Jamey Visits Uncle Ron Ch. 03

I looked down again. My ridiculous nakedness, half naked, but not the top half; and not the bottom half either. In my shoes and shirt, it was my middle half that was nude. I needed to put some clothes on. I kept my eyes down, I didn't look at the closet, I didn't look at the partly open closet door, those pretty dresses and tops and skirts peeking out at me. I turned, and kept turning to also avoid looking at Sheila's dresser. The dresser, where I knew the top drawer, full of those panties and bras and other things of the dainty sort--I didn't look at it, and I tried not to think of what was there, what I'd seen there already as Uncle Ron pawed through the assortment looking for an improvised swimsuit. And I didn't think, either, about what I hadn't seen in the other drawers, drawers that got bigger as they went down, three more of them, full of Sheila's things, presumably, girl things, woman things, feminine things...

Things I didn't want to look at. Things I'd been told to leave alone. Privacy I'd been warned to respect.

Instead, I turned and looked at my suitcase, perched on the desk chair, which I'd set against the wall beside the desk.

My own things. Uncle Ron had told me to go upstairs, until he got back. To get organized. To...think about the things. The things he'd been talking about. The things he expected answers to. I needed to put some clothes on, and I'd left my shorts downstairs, but I could get dressed up here. In my own things.

I went and opened up my suitcase, took out another pair of shorts, and found a fresh pair of underpants. I didn't look around, I didn't think about it, I just put them on right then.

I felt better. In my own underpants and gym shorts.

I looked around again then, feeling a little more normal, a little bit calmed down.

Get organized. That's what Uncle Ron said.

Yes, I wasn't going to get distracted. Get organized.

Good.

I looked at the suitcase. I stared at it. Living out of a suitcase. That's not organized.

A suitcase propped on a chair, a desk chair. A chair I would need to sit upon, to use at the desk.

Not organized.

I closed the suitcase and moved it to the bed. I put the chair back into its slot, where it belonged, paired with its desk. I was at band camp. It wasn't all just music and marching. There was a workbook with assignments, marching formations, charts, arrangements to study.

I looked around.

I'd hardly noticed it before, but there was another piece of furniture in the room.

A chest.

Not another chest of drawers, not a dresser. A different kind of chest. At the foot of the bed was a large, beige pine chest. A rectangular wooden chest with a hinged, flat top. Utilitarian, not fancy.

A blanket chest. That's what my mom would call it.

A small twinge of guilt shivered through my body as I looked at it. Earlier, alone in Uncle Ron's condo, I'd been too nosy, looking through things in my uncle's and his daughters' rooms. But this was just a chest, and Uncle Ron hadn't mentioned it one way or another, and I needed to organize my things, and I needed to put my suitcase somewhere.

A small voice inside me said, you could just put your suitcase on top of the lid.

But I wanted to see if I could use the chest. It could be empty. Besides, I wanted to look.

I stood at the foot of the bed. I looked at the chest. I lifted the lid.

It wasn't empty. But it really didn't look that interesting, or...even tempting.

Its contents seemed to be an assorted, disorganized jumble of forgotten, disused, and cast aside stuff. Not clothes or personal care items. Old stuffed animals, games, toys, books, catalogs and school supplies. A time capsule, perhaps, in a way, of youth, a mixture of memories from my cousins' childhoods and adolescence. Reminders of past nostalgia, unwanted or outgrown.

After staring at the chaos for long enough to realize its uselessness, I closed it.

I placed my suitcase on top of the lid.

I pulled out the chair from the desk, and sat in it, and put my elbows on the desktop.

I put my face in my hands, closed my eyes, and concentrated on my breathing.

I tried to relax.

I'm sure no more than ten minutes had passed since Ron left to handle his work emergency. At a minimum, I had probably a half hour before his return. Maybe more. I was determined to remain calm, to keep myself contained throughout that brief duration. To be a "good" boy.

But now that I was "organized", I had nothing else to do but think.

And I quickly forgot about my breaths, and thoughts, and then, once again, the images started to flit through my head.

An image of me, snooping through Uncle Ron's house, when he'd left me alone earlier.

Flash. Another image, from even earlier when I needed an improvised swimsuit. The look on his face, his disapproval, his stern frown as he pantied me with his daughter's maroon tennis bloomers.

And then the image, and feeling, in the study, of his muscular, manly thigh against my belly when he put one foot up on the sofa and bent me over his knee. And his big, warm palm through the damp nylon.

Spanking me.

I shuddered, because these thoughts and images weren't the thing. Yes, these came to mind, but it almost seemed like they were an escape, a distraction from the more emotional thoughts, to keep me from facing the other thoughts that were causing me much more anxiety.

The things that Uncle Ron had been asking about, hinting about, digging deeper and deeper for, the buried urges and desires that were beginning to surface, but that I was trying not to think about. Hidden ideas, secret ideas, things that I thought about sometimes--but didn't tell anybody.

Things nobody knows about me.

When Uncle Ron returned, I knew, he would sit me down and ask those questions again.

Why? What did he want?

And why me?

I opened my eyes and unpalmed my face. I looked around, I looked down.

Oh gosh. I saw that I had an erection. Again. It stuck straight up, making a little tent in my shorts.

I moaned, I reached down, I didn't want it...reminding me. I pushed it down, bending it, willing it to lie down, grunting a little because it wanted the attention. Instead of relaxing like I wanted, it stayed hard, but sitting there I adjusted my hips and forced it down inside my briefs. But it didn't stay put. It didn't soften, but it squirmed down, with a horny little throb, popping back up, bobbing this way and that, then sneaking around inside my underpants. Repressed but stubborn, the snouting little knob finally sought the air, and emerged out from the leg of my underpants, my shorts too. I saw the tip of it glistening slightly, the little slit slightly wet, and my circumcised knob pushing out, barely visible, trying to escape from my briefs and shorts, throbbing a little, trying to stand up again without those clothes holding it down.

I adjusted myself as best I could. I closed my eyes again, and tried to think about...nothing.

It worked. For several moments, my mind seemed completely empty, and my nerves quieted. I breathed.

For just a few brief moments, that's all I did. I breathed.

And then an image, a recent memory, like a screen coming into focus, slowly formed in my mind's eye.

It wasn't a single image. Not at first. It was a jumble, a mixture, like a collage of images, rectangular like a poster, with multiple items coming into the view, all mixed up, disorganized, but with specific items emerging to recognition, one by one.

It was the chest.

The Blanket Chest.

Yes, I had stared into it, but in that first glance, nothing had caught my eye.

In that brief glance, perhaps I hadn't seen them right away, or maybe my mind was playing tricks, but now, I had to look again. It was something I remembered. Something from a rainy day, visiting Uncle Ron and Aunt Jill's house, years ago. And playing with my 'cousin', the one closest to my age, with Sheila. I don't think we were even 10 yet.

Had I actually seen them? There in the chest? The blanket chest?

The paper dolls.

I had to have another look. I stood up. I had to adjust myself in my shorts again.

Don't.

Don't look, Jamey, the inner voice said. This may be better left alone. Left in the past.

And what did Uncle Ron say? "Privacy is to be respected."

But somehow, I couldn't stop myself.

I went and took my suitcase off the lid of the blanket chest, and placed it on the bed.

I unlatched and opened up the trunk.

Because mixed up among the plushies and old toys and books, was something that I had completely forgotten, for a decade, and more.

Again I stared into the mixed riot of playthings and ephemera, and this time, it came into focus right away. Among the toys and dollies, this time they jumped out at me, and came into clear and undeniable focus. The idealized feminine shapes, the pastel colors, the pony tails and soft curls, lace edges, satin folds, and filmy fashions.

My fingers trembled. I reached into the clutter, and flicked a magazine out of the way, and grasped the colorful little folders, and gathered up a few loose pieces.

Paper dolls.

Paper dresses. Paper lingerie.

Paper people.

I went to the desk and sat down, placing the paper dolls and accessories on the desk.

I stared at them. I stared, and remembered. The memory made me smile, even a small chuckle, and twinges of other, odd and intense feelings, half-understood longings, curiosities that we had explored, or almost explored, that rainy afternoon.

I remembered how we laughed, Sheila and I.

And I'm not sure which of us began it.

There was a moment, a gesture, a subtle action that began the laughter, the twist of expectation, the upside-downing of expectation, the tentative mixing of the feminine with the masculine.

It might have been her, who first got a funny gleam in her eye, and slid the paper dress across the floor to the other doll.

The male doll.

And a decade later, sitting in the cooling moments of a long summer day, sitting in her room, I stared. In my shorts and shirt, on a warm summer evening, my thoughts went back and forth, into the past, and then returning here, with my actual fingertips touching them, these flat but colorful playthings, and seeing the name, Co-Ed Fashion Spree.

Just paper and card stock, an ephemeral thing, two-dimensional. Flattened representations of life, of social realities.

And how we had laughed, Sheila and I, and how her eyes flashed their mischief at me, when she slid that pretty blue party dress across the carpet, and I didn't stop her.

Under my fingers, the male doll. Watching her. She slides it across the carpet to meet him, under her pretty fingers, the feminine dress.

My laughter started as a nervous, resistant chuckle. Shaking my head. No. No, that's not right. Looking at her, her face, seeing the mischief there, the smile. The challenge.

Watching her slide the dress over the boy's flattened form, and the funny feeling, the mixture of anxiety and confusion and interest and...amusement.

And then, they were together and he was wearing the dress, and again I lifted my eyes to her face, and saw her expression.

And then we laughed. And laughed and laughed some more.

But didn't that laughter, that humor, have something extra in it? Something off, something sinful, something unspokenly forbidden?

Yes.

I opened the folder, the folder from the blanket chest, the Co-ed Fashion Spree, and my fingers and palms felt damp suddenly, and clumsy even, as I touched the paper, the figures, the designed clothing, accessories.

College boy, and college girl.

We were just ten year olds, or maybe nine. But we had fun with the college co-eds. Their grown-up clothes.

Maybe a little too much fun.

I flipped through the whole booklet, the boy, the girl, both pushed out from the card-stock covers, and all the loose clothes, cut from the various outfit pages, the slacks and sportscoats for the boy, the party dresses and tennis outfits and classroom skirts and tops for the girl.

I remembered the feelings. Those feelings.

Sitting at the desk I touched myself through my pants, and my penis was erect again. I pushed my shorts down, and looked at it, pushing up my cotton briefs. I felt it, touched it, stroked it. Its length straightened and uncurled inside my white cotton underpants, and I felt my hips rise, and something deep inside me tightened and spasmed, and I made a quiet little moan from the back of my throat, high and brittle.

A least I wasn't thinking about Uncle Ron.

It had been a long, a very long day. I was exhausted, but in a state of agitation, a fugue, a mixture of anxiety and arousal. I was remembering the paper dolls, laughing about it with Sheila, about the boy doll with his dress and panties on.

And the other little, mostly innocent, little surprises that summer, that rainy afternoon so long ago, brought about.

I pushed back from the desk, and I pushed my shorts down. They fell to my ankles, and I leaned over and pulled them off. I was sitting in my shirt, socks, and underpants now.

Hard in my underpants.

I stood, and fondled myself. I moaned, feeling through the white cotton how hard my cock was, just from looking at some paper dolls.

I walked across the room, to the closet. I pushed the closet door open another foot, to see the full length mirror. I looked at myself, reflected. I reached down and touched myself through my underpants again, then I slid my hand up to the waistband, sliding my fingers inside, and stroked my cock, moaning again. I pulled my hand back out again stroked my hard little cock through the cotton.

My brain flashed back, paper dolls, ten years ago, flashed forward paper dolls again, one minute ago, and my hands slid to my elastic waistband and slowly I pushed my underpants down, and my cock sprang out, and I watched myself in the mirror, and then I turned my head and looked into the closet.

Without moving my feet I turned my head to look to the right, over at the dresser. I stared at the top drawer.

Panties, pantyhose, nylons, brassieres.

With my hard cock in my hand, breathed deeply and turned again, and I looked at the closet. Dresses. Skirts. Slips and tops and sweaters. Shoes and sandals.

I looked at the desk, the paper dolls. My mind was toggling, shifting back and forth.

The clothes dresser and the clothes closet and the urges I was feeling, the urges I wanted to satisfy.

And my conscience suddenly exerted itself and it was almost as if I could hear Uncle Ron's whisper...

Privacy, respect, do as you're told.

Even so, my knees weakened, and wobbled, and my underpants fell to my ankles. Without kicking them off I short-stepped around the closet door and went to the dresser, I pulled open the dresser drawer. The top drawer. I stared into the jumble of soft shapes and pastel colors, the lace trimmed edges and elasticized straps and bands. I could see everything much clearer, now, with all the room lights on, and alone, without Uncle Ron there. I plunged my hands into the softnesses, feeling them all surround my hands, and the silky satin between my thumb and fingertips. I took a deep breath and smelled the lingering clean femininity, the traces of laundry soap and faint perfumes, and I forgot all about my conscience, and Uncle Ron's rules, and with trembling fingers I grasped something filmy and lacy, and drew it out from under the strewn and layered confections on top, and it was light and shiny soft and a pale lime sherbet color with delicate creamy colored lace trim and matching embroidery twining across the sherbet satin, and I shook them out and moaned.

I waddled back to the mirror still clutching the pretty panties in both hands. I breathed deep, in and out once, and kicked off my underpants. My cock was hard and jutting up. I turned my body sideways to the mirror, and I watched myself bend over to step into the pretty little bikini panties. As I straightened up, pulling up my panties, my knees touched together briefly, and I felt the satin slide up my calves, the elastic expanding and tickling my skin. The feeling of it rose up from my knees into my thighs and into my belly, and it made me shiver. Stretching that lace-edged elastic and pulling them up to my knees was fairly quick, but as the feminine underpants crossed my kneecaps and took on more of their triangular panty shape, something internal was seizing hold of me, and I slowed down.

I slowed way down, and I felt a twitching. I was getting excited, erotically, and anxiously aroused, as the pretty little dainty triangle of femininity hugged my knees, my lower thighs...

As I pulled the panties up all the way, the elastic scraped upward over my scrotum and I moaned out loud, and as the waistband slid up across the underside of my penis I felt my hips jerk. My middle convulsed, my belly sucked in and my breathing stopped and I didn't even touch myself and suddenly I realized that I was about to...

I was about to cum, to ejaculate, to spurt right then and there, without even thinking...

I realized suddenly that I had to stop.

Stop!

STOP.

But I couldn't stop. I strained, and I felt my knees failing, I saw myself in the mirror, wearing the panties, looking exposed and half-girly in my t-shirt and panties, and then I was climaxing and I couldn't stop it and I completely lost my balance.

Without directly touching my penis. Just from the tight, girly feeling of the feminine panties.

Teetering forward as I ejaculated, into the panties, without touching myself, I half stumbled and fell into Sheila's closet, and caught myself, clutching handfuls of dress, slip, tops, sweaters, feeling them surround me as I tumbled. Some of the hangers failed, bending and letting go of the closet bar, and the pretty clothes, some of them, came free and came with me as I fell, ejaculating into her tight bikini panties.

So then, I found myself leaning in there, half collapsed, pantied, in a cushion of feminine clothing, starting to breathe again. My penis was twitching, still hard, emptying its last oozings into the tight little panties, my hips giving little involuntary spasms. For several moments, catching my breath, I lay, spent, half on the floor and half leaning against the back wall of the closet, surrounded and cushioned by a jumble of things pleated and trimmed and flounced ruched. I reached below my lower back where something was digging at me bringing some discomfort, and pulled out a gleaming white high heel sandal. I shuddered and dropped it.

I pushed against the back of the closet and recovered myself, clearing away the skirts and tops and dresses and crawling out of the closet.

A supreme and utter exhaustion then swept over me. I was too tired, suddenly, to worry about anything else. I went to my suitcase, propped open on top of the blanket chest, and feeling somewhat ashamed but so very tired, I pushed the panties down, feeling how the front was soaked with my spent juices. I buried them under my other clothes in the suitcase, found my own jockeys, put them on, turned off the light, collapsed onto the bed, and closed my eyes.

My eyes then flashed back open. For a few moments, I thought about Uncle Ron. But I was so tired, my eyelids drooped again, and I let them close.

And directly fell deeply into sleep.