Jamey Visits Uncle Ron Ch. 03

I felt Uncle Ron's eyes. I felt him looking at me, regarding me quietly from his seat, behind his desk, leaning back, relaxed, in his maroon leather office chair.

I was anything but relaxed. After an hour and more of uncomfortable questions, penetrating looks, and cringing moments while my uncle had probed my outer shell, pushing and prodding at my psyche, my personal feelings, maybe even tickling away at the ragged edges of my deepest secrets, he had, quite suddenly, taken me down another rung, and I was ashamed, raw, vulnerable, and emotional.

My manhood was already in tatters when he told me to pull my shorts down, leaned me against the side of his desk, my sweating palms spread down on his green blotter.

And Uncle Ron scolded me, berated me, reduced me until I was emotionally distressed. Satisfied that I was paying close attention, he promptly yanked my underpants to my knees and firmly, repeatedly spanked me, squirming and sobbing with all the humiliation accumulated over the course of the afternoon.

My bottom still stung, warm and twitching, from his big, warm palms and their loud, resounding smacks to my bared ass. I continued to sniffle as I leaned over, and though I felt his eyes on me, I didn't look at him. I didn't look up. I stared at the brown leatherette border of his green desk blotter, contrite, ashamed, and feeling sorry for myself.

Everything was quiet. A generalized stillness settled in after the action and intensity of my spanking--quiet moments when nothing moved, and if I sniffled, the emotional reality of that sound seemed to make it louder, set against the stillness. I realized I was catching my breath. The late summer evening's early hours were ticking by, the waning sunlight outside beginning to stretch out, the shadows of the trees lengthening. But in Uncle Ron's house, in his study, it was still warm, the air not moving--not as bad as the heat of the day, but still muggy, the cooling trend waiting until nearer sunset.

"Still warm, isn't it Jamey?" Uncle Ron said, when we'd both had sufficient time to reset, and resettle, ourselves. With the corner of my eye I became aware of him sitting up, seeing him stir, then move--also by hearing the mechanical sounds of his office chair, its springs and recliner hardware adjusting as he sat forward. "Well, work's over, dinner out of the way, I guess now we can relax. Get to know each other a little more."

Another clank and squeak of his mechanical chair. He was sitting himself upright in his chair. I glanced over, mainly moving my eyes, and realized that Uncle Ron was unbuckling his pants.

"I'll sure be ready for September to get here," he muttered. I realized then that Uncle Ron had some window-mounted air conditioning, but only in the upstairs part of his condo. His living and working areas downstairs relied on natural ventilation and a few standing or desk fans for relief during summer's hottest spells.

"You don't mind, do you?" Uncle Ron said, getting my attention as he stood up and continued, unzipping his khakis, quickly pushing them down and stepping out of them, folding them and laying them behind him on the credenza that matched his walnut desk. "Too hot down here for these," he finished, adding, "--and no women around to be modest for, right Jamey?"

Well, I was still standing with my own underpants bunched around my knees, in just my T-shirt and white socks and black tennis shoes. And Uncle Ron seemed to think the situation was funny, because he chuckled as he sat back down and--now dressed only in his gray undershorts and polo shirt-- resumed his relaxed, leaning back position. I felt that oddness again, that mixed feeling, off balance, thinking of women, modesty, men, nudity...and other things.

"Just us guys here, we can relax and stay cool," Uncle Ron said. I was aware that he was gesturing, there was body language going along with his words, and he was continuing to talk because he knew that I was avoiding looking at him and the gestures... But there was nobody else in the room; the gestures were intended for me, specifically. His gestures were part of our communication, elements of how Uncle Ron was informing me, guiding my thoughts, and continuing to define our relationship. Or redefine it.

I glanced over. I looked at him, again moving my head as little as I could, mainly just shifting my eyes. He was sitting just 5 or 6 feet away from me, relaxed, sunk back into his padded leather chair...And suddenly I couldn't help myself. I turned my head--just a little--to get a better look. First, my eyes landed on his chair, then I looked at Uncle Ron where he'd just been taking off his pants. I looked at him, well, at his underpants. His shorts. They were grey jockeys, with a darker gray one-inch waistband.

My eyes shifted up. My eyes met Uncle Ron's. I saw the smile on his face. I felt myself twitch a little.

"Yes, Uncle Ron," I said, because I needed to say something before he did. His little smirk was partly amused, partly inscrutable, and I needed to keep saying something, just to avoid whatever that smirk might mean.

Weakly, I said, "Yes, it's still hot. Um, just us guys." I gave a little, slight shrug of my shoulders, still aware that while he was relaxing, I was standing in position, the unrelaxed position he'd put me in.

Uncle Ron was leaned back, sprawled upon his office chair. I'd noticed him using this masculine posture before, earlier, at the restaurant, in the car. His feet were on the ground, in his cordovans and tan socks, his soles flat on the ground. But unlike earlier, I could now observe the rugged brown leg hair on his bared calves.

While we looked at each other, Ron casually reached down, with his left hand, and adjusted himself. Before I could think about it, before I could stop myself, my eyes followed the motion of his hand, and I found myself watching as Uncle Ron settled his hips a little while grasping himself, his manhood, his bulge, through the gray cotton of his jockeys, and made himself comfortable. It was a casual, unconscious, and masculine move.

He didn't say anything. He casually adjusted his genitals while I watched, then, without any change of expression, regarded me. His hand still rested there, curled over the bulge in his jockeys.

"One of the things I think we need to talk about, son," he said.

His eyes were on mine. I took a deep but slow breath, trying not to make it seem like I was bracing myself or getting even more nervous or something. But I knew from his penetrating tone of voice, and the steadiness of his gaze, that he was going to dig deeper into something we'd already touched, briefly, upon.

"Something I noticed, about you..." Uncle Ron said, "...is that you seem to grow uncomfortable when certain ordinary subjects come up. Little things that most people don't really dwell upon, or worry about, seem to cause some...uneasiness...seem to make you...agitated." Each of his little hesitations, pauses in the rhythm of his speech, seemed to contain hints, unspoken suggestions, things that made me want to squirm, but with his eyes on me, I didn't move, or if I did, only with slight twitches or tremors.

He swiveled his chair a little, away from me, then back, and then a little more with a casual emphasis, facing me more directly now across the corner of the desk, still sprawled back in his chair. Nonchalantly, he gestured to his briefs, and briefly touched them.

"Like underpants," Uncle Ron said. "When I mention, or we discuss, underwear, well son I have seen your uneasiness, it's something you seem to have trouble containing. When I've talked about underpants you seem to repeatedly have an emotional, involuntary reaction."

Uncle Ron was looking at me, with an intent, serious tilt to his head, holding himself very still now, somehow adding extra tension and drama to the moment without moving, or gesturing.

"Especially if it's women's underpants," Uncle Ron said.

And when he said it, I was trying to stay so neutral, to keep my eyes steady, to not look over at him, to hold still and not react.

But a little, subtle shiver ran through me.

"Panties," Uncle Ron said, slowing down his speech. "Female intimate panties." Holding himself very still while he spoke, I felt his eyes watching me.

The little shiver almost stopped, but listening to Uncle Ron's low voice, feeling his eyes on my face as he spoke, as he mentioned and repeated the word, that little shiver didn't fade away. It didn't stop, the little shiver that might have started around my midsection or my hips, had almost dwindled away but became, instead, a twisting shudder that made my shoulders spasm and twitch, as I stood leaning on my hands, next to the side of Uncle Ron's desk.

I felt my face suddenly go warm, reddening as I lifted my eyes and pressed my lips tight together and saw him looking at me. Feeling his eyes on my face, knowing he saw me flushing, just made it worse and I couldn't meet his eye.

"Yes, I thought so. There it is again," Uncle Ron said. His voice had that tone again, soft but confident, like he was expecting my continued, and repeated, weakness.

I took a deep breath. I shifted my feet a little, and became aware once again of my underpants, down around my knees, and the return of that awareness doubled my shame, and I felt yet more vulnerable, and felt the hot redness in my face spread to my neck; felt the corners of my mouth twitch and my jaw muscles involuntarily tightening. I folded my lips into my mouth, pressing them together to keep--or try to keep--control.

"You know what I'm talking about, don't you, Jamey?" Uncle Ron said.

I felt the blush getting even worse, the heat again, my face getting hot as I felt another sting of shame that I couldn't stop.

I glanced at Uncle Ron. I could tell from the recognition on his face, the flat smugness of the corners of his mouth, that my reactions indicated that his words, his meaning, was striking a nerve that I was trying to push back, to suppress, to resist.

Trying to hold still, I looked down.

"I guess," I said. But I couldn't hold still. Somehow getting that close to yes, to saying it out loud, had a physical effect on me, and my arms, holding my balance as I leaned against Uncle Ron's desk, weakened suddenly and my hips sort of froze and my knees drew together. Then, to add embarrassment to the shame, my underpants fell to my ankles. A ragged sniffle audibly came in through my nose. I tried to quell this snivel, this sign of weakness, but I couldn't, and a sob rose in my throat and my chest suddenly heaved.

A single, sudden, unbidden sob.

"Yes, honey," Uncle Ron said. "It's okay hon." He was getting up.

He was coming toward me. No, he had been about to come over, but then he didn't.

There was a telephone on his desk. A regular old office phone, pale tan in color. It had a cradle and a handset.

It rang.

The sudden sound seemed to jar both of us. It was a jangling, mind-filling interruption. It rang again while he stood, in his undershorts, behind his desk, and while I stood trembling, with mine down around my ankles.

With Uncle Ron's question hanging there in the air, with the real intention of his question, about women's panties, with the image of them, the thought of them, lodged in my mind--that rounded, curved female shape, the elastic that bunched around their ample hips, the bell shape of a feminine bottom, the lacy trims, the other little decorations, the pretty colors and dainty fabrics and the softnesses--my mind was swirling with that implanted bundle of thought. And the interruption of the trilling desk phone seemed to freeze me in that place, that mind set, that suggestive mental picture.

Uncle Ron glanced at me. With one hand, he...adjusted himself again, and paused behind his desk. Choking down another sob, I took a half a breath, and held it. With his other hand, his left, he picked up the phone, put the handset to his ear.

"Feldstone Properties," he said. Then he listened. I heard the tiny voice from the other end, though I couldn't understand that part. I listened to Uncle Ron's end.

"Yes, this is Ron."

Then the little voice again. Squawk. Squawk. SquawketySquawk.

"Uh huh. Oh." Ron glanced up at me, frowned into the phone, and made a little, slightly frustrated gesture with his free hand, half question, half impatient urging, to try to move this along, get this interruption over with. He listened, his face's frustration maintaining, growing slightly.

"Can't you improvise?" Squawkety

"Uh huh." Squawk.

"Oh." Squawk.

"I see." Uncle Ron took a long, resigned breath. His attention was fully directed at his conversation, but absentmindedly, as if I wasn't there, he scratched at his belly, adjusted his balls too. I watched him.

"Well, it can't be helped, I guess. I'll be there in..." he looked at his watch, "...in no more than, oh, 15 minutes, I guess. Right." He hung up.

"Well, this...can't be helped," he repeated, but talking to me. He continued touching himself through his jockeys, casually adjusting his manhood. I looked. I looked right at it as he reached down with his right hand, cradling under his balls, pushing his shaft to the left side of his underwear. He didn't seem to notice me looking. He turned a little and reached behind his desk chair, grabbing his khakis from the credenza.

For some reason, the prospect of being on my own again, alone with my thoughts, alone in Uncle Ron's quiet home, was not a comfortable idea to me, at that moment. It felt like just a unplanned pause, and a chance for my anxiety and repetitive, unbidden thoughts to just grow and intensify.

Ron continued to give me instructions as he stepped into his pants. I pressed my lips together, listening, watching. Watching him step into his pants, pull them up, touching himself through his underpants again, adjusting himself, then zipping up, aligning the waist snap, snap, then threading and buckling his brown leather belt.

"I think you should go upstairs, son, I won't be long," he said. 'You go upstairs and organize your things and think about our discussion. We'll continue this when I get back."

"But what happened?" I asked.

"Idiots. An accordion partition is jammed or something, at one of the meeting rooms, and some poetry reading or somesuch starts in twenty minutes. I'm on call for things like...this."

I had straightened myself up when the phone rang. I turned my body away from him, and bent down to pull my underpants up.

I heard Uncle Ron moving, felt him come up beside me. Then I felt his hand on my back.

"Come on, son," he said. I have to go. Now. I told you. Upstairs now."

"But," I complained, "My underpants?" I was pulling them up from my ankles.

"Leave them," Uncle Ron instructed. He had grasped my arm and was pulling me up, his other hand still on my back.

"You weren't supposed to be wearing those to begin with," Uncle Ron said. "Step out. Leave them on the floor." I obeyed him, stepping out of my underpants while he held me steady.

Then he walked me to the door of his study, still holding my left arm. His other hand slid down to my bottom, as Uncle Ron escorted me firmly down the narrow hallway toward the stairs. His broad, warm hand palmed my bared ass.

His grip on my arm tightened, and he turned me, aiming me toward his staircase. Suddenly I felt his hand, his right hand. With a flick of his wrist, he smacked my bottom, quick and hard, propelling me onto the first step, his hand managing to spank each of my bare cheeks at least twice, the smacks so loud and crisp in that open entry hall, the stinging on my bare bottom straightening me up, so that I was almost running up the steps, reflexively reaching back to shield my ass.

"I'll be back in a half hour," Uncle Ron said. "Behave yourself. Expect to be more...talkative when I return."

I sprinted halfway up the stairway, wearing only my shirt, socks and shoes, both my hands on my bottom, stunned, ashamed. I steadied myself with the handrail, but when I turned to look at Uncle Ron, the front door was already clicking shut. He was gone.

**

I slowly trudged the rest of the way up the stairs. I rounded the post and paused at the top. I stood indecisively there in the hall for some moments. I looked around, looked at myself, and felt a little, intense shudder of emotion pass through my body.

To one side, the girls' rooms, to the other, Uncle Ron's at the end of the hall. And the bathroom.

I looked back and forth, jittering a little. I looked down at myself. My socks and my sneakers. My polo shirt. And in between, me, my legs, my hips and waist. My penis was shamefully erect, poking its rigid inches out straight in front of me.

"Stop it," I said, in a loud whisper, to myself. To my hard cock, throbbing there, reminding me...

"Stop that," I said again, a little louder.

I put my face in my hands. I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to see, to feel, where I was, what was happening to me.

I didn't understand my own feelings.

But I was feeling them. Very much. Feelings about my uncle, and the things he'd been saying. Hinting. Doing.

And being alone, alone with my emotions, made them twist and turn inside me.

I kept my face there, palmed in my hands, and ran to my new bedroom. As I ran I opened my fingers enough to see where I was going. I went in, and looked around, and shook out my arms, bounced a little on the balls of my feet, tried to re-start myself somehow, to get my bearings.

I wanted light. More light! I wanted to do something, change something, have some kind of human effect on something. Now.

I went to the double window, where the shades were drawn halfway down, and pulled both shades down an inch and let them go. They unlocked and whoosh rolled up on their springs, snapping up to the top.

Light filled the room. I looked out, saw that the sun was going to set soon. The breeze coming through the screens was starting, just starting, to grow slightly cooler.

I turned on the lamps too, one by the bed, another on the desk, a third on top of the dresser. While I was there, I turned on the fan, and it started up, and began its slow, side to side oscillation.

In the fully lighted room, I stood in the middle of the rug then, and turned, looking all around me. I saw the bed, then the window, then the dresser, then the closet.

"No," I told myself.

I didn't want to repeat--or revisit or continue--my activities from the last time I'd been alone here. I told myself to stop churning my mind over the same things, the same doubts, uncertainties, urges, over and over.

"Now do something to take your mind off it," I told myself.

I took one step, and another, and looked over at the closet. The mirror mounted on the half-opened closet door reflected me back, showed me, in my present state, and in a way, put me right back in my place, again.

The mirror was eight or ten feet away, and I could see all of me. Standing in a well-lit room, standing in my socks and sneakers, and shirt, but nothing else. I turned slightly, feeling my breathing starting to come faster again, because I was checking out my bottom.

Freshly spanked.

Looking over my shoulder at my ass, in the mirror, I reached down with my palms open, fingers spread, both hands feeling it again, remembering my hands there just like that when I'd just sprinted up the stairs prodded by Uncle Ron's firm smacking hand.

Remembering his hand. And feeling my bottom. The flushed heat of shame I knew was visible on my face, and it came back now, I could see in the mirror, me feeling sorry for myself.

"No, don't," I said to myself. This wouldn't do.