Jamey Visits Uncle Ron Ch. 04

Walking through the afternoon heat to the condo, I saw right away that Ron's car wasn't in the drive, so I let myself in with the key he'd given me that morning. It had already been a long day rehearsing music and marching. And, the mix of emotions were bubbling inside me at the imminent possibility of Ron being home, and the increasing uncertainties about what happens in our next confrontation. But the house seemed quiet. Where was Uncle Ron.

Hello?

Anybody home?

A quick check through the kitchen, to the garage, verified that I was alone. Ron's car wasn't in the garage either.

But before I had a chance to do anything else, to look around, to even get a drink of tap water, the phone rang. With my nerves made edgy by my roiling imagination, I was startled, and jumped.

Uncle Ron's phone. That jarring, interruptive wall-phone sound.

Ring. Ring. Ring. What do I do?

I let it ring. It wasn't my phone.

Finally, after ten or twelve long, nagging, bleating rings, (this was an old-fashioned land line with a bell inside, made of metal) it stopped.

I took a deep breath and picked up my sax and my carry bag again, and made for the stairs to go change for the evening. But, before I made it to the first step...

Ring.

Sighing, I considered. What if it's... him?

Well, so what if it is. My simmering confusion and anger were getting a little warmer when I thought of Uncle Ron, and what he'd done.

Might have done...

And somehow, fighting it, diluting my anger was a spray of squirmish anxiety--if it was Ron calling...

He may be angry...

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Shut up, I told myself. So what if he's angry? You're the one should be angry. But my weakness--and the hopelessly growing anxiety--barely overpowered the simmering resentment, and I felt twinges of self disgust as I dropped my band stuff there, and hurried into the kitchen.

Ring.

I answered it, picking up the handset from the cradle of the kitchen wall phone on the seventh or eighth ring.

"Hello," I said. It wasn't my phone. I didn't answer with a jolly, confident resonance to my voice. More of a flat, dutiful tone.

After a few moments of silence, a soft sigh came hissing to my ear. It sent a shiver down my spine. Then, Ron's voice:

"When you answer my phone," he said, with that lecturing, talk-down tone he has, "be courteous. Brighten your tone. I receive business calls on my home line occasionally."

I said nothing. Shame mixed with anger had tied my tongue.

"And why didn't you pick up the first time I called?"

If my voice sounded sullen when I answered, now, under Uncle Ron's bitter scolding, it morphed into outright surly.

"Not my phone, and we hadn't discussed it. So, you want me to be an answering service, Uncle Ron?"

There was a long pause. Then I heard Uncle Ron inhale a long, steady breath. "Seems we have a lot to..." he paused and I knew from yesterday's reacquaintance time together that he had his grim look settling onto his face "... to talk about when I get home," he said.

I realized that maybe my anger wasn't really serving my own purpose, at the moment, in this phone conversation. Mainly because anger, if misunderstood, can be so, so counterproductive.

"Uncle Ron," I said, softening my voice, but then I felt my throat tighten again, and I couldn't quite keep my tone amicable, so I just blurted it out--"I found, um, it was..."

"What is it honey. C'mon now I don't have time for dithering..."

Honey... I felt my face grow warm, feeling his word choice, his tone, in my gut as well.

"I found my bathing suit."

"Okay. That's good. Where was it?"

"I think... somebody hid it. I can't understand--" Uncle Ron's irritation came through as he interrupted me.

"Listen Jamey, I'm sure it's important to you, but I didn't call about... to have a discussion regarding elusive swimwear. I'll be home in an hour so and we can straighten this out. Okay?"

I simmered, but what he said made sense. "Yes, Uncle Ron," I said. Perhaps the phone wasn't the best channel for... accusations. And my body gave as shiver as I thought, just then, about how this could, or would go, facing Uncle Ron eye to eye.

"Good boy. Now, I called to ask you to do something for me. For us. There's a lasagna casserole in the freezer. Follow the directions and we'll have it for dinner later. Is that clear?"

"Casserole in the oven. Yes sir."

"Good. I'll be home in a half-hour or so. Sounds like we may have a lot to..." that pause again "... to discuss, and clear up. And be prepared to explain this... attitude I'm hearing."

"But, Uncle Ron..." I began to answer back, an attempt to somehow regain some self-respect, but the rattling click told me he'd already hung up, shifting his attention back to his work, his life, his own priorities.

And, as usual, the last word was Uncle Ron's.

I re-cradled the phone and stood in the quiet kitchen. I took a deep breath, and heard quiet and silence of this strange home, Uncle Ron's domain, interrupted only by the hum of the refrigerator, stray sounds of summer coming through the closed windows.

Somehow a deep breath just made the anxiety worse. I took another breath, and found myself trembling, and breathing too fast. I went to the window and looked out, seeing through the planted shrubbery that partly shielded Uncle Ron's view, presumably for decorative purposes as well as some partial privacy. Through the breaks in the foliage, this window faced a border of well trimmed grass fronting a wooded patch landscaped between housing clusters.

A walk. I need a walk. Clear my head.

Yes. So I put the casserole in the oven at three-fifty, set the timer for forty minutes, had a refreshing but quick shower, found my sunglasses, and went out into the waning heat of this late August afternoon.

I realized quickly that I didn't really know where to go, as I hadn't seen much of the premises beyond Uncle Ron's condo, the pool and recreation area, and the walkways in between. So I started by circling the building.

It wasn't huge. Six units total, all quite similar to Uncle Ron's, in townhouse style, with two floors and small garages. I assumed they all had three or four bedrooms as well. Most of them had the look of being lived in, with little personal touches, like flags drooping in the August stillness, and tended flower beds or cars parked in the owner slots. Ron had one of the end units. The next unit had a sign, with the management company logo, and declaring it a Model Unit.

No nearby neighbors.

I didn't really want to meet anybody, this was a.... a thoughtful walk, not a social exploration. After one full circuit, I went on around again to the back of the building, and eyed the woods I'd seen from Uncle Ron's windows. A neat gravel path wound its way across the grass, and entered the trees, and that's also what I did.

The walk didn't really do much to clear my head. My thoughts were too busy, winding around each other, half in italics, half plain wandering thoughts.

Some of those thoughts centered on The Swimsuit Issue. No, not Sports Illustrated. Ha ha.

Remember the swimsuit. That funny, not-funny, accident--or incident--or embarrassment that had somehow set in motion my whole present confusion, identity crisis, and doubts about... myself and my intimate emotions. A swimsuit that sort of, well, didn't even exist. That somehow, some way, resulted in me swimming, red faced and insecure, in a pair of tight, maroon nylon Tennis bloomers.

Yes, that swimsuit issue.

It was back, and the revisited swimsuit issue was rewinding itself into all those other, belly twitching thoughts.

Let me explain...

So, that morning, at 9:00 am sharp, when I arrived at the University practice field, rested my instrument case on the bleacher seat, and opened it, there it was.

At first, I just stared at it. Orange. Cloth.

Folded, rolled, and neatly curled around the barrel of the instrument, almost like a protective padding or something.

My bathing suit. I reached in, grabbed it, and thoughts flooded my brain, What? Who? How?...

And the whole string of circumstances, from yesterday, that, apparently, didn't need to happen. I watched them unwind;

The tennis panties. Uncle Ron scolding me, stripping me, putting them on me, making me walk to the pool in them, swim in them, and later, pulling them down and spanking me in them. And even though he made me wear them, teasing me about it, about my whimpering like a girl when spanked.

I felt my breathing speed up, the energy of adrenaline, of recrimination, of reliving the whole of yesterday's humiliation. But here I was, standing by the bleachers, with my band teammates--all strangers--surrounding me...

Not alone, or with any semblance of privacy.

I lifted my eyes, trying to control my anxiety. I looked around, self conscious, not wanting anybody to see, to notice, to think anything other than... well, here we are, another band camp starting.

Nobody was looking at me, so I exhaled, and calmed myself. I tucked the bathing suit back in where it had been, and assembled my sax.

But I was thinking about Uncle Ron. Did he have something to do with this? Was this all one of quirky Uncle Ron's manipulations? Or was this my mom's doing, somehow, an overly busy housewife's lapse in activity and/or memory? I couldn't be sure either way.

And that's what I was thinking over, eight hours later, when I came off the wooded path and headed for Uncle Ron's cozy little town-home.

Angling across the green, well-tended stretch of lawn toward the condo, I realized that enough time could have passed so that Ron might be home already. The thought made me nervous. Like, what if he got home and was already checking up on me, he would be alone in the house and could be looking over my stuff, making deductions, planning manipulations...

It was a self-conscious and paranoid thought, but kind of needling me nonetheless. I wanted as much intelligence as I could get. I realized that I didn't trust my "Uncle" Ron, that the bathing suit mystery, which didn't resolve any clearer with the recovery of the item, continued to nag at the edges of my mind, and that mistrust was riding high at the center.

I needed to know if he was home already.

I could have--should have--just gone all the way around and checked for his car, but there I was in the empty back yards of the condos, and approaching the end of the row--and there it was, partly obscured behind a couple of leafy bushes;

The kitchen window.

I could have a quick look and possibly see if he was home yet.

It was that hour of near twilight when you start to be able to see into windows, especially if there are lights on inside. The light was on in the kitchen, but I knew I might have left it lit. Probably did. I looked around, and saw nobody else outside anywhere nearby.

Slowly, cautiously, I approached the window and discreetly stepped between the branches of the bush that partly screened it. There was dark shredded bark mulch under my feet. It was strangely quiet in there in the shadows, in the fading August heat of another warm day, but it was cooler in the shade. I looked into Uncle Ron's kitchen.

Nobody there.

I was keyed up. Senses heightened.

I shouldn't be doing this.

I shifted my weight, turned slightly to slide out of the shrubbery and resume my return to Ron's front entrance, but then I froze. Something moved in the house, and then it was too late; I couldn't move now. I stood very still, gazing into the kitchen, and watched as Uncle Ron emerged from the darkened hallway, looming into the doorway, and then walked into the kitchen.

He didn't even look toward the window, which was good.

Ron strode straight toward the counter where the appliances lined the wall, and leaned down, opening up the oven, and took a quick look at the lasagna. Nodding to himself, he closed the oven door and seemed to relax. His shoulders eased and I could notice his slow breathing, his gradual decompression, following a long day doing his work.

From my window viewpoint I only saw him waist-up, because there was a small kitchen counter island taking up the middle of the floor plan. After he checked the oven, he stood for a moment, as if thinking, considering. I saw his lips move, and I had the feeling he was saying something to himself. He had a slightly irritated look, not just his face, but the way his shoulders regathered some tension. I realized that he was probably wondering about me.

Where's that boy?

I couldn't move, but I suddenly wanted to run, to immediately interrupt his irritation with my presence. To please him. Yes, I realized that I was, once again, intruding into my Uncle Ron's life, giving him cause to be peeved. It gave me a twitch of shame. Should I have written a note? Just for a walk around the property. Then his shoulders gave a brief shrug, and he walked out of the kitchen. I hesitated while I tied up my thoughts of notes--and irritations and obligations. I was about to turn and take this brief opportunity to quietly slip away, to retreat from my eavesdropping spot, but while pondering my condition as my uncle's guest, I lost my chance, because he came back into the kitchen, walked across the few steps to the breakfast nook, and stopped.

He wasn't obscured by the counter island now. I could see that, like yesterday, he'd resumed his relaxed attitude regarding remaining clothed; it was another humid August evening, and he'd removed his work slacks, like he'd done the day before. Now, he stood in his office shirt and underwear.

I saw him take a breath. Not a deep breath, but a slow breath, like a prelude to a more relaxed state. He had something in his hand, and placing it on the table, I saw what it was; a magazine.

And then he looked up. He looked around.

Then, he looked at me.

I held very still. I'd already been holding still, but now I froze. I felt his eyes on me. My own breathing halted and I resisted the urge to duck, to move, to twitch. He's looking right at me.

But he took another slow breath, looked down, leaned one hand on the table, and started to flip the pages of the magazine.

The sun hadn't quite set yet, but the evening approached, and the balance of outdoor shadow and indoor light had turned in my favor. I was obscured in the shrubbery well enough, in the dimming day, to remain unseen. Keep still. Keep very still.

I could study him. I could stare at him. He stood, relaxed but leaning slightly over the table, not really reading, but looking, as he turned pages. His office daytime shirt was a button-down, short sleeved, light blue oxford. His broad shoulders. His slight paunch, lean hips. The tails of the shirt hung down past his waist. I found myself looking at his shirt tails. I realized I was looking for his underpants, but I could only see a glimpse of the gray cotton, where the tails of his shirt forked. He shifted, moved a little, and those shirttails also moved, shifted.

While I looked there, the tails of his shirt slid apart and there was the bulge. From twenty feet away, it was just a shape, a mound that emerged between the two strips of blue oxford shirttails that parted slightly as he shifted. His bulge. But I had to draw a breath. I did. While I watched him, shifting my glance between his face, and his waist, I breathed slowly. Then I had to hold my breath.

He wasn't reading. I realized that he was turning pages, staring at them, looking at them. Sometimes he flipped back a page, or two. Sometimes he adjusted the the whole magazine, moved it a little to change the angle where it rested on the tabletop.

He was looking at the pictures. I couldn't see what magazine it was. I couldn't see what the pictures were. But I could guess.

My eyes shifted down. The hand he had been turning pages with, moved. It was his right hand. His left hand rested on the table, supporting a small portion of his leaning weight. But his right hand... he casually scratched at his belly with his right hand. Then his fingers slid down, down to where his shirt tails parted, near where his underpants bulged. He idly slipped his fingertips down to the split between his shirttails, then up again. I watched his agile fingertips glide under his shirttails, seeking. His finger and thumb found the bottom shirt button. He unbuttoned it, and the split of his shirttails widened. Now I could see the full shape of his bulge, rounded below, and with a strong protruding peak centered above the roundness. Where the rounded tip of his relaxed penis pushed out the front of his underpants, above his hanging scrotum.

His fingertips slid across the bulge, and I saw his chest swell with a long, slow breath. Uncle Ron touched himself through his underpants. It was a gesture that I'd seen before, like an adjustment, or a status check. His position shifted slightly, and his other hand withdrew from where it supported his leaning weight. It was his left hand, and he used it to pull his shirttails up out of the way. Still gazing at some image on the pages of the magazine, he slid the fingertips of his right hand down across the front of his underpants, palming and groping himself. I stared as Uncle Ron stroked his bulge, his balls with spreading fingers.

He seemed to hold his breath then for a moment, and he ran his thumb over the protruding rounded point where the glans of his penis was pushing out the front of his underpants. Even through the window I could hear his quick groan, as his thumb stimulated the tip of his penis. Then the same thumb slid quickly right up to the elastic waistband of his briefs, hooked it, stretched it out and then his other hand pitched in and Uncle Ron slid his underpants right down, bunching them around his upper thighs, and his cock revealed itself to me.

From outside the window I watched, holding so still, I realized my neck had begun to ache, and my knees grew weak. But I couldn't take my eyes off him, his cock, his hand.

For a few seconds after pushing his briefs down, he just looked at it. He wasn't looking at the magazine now. His cock stood out, slightly curled over his scrotum. It was slightly blimp shaped, in its half erect state, a little thicker in the middle than at its base or tip. But his knob, his glans, looked big, a swelling at the tip end of his cock, perhaps the size of a ping-pong ball, maybe a little bigger.

I realized that something about his cock, about the glans end, seemed odd to me. Unfamiliar. His erection continued to rise, and he slid his hand, his right hand, down under his cock, palming his scrotum, then he took his cock in his hand, and I realized--he was not circumcised. That's why it looked odd to me. I'd never really had a chance to really see, clearly, a foreskin penis, because my own is circumcised.

He closed his hand over his shaft, loosely, and slid it down and then up, a gentle stroke, similar to what I would do to start masturbating. Then he grasped it more firmly, near the top. His cock was pointing out and nearly erect now. He pulled down, and I saw the pink tip emerge, then the entire foreskin stretched and opened and his knob, pink and slightly shiny with moisture, pushed out into the air. Uncle Ron took several long breaths and repeated this unsheathing, and then again, sliding his foreskin off and back on several times.

I was watching. It was like I was hypnotized. I hadn't blinked for a long time. I kept watching.

Then, he stopped. There was a sound, a noise that intruded into the peacefulness of the scene. Ding.

Uncle Ron gave his penis another squeeze, then pulled his underpants back up. Ding, ding, ding, ding.

The noise persisted. It was the oven. The timer was repeating its relentless, ring-a-ling alert; Our lasagna was ready.

Uncle Ron stepped across the kitchen to the oven, and shut the timer off. He was turned away from the window, and I took my opportunity, ducking my head, and exiting from the shrubbery unseen.

Only as I circled the end of the building, and saw Uncle Ron's car, did I notice how hard I was. I slowed my steps to let my cock relax into my underpants before I got inside.

* * *

We didn't talk much during dinner. Which meant there was an unspoken sense of tension between us, me and Uncle Ron, that only tightened as we ate our plates of bread and casserole.

We'd both had a long, busy day, and I could tell Uncle Ron needed to unwind a little. Perhaps it wasn't the right time to bring up a... a serious conversation.

I really wanted to... clarify my thoughts about the swimsuit. And all day long I'd been winding myself up, expecting to bring the subject up with Ron, to find out why, what, how... well, I had lots of questions. But I felt weird about it, like I wasn't quite sure what had happened, but I felt pretty sure I'd been tricked...

Then again, what if I was wrong?

Somewhere I had heard an expression, or a philosophy... Don't ask a question unless you already know the answer...

And then, complicating everything, what I'd just seen through the kitchen window... had put a whole different slant into my swirling thoughts, into my head.

As we ate the lasagna, there in the kitchen, I was sitting across from Uncle Ron, and the window was behind me, and I had nearly the same view of the kitchen as...

As when I'd stood motionless, quietly hiding just outside the very same window, trembling amid the bushes, watching him push his underpants down...

That scene, that intimate action, kept returning to my thoughts, like a replay, as I put in my mouth forks of saucy noodle, bites of bread, swallows of iced tea. As I watched my plate and ate, peripherally I saw Ron slowly relax.

And finally, when he'd had his fill, and put down his fork, Uncle Ron sat back in his kitchen chair, and said;

"Jamey, you seem to have something on your mind." His expression was relatively flat, but I didn't sense anything especially forceful or pointed about his tone. As always, Uncle Ron the unreadable, inscrutable.

"Um, well," I said, "Can we, uh, can we talk about--"

He lifted his hand, and I was interrupted. His head shook slightly, and he twirled a finger indicating the room, the setting, our situation at present.

But he didn't say anything. I got the impression I was supposed to understand something, but ... no. I wasn't getting it. Maybe it was because I had so many other things already on my mind.

Uncle Ron took a breath. "Guess I'll have to explain, honey. Come here."

Without rising he pushed away from the table in his chair, and tapped the fingertips of his right hand decisively on the table. He beckoned to me, with the fingers of his left hand.

Pushing back my chair, I stood and composed myself.

Come here.

I went to him. I did as I was told. As usual, I was at a loss. The mystery of Uncle Ron continued. I didn't know what to expect. A lecture. A spanking? Intimate personal questions?

His eyes were on me, watching me as I moved toward him. He shifted his chair, taking his weight off it briefly as he turned it sideways to the kitchen table, then resumed his seat. With one hand he gestured to his lap,, tapped his fingers on his bare thigh, and for a second I thought uh oh, he means... but then he clarified his gesture with a single word;

"Sit." His eyes were mild, but his mouth was firm, and I knew better than to prevaricate. I turned, rested a hand on the corner of the table for stability, and sat myself, a little uneasily, upon Uncle Ron's knees. His hands went to my hips to steady me as my weight settled onto his thighs. His right hand slid up and grasped my shoulder, turning me to face him. "I always found my girls' attentions were more... focused," and he returned his hands, lightly, to my hips to emphasize where I sat, "When perched in close contact like this." I felt my face warming, and I lowered my eyes. I could tell by his slight grin that he caught my embarrassment, and further qualified his observation-- "Or a boy's attentions, of course," he finished.

I lifted my eyes, satisfying Uncle Ron's directing of my attention, looking him in the eye. His firm stare though made my breath quicken, and I took a hurried breath, and exhaled slower, trying to keep my respiration regular.

"So," he said then, when we were settled in this intimate position, "You may, or may not, remember our household rules, when your family visited our family years ago, but I'll refresh your memory. We didn't then, and I don't now, consider a meal, especially a main meal like supper, to be over until the cleanup's been completed."

He stopped there. He didn't take another breath to continue, which, I realized, meant he was waiting for me.

"Yes sir," I said. He nodded.

"We do have things..." he rested a hand casually on my left thigh, and left it there, "... some unfinished business we need to discuss, but first,"--and he gestured with the same hand at our dirty dishes and the kitchen in general, before returning it to the same spot on my thigh--"there's washing up needs to be done. And now that you're here, honey, and I'm, well, since I'm the man of the house, let's agree that you'll have that duty, shall we?"

He stared me down. I dropped my gaze. He nodded. I didn't mind the assignment so much as how he delivered it. But he was right. He was the man of the house, and I.... wasn't.

I swallowed hard. I was sitting on Uncle Ron's lap, and our faces were inches apart, though my eyes were cast down. I lifted them to his face, and quickly lowered them again, though I felt ashamed about how he made me feel, about agreeing to this, his clear implications of what I was, relative to "the man of the house," and I felt the heat coming into my face. My hips and shoulders gave a little twitch, I couldn't help it. I breathed. I exhaled. He was waiting for a spoken answer. "Yes sir," I said, my voice weaker than I wanted. I lifted my hands, reached for the table, I was going to rise and get on with it, do my new assigned chore, but Uncle Ron's hands were suddenly on my hips, keeping me close, holding me to his lap. My bottom came to rest a little closer, a little deeper into his lap, still crosswise to his thighs.

"Do it right honey," he spoke softly, his words inches from my ears. "We don't want any of that lasagna sauce staining your t-shirt. The apron is over there in the broom closet, that's where the girls--your cousins--keep it for when they visit."

I looked at Uncle Ron. I tried to shake my head. But somehow it turned into a nod, and I took a deep breath, stood, and went to the door of the closet, and opened it, and took the apron, which was a sunny yellow color, with ruffled edges, and put the loop over my head, and tied it behind me. Throughout these moments I felt Uncle Ron's eyes upon me, continuing to follow my motions as I gathered the plates and utensils and proceeded with my domestic assignment.

I felt his eyes on me, watching, and I could feel his body language, his unspoken approval of my simple obedience and methodical compliance with his direction.

Uncle Ron stood.

"That's good, honey. You really can be very graceful, when you listen. Hmm. When you're done, come into the living room, and we'll have our little.... talk"

***

And I did, and we did. We had a long talk.

After washing the dishes, I hung up the apron and I went to the living room, and stood in the doorway, noticing how things were. Ron sat on the sofa, reading a magazine, and music played from the stereo, but quietly. A standing lamp and a table lamp lighted the room but in a low key way. The sun had nearly gone down, the outside twilight adding only neutral light.

There were the usual fixtures for an average American living room; television, bookshelves, a round card table and chairs in one corner by the window, the sofa opposite the TV, and a side chair by the standing lamp. Cozy, but complete.

"Uncle Ron--" I said, and, well, it seems that I am, when with my uncle, simply destined to be interrupted.

"Hang on," he said. He finished reading his paragraph, while motioning me to a seat. I almost took the armchair. Something made me go for a seat, one cushion away, next to him on the four-seat sofa. I realized later that it was an instinct to avoid eye contact. And, it didn't work. We'll get to that.

And I did, eventually, get to air out my... concerns about my rediscovered swimsuit, but that didn't turn out well, either, when we got around to it.

Because Uncle Ron quickly took charge.

"Did you hang up your apron?"

"Yes sir."

"Good boy. I expect we'll continue to enjoy a tidy kitchen, and that will be your job, while under my roof."

"Yes Uncle Ron."

"Now, to our... other matters. We were going to discuss... something specific, as I remember," he started, "When we were interrupted last night, by my work emergency."

I guess I suppressed a little bit of a squirm, but I think Uncle Ron saw it anyway. The stress of the day got to me. I knew what he was talking about. I didn't want to think about it, or talk about it. But Uncle Ron did, and he wasn't to be dissuaded. I felt the color rise in my cheeks. I slumped a little, unintentionally, and didn't look at him. I felt his eyes on my face, and I had to take a slow breath because I felt the blush, the candid shame, making my cheeks and forehead glow even more.

"Sit up straight, honey," he said. His voice was in his low, stern register, and I gulped and straightened my body on the sofa, but I still looked straight ahead.

"We were about to go upstairs, honey. Remember?"

"Yes Uncle Ron."

He touched my cheek, and I felt his finger under my chin.

"Look at me."

I looked at him. I tried to keep composed, but suddenly I had to swallow, and it was like my pride, all of it, just drained away. Swallowed with that single, subserving gulp.

I turned my head and he kept his finger under my chin, and I looked at his face.

"You're a bright, clever young man," his voice had softened. "And I think you'll learn to be a good worker, probably in some professional field."

I felt my lips trembling as he assessed my circumstances. I pressed them together to keep emotion controlled.

"But we were talking about something deeper," he said. "Something... primal. Do you remember?"

"No," I said, but it was more of a denial than an answer.

"Yes you do." He stated it flatly. My body gave a little shiver. "Yes," he said again.

"Tell me honey," he continued. "Tell me honestly. About the panties."

I drew a breath, I was trying not to react, but my body gave a little shaking twist, and Uncle Ron saw it.

He stood up. He took me by the arm and pulled me to my feet.

He turned me, turned my body so I was facing him. We were moving, but we were also talking. He was putting me in motion, but still, relentlessly confronting my secrets.

"I just have to say the word, panties, and you, your whole body seems to react. So tell me honey. I'll ask you a very specific question."

I lowered my head, and he didn't lift my chin. He let my shame play out. "Yesterday wasn't your first experience with ladies or girl's panties, honey, was it?"

I shook my head. "No," I whispered.

"We're not talking about reaching up your girlfriends skirt, either, are we honey?"

"No." Slowly, as he questioned me, he was guiding me across the living room, toward the door. We stopped in the middle of the room.

"Look at me." I looked at him and his expression made me draw a quick, harsh breath.

"Whose panties, hon. Your mother. Sister?"

I didn't answer, turning my head away.

"I see. Yes. Both." He knew. I didn't have to say it. Both their panties.

I realized I'd stopped breathing, my lungs full, and I exhaled and inhaled then. His right hand moved, to the back of my neck. It reinforced his authority, resting there, his thumb moving slightly, his fingers lightly balanced opposite the thumb.

"Tell me, Jamey." His deep, low tone gave me a shrinking feeling, and as my ego shrank, I could also feel the secrets, which were bigger than I could contain, baring themselves, raw feelings exposed, as I confessed them, with squirming shame, to Uncle Ron.

"Both. My sister and mom's."

"You played with their pretty panties." His grip on the back of my neck tightened slightly, and he turned my head so I had to look at him.

"Yes."

He stared at me. My body gave a little shiver. I closed my eyes. He paused. It seemed like a long time that he remained very still, just thinking, weighing my response, judging it, and letting the question itself linger, and its meaning. After a while, even though nothing was said, a guilty feeling was building somehow, and creating a resumed tension between us, I could feel it. He took a long breath, finally. On the back of my neck, his fingers and thumb squeezed and I opened my eyes again.

"Sniffed them?"

I hesitated...

"Yes," I moaned. He tilted his head, as if expecting more. "Yes sir," I amended.

"What else?" Suddenly emotion overcame me. My breathing quickened, several rapid fire breaths hurried in and out through my nose, and I realized my emotions were collapsing.

Then, as I was about to start to cry, his right hand left my neck, and he smacked my bottom once, hard. Through my shorts and underpants, it still stung, and startled me.

"What else?" he said, a little louder, but still in his firmest, lowest whisper.

I wanted to answer him, but suddenly I had no breath in me.

"Hmm," he grunted, and then, another hard smack on my bottom, and we were moving again.

His hands shifted to my waist, his grasp firm and assertive, and we were crossing the room. To guide me through the door, one hand, his left, shifted to my left elbow.

"We're going upstairs, honey," he said, and with another firm smack on my rear, together we moved through the door toward the stairs.

I moaned and realized that I had started crying as we walked.

When we got to the foot of the stairway, we stopped for a moment. Uncle Ron steadied me with his hands back on my waist. He put his right hand on my head, tilting my face up slightly to point my eyes upstairs. His lips were inches from my left ear.

"That's where all the panties are," he whispered.

It made me tremble, his low voice, his hands on my waist. His voice in my ear. I wiped my eyes with my hands, steadied my center while my edges trembled, and I stepped onto the first step.

Upstairs.

"We're going to... continue our little... heart-to-heart talk up in your room. Or maybe, mine."

And then, I was balanced, stopped, with one foot on the first stair.

"Not so fast," said Uncle Ron. He had hold of the back of my shirttail, it was stretched behind me, and I stepped back down onto the foyer's hardwood floor.

"Before we go up, let's have a look, shall we?" I stood hunched, on the edge of emotion, looking at the stairs, with Uncle Ron right behind me. After pulling me back, he grasped me by my hips and set me in place, trapped in a way, between him and the stairway. He took his left hand off my hip and palmed my bottom, and then I felt his fingertips on the small of my back, finding my shorts' waistband. He snapped the back elastic of my shorts.

"Drop the gym shorts, yes, right here honey," he whispered.

I took a deep breath. I realized that whining and protesting wasn't going to get me anywhere.

I pushed my shorts down, felt them slide free, and fall to my ankles. I stood in my white cotton underpants holding my hands folded over in front of me. Shielding me.

His left hand clamped the back of my neck, and his other hand spanked me in my underpants. Once. Twice.

"Move the hands, honey. Don't be shy."

I unclasped my hands and reached back, to ward him off.

He stopped smacking my bottom, and let me go.

"Well, take a look at that," he said.

I took a long deep breath while I looked down at myself.

Plain to see, poking out in my underpants, my penis had never been harder.

Ron then grasped my waist and turned me sideways to the stairs. In the light of the condo's entryway, I stood, trembling, erect, still emotional enough to cry.

I moaned, trying to will it down, make it soft, but in the circumstances, that was impossible.

Uncle Ron took a half a step, crowding me up closer to the stairs. I could feel and smell his body heat. He was looking at my erection shaping the front of my underpants into a little tee-pee. He lifted his eyes to look into mine, and a flat smile and knowing chuckle made me shrink away, but I had nowhere to go.

While staring me down, he touched me.

"This," he said, as his fingers grazed over the shape lifting and stretching the front of my cotton underpants. "What does this mean?"

I twitched, and tried to inch away from him, but I was still cornered.

"No," I squirmed.

"Yes," he said. He flicked it, not hard, with his fingers. "You're getting an erection, Jamey. I wonder why?"

I cringed. A small, pathetic whimper bubbled from my lips. He didn't know I was just then remembering, not an hour ago, how I crouched right outside his kitchen window, watching him looking at magazine pictures, pushing his underpants down.

He lifted my chin, made me look into his eyes. I felt a burning shame, like he could see what I was thinking. He narrowed his eyes, his head became still as he studied me.

"What were you just thinking about?" He asked, with suspicion lowering his voice nearly to a whisper.

I just avoided his eyes, and felt my elbows twitching. "Nothing," I said, but it was little more than a squeak.

"We're going to find out," he said.

I put my face in my hands. "No," I said, muffling it through my fingers.

"Yes we are, honey," he whispered. "Upstairs."

I lowered my shaking hands from my face, and looked at Uncle Ron. He touched me again, on the back of my underpants.

"Let's leave these down here, too," he said. "You're not going to need them upstairs." He snapped the elastic, and the sound seemed so loud in the quiet foyer.

"But why?" I said. I'm not sure how I found my voice for that. Uncle Ron dryly chuckled again.

"Why?" he repeated. "Because I said so." His gaze remained firmly on my face until I lowered my eyes.

"And I'm the man of the household." He got a sly glint in his eyes, boring them into mine. "The girls' panties are upstairs, right honey?" He patted my bottom, palming my cotton underpants. His fingers rose, and he snapped the elastic again. I breathed in and out and quickly in again.

"Drop 'em right there," he tapped his foot on the step. "Right now."

I pushed my underpants down, clearing my knees, and they fell to my ankles. My erect cock stuck straight up at the skylight, bobbing in front of me. Seeing it, Uncle gave a little half nod, half shake to his head. He pointed upstairs with one finger.

"Pick them up," he said. "You can put them in the hamper on our way to your room. You know where the hamper is, don't you?"

I nodded, but I didn't bend down to pick them up.

He smirked. "Of course you do. You know exactly where it is, don't you." He let that sink in. He palmed my bottom yet again, and it felt like he was about to swing his hand back--yet again. "Let's go."

I shook my head. This wasn't right, but I feared my weakness and emotions were becoming too much for me to handle, or to overcome. Still, I forced myself to speak up. I needed to get it off my chest, even though I probably knew I wouldn't win.

"But Uncle Ron," I said, looking down, "I keep trying to tell you, I, I, and you keep--" his hand palmed my bottom, he pointed emphatically up the stairs...

"Jamey--" he said firmly.

"Don't interrupt me," I stamped a foot. "I mean, you keep interrupting me," I whined, because he indeed was interrupting me again.

And, right then, there was this pause, this quiet pause, where everything seemed to go on hold, a quiet moment when sound and motion were suspended.

"Well, well," Uncle Ron finally said. "Okay honey."

And he waited. And in that quiet pause, he had stopped his talking, he had stopped his urging, he just stopped--everything. It seemed that he had finally heard me, realized that I had something to say, something bothering me, that I had a ... a need. A need to be heard.

In those ticking moments, those sudden moments of stillness, of quiet, there in the waning evening light of Uncle Ron's foyer, I stood in my t-shirt, my underpants around my ankles, and Uncle Ron waited, silently.

And I started to cry. And, as I was completely breaking apart emotionally, I turned. I wiped my face with my fingers, my hands, and turned around, not fast, because I still had my ankles swaddled in my underpants, but I waddled myself around and looked at Uncle Ron.

"Did you," I sobbed. "Did you hide it?" I blurted out, then I sobbed again. "Did you--" a long, deep breath "--did you hide my swimsuit? I found it--this morning--in my sax case... did you put it there?"

Uncle Ron shook his head slowly. "Still obsessing about your silly little--"

This time I interrupted him. "DID you?" I sobbed, and whimpered seeing his reaction.

"No," he said, a chill now, in his voice. "You think I did?" I looked at him. I shook my head. He was denying it? But his face was set, and clearly he was... disappointed, yes, and tired of the subject.

Maybe he didn't.

I looked down, and shifted my weight where I stood next to the staircase on the foyer floorboards, and I felt a flush come into my face, seeing my underpants puddled around my ankles, a flush of humiliation. I twitched, a sudden involuntary reflex, halfway to a stamping of my right foot, and my right toe caught the elastic waistband which stretched and poised--and then my underpants quite suddenly flew across the foyer.

"Control yourself, honey," Uncle Ron said quietly. I took several short, intense breaths.

I wiped my eyes with my fingers. "I want to call home," I said, the whine still underlying my attempt to sound assured.

"Your mommy," Uncle Ron said softly. He sighed. "You need to call Mommy. I see. Like, to make sure she didn't put it in your instrument case, and then forgot?"

I was nodding along, but no longer so... sure.

He considered for a moment. "Go get them," he pointed across the foyer, next to the key stand where my kicked-away undies had landed on the floor. "Put your panties on, we can't have you talking to your mother... like that, can we?" He pointed at my penis, jutting its proud 4" out below my t-shirt.

I went. But I was in a swirl of turmoil, my mind in three places at once, and I wasn't thinking. I was reacting. "And they're not panties," I said as I gathered up my underpants and stepped into them, bending over.

"Uh huh," Uncle Ron said, and I went to him, pulling up my briefs, and expecting to be led into the kitchen for the telephone there.

His head perked up. "Oh?" he said. Instead of angling toward his kitchen, he was standing very still, remaining beside the stairway.

His eyes met mine, and I slowed. He had that look.

"I want to call--"

He shook his head very slightly, his eyes holding mine. "Not with that attitude, you won't. Come here."

He grabbed my nearest wrist, his grip firm, and he reeled me in, and turned me toward the stairs again. "You get on upstairs," he ordered. He smacked my bottom, hard. "You'll wait there for me. I'm going to call your mother."

"But," I whined, "I wanted to--" He interrupted me again.

This time, it was his swift, open hand on my bottom that interrupted me.

"I said, 'get upstairs'--NOW!" I still had the kitchen, the phone, as our next destination in my mind, and I lifted a hand to gesture weakly in that direction, but then my bottom felt his hand again, giving emphasis to his words, and I went scampering up the stairs, holding my bottom, and Uncle Ron turned and went toward the kitchen.

He called after me as I hurried to my room; "I'll call your mother. You just get your little butt up there and wait for me. Think about who's the man of the house, and what that means--for you, and for me, and how you're going to learn to respect me, in your tone, and in your words."

I was miserable. I wanted to talk to my mother, find out if she knew anything about my swimsuit and its mysterious reappearance.

Now I couldn't do that. He's calling her now. He's probably already talking to her. I sniffled. I couldn't control, or massage the message. It was in Uncle Ron's hands now. When I thought about his hands, I reached back and felt my bottom again, and the shame crept up from my belly, to my neck, and I could feel it warming my face.

I looked around the room, the bed, the bureau, the vanity.

The mirror, the closet, the toy chest. The room, with its feminine touches.

And he's coming up here. He's coming, and soon.

And, what's he talking to Mom about. What's he telling her?