Jamey Visits Uncle Ron Ch. 02

More slow-burn, gradual escalation of Jamey's confusion, and Uncle Ron's suspicion that he has a very needy, undisciplined sissy for a nephew.

It's the middle of a warm August afternoon, I'm in my new temporary bedroom, my eyes bleary from crying, wearing just my shirt and my cousin's maroon panties--her tennis bloomers--pushed down just to the tops of my thighs. My face is hot from the shame and emotion, and my bottom is warm and a little sore. I'm lying on my left side, my back toward the closed bedroom door, and I'm stroking my hard penis with my right hand. I'm a guest at my uncle's house, it's my first day here, and I'm wondering how all this ended up happening.

And I stop. Fingers loosely curled over my manhood, not moving. Absolutely still. Quiet. Listening.

I thought I heard something. A noise, in the room, or somewhere in the house, while I was trying to quietly masturbate. Is somebody coming? After a moment, holding my breath, I hear nothing, and I turn a little and shift my weight, rolling onto my back and lifting my hips to swiftly pull the tennis bloomers back up. Whatever I heard must have stopped. If there even was anything to hear. Maybe it was all in my mind. It's already been a long, trying day, and my mind and imagination have been struggling to keep up.

I stay quiet, continuing to listen. Nothing.                                                                                                                                                                      

What I thought I'd heard was something rhythmic, perhaps mechanical, repeated, perhaps a small tapping or squeaking. My imagination jumped, wondering.

I was thinking about Uncle Ron again. Was it him? My mind kept returning there, to him and his hints, wondering, thinking, imagining. Thinking things I didn't want to...think about.

I caught my breath again, shifted my hips again, so that I lay fully on my back, still listening. Was he coming?    Suddenly I felt ashamed of myself, a quick wave of it made me shiver a little. Was Uncle Ron coming to check on me? Footsteps were a rhythmic sound. I lifted my head and looked down at myself. My penis still straight up, but under the maroon sport nylon. My breaths came a little faster. Because I was thinking...about him? But there was no sound at all now. Silence. Nobody was coming. I lay my head back down on the pillow, and brought my left hand up from alongside my thigh again, and slid it up, feeling what I was wearing.                                                                                                                                                                

Panties. My hand slid over the front, that straight stiff tent of nylon, and I held my breath again. And then without really planning to, I started stroking and rubbing myself through the layers of maroon nylon and athletic cotton mesh, where my manhood twitched and throbbed under my palm.                                                                                                                                                                                                             

And I heard it again.

What is that? I stopped moving, stroking. I held still. It was gone. I heard nothing.

After a couple more stops and starts, and a quick bit of investigation, I figured it out. I listened carefully as I sat up, swung my legs over, and got out of the bed. The springs under the mattress groaned a little when my weight lifted, but that wasn't it. Maybe it contributed, but I was hearing something else. I walked around the bedroom, keeping my footsteps light, listening. I shifted my weight, foot to foot, several times, and faintly, I heard it.

Something in the room was teetering, somehow balanced or tensioned, so that any repetitive or rhythmic movements were setting it off. An unbalanced piece of furniture, or a sprung floorboard, perhaps. And it, whatever it was, somehow amplified my...intimate rhythm, causing a squeaking, mechanical moan that was loud enough to be embarrassing.

I tested several spots in the room--over by the window, back by the closet--shifting my weight around, simulating the rhythm of, uh, of slow pleasure, and it seemed that wherever I stood, or sat, the little squeaks, somewhere in the floorboards, or the walls, or something, announced it in that subtle, accusatory, yet somehow mechanical voice.

                                                                                                                                                                              Jerkoff.

Squeak.

Jerk.

Squeak!

Off!

A mental note wedged its way into my brain, stimulated by my swirling emotions and growing sexual frustration. Later, when I'm alone, I'll track it down. I'll find the source of this tattletale squeaking.

But for now, what could I do?    I wanted to take a shower. In the shower, maybe I could...complete what I needed to do. But we had just been in the pool, had a rinse. Both of us, Uncle Ronny and I, were clean and refreshed. I wanted to though. The shower was private. I needed just a little quiet privacy. But for now, at least, that was not available to me.

I needed something else to distract myself. A nap?    No. It just wouldn't work. I was in that strange, energized state, partly exhausted from the events of the day, but still adrenalized, keyed up, thoughts cascading, twisting my insides. I couldn't possibly sleep--even if I tried, I wouldn't even doze. My mind would keep running a mile a minute. I wasn't much of a napper, anyway. I was nineteen.

Take a walk? Maybe. No. Thinking about it, I quickly ruled it out. I didn't want to see anybody, meet anybody. In my present state of mind, I was too wound up, too on edge to even think about having to talk to somebody about...whatever. The weather. My major. My...living circumstances? Not to mention, I was still wearing panties.

Why on earth was I wearing panties!? The puzzling weirdness of it all was blinking, flashing in all caps, blaring, searing my brain, my thoughts.

I told myself it was ridiculous. It was.

This is ridiculous.

Then I thought of Uncle Ronny's look. His disapproving eyes. I felt myself shrink just a little, involuntarily, when I thought of him, and how he...just took over. Decisive, controlling, domineering.

I couldn't nap, couldn't go back to bed. I couldn't masturbate, release my male tension. I couldn't take a shower, or take a walk.                                                                                                                                                      

Why am I wearing panties?    Because I was told to.

I felt my face getting hot again, the humiliation pushing up, squirming up from my belly.

And all because I didn't have a swim suit.

I looked around the bedroom. Sheila's room. My room, for now. For two or three weeks.

Think about what it's going to be like living with your Uncle Ronny for the next two weeks...

He told me that, too. Told me to think about it.                                                                                                                                                                            

I did. I thought about it and I shuddered. I couldn't really get myself to think about much of anything else.

I remembered Uncle Ron, my embarrassment, his frustration. His big, manly hand pawing through Sheila's underwear drawer. That unreadable, flat smile, as he looked at me. His hand again, pushing the blouses and dresses this way and that in her closet.

Sheila's things. I rolled over on the bed, and I looked over at her dresser, and at her closet. Here were her clothes. Her dresses, skirts, shoes.

The things she left behind in her father's house. Things she probably didn't even use anymore. She was 600 miles away, getting ready for another year of college, just like me.

Her tops, her bras, her tights, her pantyhose. Things she didn't wear anymore. Things she used to wear next to her skin. Inside her skirts and dresses and tops and sweaters and jackets.

Like, when she went to dances.

When she played sports.

When she played tennis.

I looked down at myself, at the tight, full size bloomers. She had worn these.

I'm wearing Shiela's panties.

Why didn't I have a swimsuit? I kept coming back to that thought, obsessively.

Mom.

I thought of my mom.

Yes, in my swirling,emotional confusion, I thought of my mom.

I had to call my mom.

I looked at my watch. Three hours since they'd left. My mom and dad should arrive home soon, if they haven't already.

I remembered seeing a phone above Uncle Ron's kitchen counter when he was showing me around.

Feeling a little tentative, I went to the bedroom door and turned the knob, opening the door a few inches. I listened.

I couldn't hear anything other than the seasonal background sounds that had begun to sound familiar, the voices and splashes from poolside, muffled traffic sounds, and quieter hums, summer nature sounds of cicadas, birds, leaves moving in the summer breeze.

I wasn't sure where Uncle Ron was. I had left him in his study, and I was pretty sure he was still there, or perhaps in the living room. I hadn't heard him come upstairs. But he might have. I realized that not knowing where he was in the house was making me uneasy.

I'm not sure why I was concerned, but my nerves were fraught, generally. I had seemingly misplaced my budding college confidence, somehow, quite suddenly, under Uncle Ron's influence, his hovering authority. And feeling this, and confronting these vulnerable feelings, and the increasing fear and uncertainty, brought a galvanized feeling of shame to my body all over again.

I took a deep breath and tried to keep my mouth firm, but I felt it quivering. I fought the despair.

I looked down at myself, my present state of attire.

T-shirt and...

...and panties.

I couldn't go walking around the house like this! I didn't know the routine in Ron's home, who might visit, what kind of privacy to expect. I started to put my gym shorts on, then I stopped.

I needed to assert myself, at least a little. Remembering that Uncle Ron had told me not to change out of them, I took a deep breath. I pushed the tennis bloomers down, and stepped out of them, and put on a pair of my plain white jockeys, and my gym shorts, and headed for the kitchen. I felt a little sheepish as the thought occurred to me that I could probably change back into the bloomers before Ron even knew.

I moved quietly, out into the hall and down the stairs. I was listening, as well, for clues about my uncle's present whereabouts, but the apartment remained still and quiet.

The kitchen was a typical arrangement with appliances and a counter along one wall, pantry cabinets and shelves opposite, and a connected nook with a round table and dining chairs. The phone, light green with square beige number buttons, was mounted on the wall between the kitchen and dining area.

I dialed my home number. Mom answered on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Mom. It's me."

"Jamey?    We just got home. Well, a few minutes ago." A twinge of concern came into her voice. "Is everything okay, honey?"

I covered the receiver with my palm and took a deep breath. The question grabbed all the concerns and questions I had, and threw them tumbling through my mind. But I couldn't, no, I couldn't just spill it all, all the emotions, on the phone to my mom.

"Oh, Mom, no, I mean, yes, don't worry," I said. "Everything's fine."

Did she hear something in my voice? I was trying for casual, relaxed, but perhaps moms can hear deeper trouble even when we try to hide it. Also, in normal circumstances, I realized, I wouldn't call home for days at least, even weeks when away at school. Here I was already talking to my mother only three hours in.

"Well, I'm sure your Uncle Ron is happy to have you. But he's been, well, you know he's been a single man for some time now, so the adjustment to having company..."

Why did she have to bring Uncle Ron up?  But of course, she did.

"Yes, Mom, Uncle Ron is, I mean, we're getting..." I paused because I couldn't really open up to my mom, but the thoughts of what had already been happening were still bobbing up jaggedly. "We are getting re-acquainted, it's fine, mom. But uh, I was unpacking, and I couldn't find my--, Mom, did you pack my orange swimsuit?"

"Oh dear. It's not there? How can you lose things...not even a day and you've already lost it?"

This wasn't helping. "Mom, it was gone, I couldn't understand it. You must've forgotten to pack it."

"I'm sure we did, honey. Did you look in the side pockets??

"Yes mom, I looked everywhere. I was sure it was...you're sure, the orange one?"

"Yes, honey. What about your little bag? Maybe it's in there."

"No, mom,"

"Hmm..."

Some people say um, or well, when they're figuring out how to say something. Mom says hmm.

"What is it Mom?"

"Well, did you ask your Uncle Ron?"

I really did not want the discussion with my mom to go here. Ron and I seemed off to a rocky start, and I needed mom's perspective, but I couldn't tell her that. I found myself touching the back of my shorts when I thought about him.

I had to take a deep breath. "Yes, Mom, he...he helped me look. It's like it just disappeared, or maybe it was never here."

"I think you need to keep looking, son. But really, honey, it's not that big a deal, is it? I'm sure your uncle can find you something you can borrow temporarily."

I wasn't about to share with my mother that not only was she right about that, but the details, how we...improvised...brought flutterings of shame and renewed alarms and anxieties into my midsection.

"Hmm." Sometimes I sound like my mother. Do we pick up habits, expressions from our parents? Even the ones that annoy us?   

"Oh honey. Don't be so bashful! You can certainly ask your Uncle Ron to lend you a bathing suit!"

I didn't know what to say. I felt like I was chatting myself into a corner with my mom. I couldn't tell her we had already been to the pool, how we handled the swimsuit problem, and how it ended. It flashed through my mind; a quick image of Uncle Ron, bending me over, his big, flat hand smacking my rear end in my cousin's panties...

"Sure, Mom," was all I could think to say.

A pause. Both of us were silent, perhaps a little too long. Mom must have picked up something from my silence.

"Your Uncle Ron, well, hmm..." I could tell she was thinking something, something she wanted to say, but she couldn't quite... nail what it was, on the spur of the moment. I could hear that uncertainty in her voice, in the way it drifted into a laden pause.

"What is it, Mom? What about Uncle Ron?"

"I guess he can seem a little, well, easily annoyed, a bit short on patience, you know. And also..." She paused again, considering her phrasing, gathering her thoughts, then she managed to resume. "Ron can be a little hard to read sometimes. His sense of humor, or something, not exactly that, but, well honey you remember...he can be a bit...tricky."

"Oh. Like what are you saying Mom? He seems, um, pretty uh, well, serious."    I thought about Uncle Ron. Thus far, I hadn't seen much evidence of a sense of humor at all, really. Irritable? Yes, I had certainly noticed that part.

"Well, it's hard to put into words, I guess," My mom said. "He can put people off balance, sometimes. I think he does it intentionally, sort of like he's testing people. He'll seem like he's offended, or even insulted. The easily annoyed thing, like I said. Then he smiles, you know, just kidding! And on the other hand, sometimes he seems to be just messing with your head, but he's really serious about it, whatever it is. Or, sometimes it's kind of back and forth, like he's joking with you, and then a few moments later, again, he's so serious, almost, well, scary, but then it turns out he's just having you on."

"What? He's a practical joker? Mom, I need to understand!"                                                                                                                                                                                                         

"No, well...yes, maybe. He's certainly...quirky. But anyway, he might be, or seem to be, a little this way and that at first. He can take a little getting used to, until he gets to know you and you get to know him. I told you some of this on the way up there, in the car, remember?"

Now I wished I'd paid more attention to my mom on the trip up. Yes, she'd said something about my uncle being a little odd, kind of a mind-game playing type. My dad, driving the car, had chuckled audibly. He must have been remembering some examples.

I could also tell that my mom could only say so much, she might be holding back a little, just like I wasn't admitting all the...specifics of my swimsuit circumstances, our uncle-nephew afternoon so far. People hint at things, sometimes that's all they can do, and sometimes the hints only indicate a generality, nothing detailed, or factual. Just a thought.

"Honey, do you remember that time you were so certain that somebody--you thought it was your sister or one of her friends--had stolen one of your favorite...what was it, a comic book, a magazine? I don't remember exactly what it was, but you thought it was stolen but eventually, you found it. Wasn't it underneath something? So, maybe your bathing suit is under your suitcase, or inside a shirt's sleeve or something...and you will feel so silly, honey, won't you?    If it is?"

                                                                                                                                                                              She had no idea. I shivered, thinking about how different things would be, if the suit was misplaced, and I had found it.

But to me, having gone down this...other path, this was just a ridiculous idea. But not totally impossible. I thought hard about it. Had I lifted the suitcase, to look under it? Did it have some subtle, hidden compartment? Had I checked inside my sleeves, pants' legs? I had looked everywhere! Hadn't I?

Yes, I had. But when one repeats thoughts and obsessively reviews actions enough times, uncertainty begins to creep in. There was just enough doubt--maybe in all the flustered confusion--I might have inadvertently kicked my swimsuit under the bed or something. The call to my mom had only added new incremental doubts to my growing uncertainty. About myself, about what to think or believe, even what to do. But mom also got me wondering about Uncle Ron. Tricky Uncle Ron.

"I'll look. I'm pretty sure it's not here, but I'll look."

We wrapped up our conversation. Mom made me promise to call again soon.

I hung up. I'd already been completely set off balance by Uncle Ron, his mixture of hospitality and manipulation. It was about to get worse.

I stood in the kitchen area, between the appliance counter and the center table, round, of light wood, with four kitchen chairs. I stared at the phone, hanging on the wall above the counter. I took a deep breath, planted my elbows on the counter, and cupped my face in my palms, exhaling raggedly.

Then, a feeling crept over me. It, the feeling, even gave me a little chill, and I shivered.

It was that feeling you get when you're alone, but then...

You realize maybe you're not alone.

A feeling of being watched, seen, observed.