly, and I felt his fingers move firmly under my chin. And I lifted my face and looked at him.

I swallowed, but my throat was dry. "We're going to talk, honey. A few questions. They might make you a little uncomfortable, but we'll see. And I think a bit of inspection is in order. The way you move, react, what you choose to look at, I'm already learning little things from your behavior, honey."

"No," I said, but I felt a little squirm and shiver as I thought about what I had just been looking at. My uncle's bathing suit, his bulging speedo. My voice was small and high, like a little moan, like a whisper.

"Yes, honey," Uncle Ron said, his voice growing softer, but somehow firmer. I felt my face turning warm.

"That's what I mean, I can already tell some things about you, Jamey. Like, when I call you honey. You react a little when you hear that, honey. I see it, how it is. It's sort of cute, how it makes you squirm a little. How your face turns red. So, honey, don't you like it when I call you that?"

I couldn't look at him. I looked down, then I looked away. I shook my head.

"Tell me."

I could feel my face getting hot. I didn't want to think about it. But Uncle Ron lifted my chin again so I had to look at him, and he was waiting, looking at me with that flat smile, and I knew I wouldn't get away with not answering.

"No," I croaked. "I don't like it." He nodded his head, and released my chin. I lowered my head. I still felt ashamed, belittled.

"I guess it's just a... a habit I have, from what I call my girls," he said, with a touch of introspection giving a self-amused lilt to his tone. "I call kids hon, or honey. I guess some boys don't like it when they've grown up. Big boys can get sensitive to things like that. Some more than others. Maybe you're one of those, the more sensitive type."

I just shuffled a little. I glanced up, but couldn't meet his eye. I sensed that he was teasing me, seeing if he could push me around, manipulate my reluctance, my confusion, my feelings about how he was treating me, push them this way and then pull them that way.

"Uh hmm," Uncle Ron said. The judgment in his tone had me feeling ashamed and confused. Staying very close, Uncle Ron moved around behind me, and then I felt his breath lightly on the back of my neck. He was so close, so very close, our bodies almost but not quite physically in contact. "And these," he whispered, and I felt his touch, very lightly, on the side of my right hip. His lips were very close to my left ear. His fingers very lightly touching, then sliding down my hip, and then behind me. I felt his hand on my bottom. "Your panties," he whispered. "Oh," he said, still whispering. "A little bit damp? From the pool, I guess. A little moist, these panties, aren't they?"

Reflexively, involuntarily, my hips sprung when he touched me there and whispered in my ear. My body gave a little jerk and I gasped.

"You don't like that either, honey, do you?" and as he whispered, Uncle Ron's hand palmed the back of my improvised swimsuit, and I shuddered with a quick little squirm, feeling his touch, "When Uncle Ronny calls these your panties?"

I moaned and shook my head, and my lips moved, and if there was an answer trying to come out in words, they emerged unintelligible.

"Hmm? HMMM honey?" Again, an answer was being demanded, and I felt that the answer was obvious but still, Uncle Ron was expecting a response, no matter how humiliating all this was making me feel. "No," I croaked. "Please don't call them that."

"No?" Uncle Ronny said, with a sneer of exaggeration. "Well, honey, then I think it's time for you to pull your panties down, so Uncle Ronny can have a look."

I was still standing with my hands folded over my crotch. "What?" I moaned. I didn't want to. I really really didn't want to pull my swimsuit down, not right then.

"Remember, honey? Uncle Ronny told you, honey, that some inspection would be needed. Well, the time has come, so move those hands. Pull those pretty little panties down. Let's see what Jamey's hiding there."

I shuddered. "Please, Uncle Ron," I whined. "I don't want to. Can I go to my room now?"

Uncle Ronny sighed. "You do have a problem doing as you're told, don't you honey? And by the way, you'll go to your room when I tell you to go to your room." Though his voice was still soft, the anger and force in it had risen, and I felt it, and I shook a little.

And then Uncle Ronny palmed my bottom firmly, with his other hand on the back of my neck, and he took two quick and firm steps over to the small sofa, guiding me along so that I had to take several small steps to match his two large strides.

It was so quick and assertive, how he moved and positioned me. He was so sure and decisive about it, that I couldn't really think, or even react.

Uncle Ronny put his left foot up on the sofa cushion, bending his knee. He pulled me in close to him, between him and the sofa, then with his left hand on the back of my neck, the other on my bottom, he bent me a little ways over his left thigh and bent knee. I gasped and cried out at the suddenness, and the firm authority and assertive intent in his pushing and pulling me. Bending me to his will, and over his one knee.

"Such a bad, bad boy, you are, Jamey," he said. The he smacked my bottom, hard, with his bare right hand. Through my damp swimsuit. I gave a little jump, from reflexes, and a wordless high sound escaped raggedly from deep in my throat; a broken whimper. I straightened up, gasping, or tried to straighten, but Uncle Ronny's hand on my back kept my waist bent over his knee. He smacked my bottom again.

He was so close to me. His light breath on the side of my neck, my face. Uncle Ronny started whispering again, right next to my left ear.

"And we both know what happens to disrespectful, discourteous girls and boys," he whispered softly right next to my ear, with husky emphasis, as his big, open hand palmed the back of my damp maroon panties.

His hand wasn't moving at all, but I could feel it there, warm through the damp panty nylon and cotton liner. Warm, masculine, strong and large. A man's hand. Then, it was gone.

"Bad girls and boys, who don't listen, who won't do as they're told, who disobey or disrespect the adult in the house."

Without realizing that my vocal cords were in play, I started to moan, bent as I was over Uncle Ron's knee, in just my t-shirt and those damp tennis bloomers, because I was so ashamed, and so very sorry. Then his hard, flat hand landed on my bottom, loud in the quiet room, and I felt my hips twitch and twist, and my bottom felt his hand again, and again, spanking me, over and over, and over.

And the way he had me there, slightly curled over his upright left knee, all he had to do was whisper and I could hear him, and he was spanking me and whispering in my ear.

"I could tell, honey," he whispered. "Yes, Uncle Ronny knows about you." He spanked me, and I shuddered, and trembled, and my knees felt like they were going to weaken completely as he whispered, and spanked. And the butterflies did little flips in my stomach, and between my legs I was getting erect again, and I was so ashamed, and that seemed to make it worse, and it was growing there in those cool, damp panties, and I could feel it begin to bulge, throbbing against the inside of Uncle Ronny's thigh where he had me braced firmly against him, and squirming a little, my front rocking against his thigh each time his big, flat hand spanked my bottom, left cheek, right cheek, left, right, over and over.

He stopped. I don't, and didn't, know how long he had been spanking me, or how many times his hand had smacked my bottom. I moaned and whimpered, in some kind of trance, I don't think I even realized that he had stopped, not right away.

I slumped against his thigh, and felt myself quivering there bent over his knee in my damp panties ersatz swimsuit, half tense, half relaxed, mind spinning, butterflies still flittering inside my center. Uncle Ron took his foot off the sofa and steadied me so I was standing straight. A quick, gasped sob blubbered out from between my lips as I caught my breath.

"You should go to your room now, hon," he said. I was looking down. I took a deep, rough intake breath, and glanced up at his face. Uncle Ron's eyebrows lifted a little, but otherwise he remained inscrutable.

He pulled me a little closer with his right hand around my shoulders, and he put his index finger under my chin, and lifted my face. I didn't want to look at him, but I could tell that wouldn't be wise.

"Go to your room and think about your behavior, honey," he said softly. "Think about what it's going to be like living with your Uncle Ronny for the next two weeks." He slid his hand down my back and I felt his hand on my bottom, his fingers spread around the lower curves, his warmed-up palm on my tight swimsuit. I felt my bottom tighten and quiver. "I think in the long run, it's going to be good for you. You may have a few more good lessons to learn, honey. I think you realize, we're just getting started."

I took a deep breath, and moaned. I glanced at Uncle Ron's face, then I felt my lip trembling again and I looked away.

"And keep these panties on, before dinner we'll have another talk and see if you're ready to listen and do as you're told." And Uncle Ron steered me toward the door with a firm pat on my bottom, and I trotted a few steps, trying to gather my balance (and perhaps my dignity), and took a big breath.

"Oh, honey," Uncle Ron said, an afterthought. I turned before I reached the door. "On your way to your room, hang up the towels in the bathroom, and this." He turned briefly away, and I saw his hands go to his hips, and his thumbs slid into his swimsuit's waistband and pushed his speedo swimsuit down to his knees. He stepped each foot out of it, and turned and tossed it to me, and I caught it reflexively, then he went and sat behind his desk and watched for my reaction.

I looked at the blue swimsuit. I looked very briefly at Uncle Ronny. I took another quick breath and then I exhaled slowly. Then, I gathered up the towels. I walked, feeling Uncle Ron's eyes following me, making me feel self-conscious as I opened the door and left the study, then crossed the entry hallway to the stairs and then went up.

I went into the bathroom and hung the towels on the hooks on the back of the door. I had Uncle Ron's speedo in my hand, still a bit damp, and a little warm because he'd just been wearing it a minute ago. I thought of him pushing it down, my quick look at him naked, his paleness and tan lines. I thought about his penis, wondered about it, but I hadn't really seen it because his back was turned when he took his swimsuit off.

Again I felt ashamed, felt my face grow warm. These were thoughts I wanted to look at sideways, or somehow avoid, but they proved stubborn, intrusive, insistent. I unbunched the blue and white swimsuit and was reaching to hang it over the shower curtain, but I paused.

No. Don't. I told myself not to. I looked over at the door. The house was quiet. I was alone. Nobody could see me.

I tried to stop myself again. Then I lifted his swimsuit, raising the white cotton liner of it to my face. I smelled it. I brought Uncle Ron's speedo, still warm and a little damp, to my face, and I sniffed gently. I could smell his manliness there, a little bit of sweat, a little musk.

What am I doing? I'll admit that I...well, that I had sneakily inspected ladies' underwear before, even sniffed them, my cousins' or my mother's maybe even. But this?...

I hung up Uncle Ron's swimsuit, then I went into my room and closed the door. Everything suddenly felt so different, seemed so different, as I looked around, at the bed with my suitcase on it, my clothes spilled out of it; at the window and the sunshine there; at the feminine touches in the room, the dresser that the tennis panties I was wearing had come out of, the closet with Sheila's old clothes.

The closet had a long mirror mounted on it. I went over to it and looked at my reflection, but I didn't want to see myself when I saw my eyes looking back at me. I put my face in my hands, blotting out the mirror image, and felt emotions fill me; shame, and confusion. I turned away from the mirror and looked back over my shoulder at the reflection, me wearing the tennis bloomers. My panties, as Uncle called them. I pulled them down and looked at my bottom. It was hard to tell I'd just been spanked by my uncle, my skin was just slightly pinked. I ran my hand over my bottom, it was warm, and I shuddered a little as the shame returned.