Jamey Visits Uncle Ron Ch. 02

"Was mom the disciplinarian? Did she spank?"

I looked down at the car seat as I answered. "Yes sir."

"Not dad?"

"No. Maybe sometimes. I don't know. Usually mom."

Uncle Ron's inquiries, his questions, and his pushy inquisitiveness, were getting to me. He was pushing his way into private and personal things, emotional and sexual buttons that I didn't even understand myself. As we sat in the car, talking quietly, I felt the heat rising in my neck, then up into my cheeks, coupled to intense stirrings in other parts of my body. But everything he was bringing up, they were all things, subjects, that I wanted to hide, that I didn't want to think about, that I didn't want to discuss with my peering, probing uncle. I turned my body away, as subtly as I could, because some of the intense feelings, and their results, I couldn't quite suppress.

But Uncle Ron must have noticed. "Oh honey," he said. "Are you hiding something there?"

"No," I said. I pulled the door release to open the door, but I think Uncle Ron must have thought ahead, and headed this off. The door lock was still down, and I couldn't open the door unless I found the lock mechanism. I glanced at him, and as if he'd read my mind, he shook his head, but said nothing.

Although I was shrunk away from him, up against the door, Uncle Ron shifted over a little, and I could feel his presence, even though I tried to avert my eyes, avert completely from his insistence. But he wasn't having it.

I felt his hand, gently but still firm, touch my shoulder, then a finger under my chin, turning my head toward him.

"Jamey, look at me," he said. I lifted my eyes to his face. His soft smile was meant to reassure, but I was already too emotional and compromised to feel much comfort from it. Because he wasn't letting up.

"Are you getting hard? Is that why you're suddenly so shy, honey?"

"No," I whined, "please, I don't want to talk about it, oh Uncle Ron, please stop."

"This is very interesting, Jamey. Your little penis, getting erect here in the car, just driving home from a quick dinner?    So what was it son, why are you getting excited...."

He let that sink in for a few moments. Then he let go of my chin, and sat back into his own seat again, still regarding me, still showing his amusement as I squirmed under his scrutiny.

"Are you thinking about that pretty lady back there? Hmm?    No? That's not it?    Ohhhh. Your mom?    Thinking about her?    Or maybe the panties? Your cousin's panties?"

I squeezed my knees together to suppress the feelings. But they just kept coming.

"What else were we talking about, let's see?    Masturbation?    Girls?    Your roommate's pretty girlfriend? And your roommates, teasing you?"

He paused again. I moaned, and pulled on the door handle again, and twisted a little in my seat. The door still didn't open. The shame and emotions were filling me, overcoming me.

"We'll go back into the house in a minute Jamey. But we were talking, what was that last subject? Oh yes. The spanking."

Right then, I started to cry. The emotion had been building, as he continued to taunt me about my frustrations, and the half-expressed desires, some obvious, some still in the shadows.

It started with a sudden, gasped hiccup, and then I felt my bottom lip twist and curl, involuntarily, and my eyes filled up with salty tears, and all the air, the breath spasmed out of me in several jagged wails, and I was crying into my hands, sitting, squirming, next to Uncle Ron, in the front seat of his car, parked on the pavement in front of his townhouse.

He remained quiet, observing me, while I cried out the sobs, while my shoulders shook and twisted. Finally, I got myself under a little more control.

He still didn't say anything. I blinked to clear my eyes a little more, and I glanced at Uncle Ron. While steadily watching me, he slowly proceeded to press the door button to unlock the car doors. Click.

Finally, he spoke. "You disobeyed me, son, didn't you?" he said.

I felt the intense, hot shame growing inside me again. I breathed, long, deep inhalations, ragged exhalations, and I tried to find my voice.

My eyes were closed while I tried to regather my center, my bearings in the ragged swirl of emotions. Then I felt a finger under my chin, and I opened my eyes.

"Look at me," Uncle Ron said. He turned my face, and I pressed my lips together tight, and I looked up into his eyes. His voice was quiet, but firm. "I raised three girls, honey. I know the guilty look, all the little signs that a girl has done something wrong." I tried to look away, to avert my eyes from his stern gaze, but he held my chin firmly.

I glanced at his face. I opened my mouth and was about to try to calm myself and insist that I'm not a girl, but I quickly realized that in my high, sobbing whine it would sound ridiculous. And I could tell he was reading that thought too. He chuckled, a single, short sound with a quick puff from his belly.

"I'm s-s-sorry Uncle Ron," I said, half inhaling, half exhaling, half hyperventilated with emotion and contrition.

"Did you disobey me, Jamey?" He said. When I thought about the answer, its complications, its inevitability, and its consequences, another wave of emotion bolted up from my center, and below. I drew another long breath.

"I, I.." I blurted, "...I just wanted to find my bathing suit!"

His flat expression told me, and very clearly, that he'd heard enough about the swimsuit.

Instinctively I knew when he was talking to me, serious like this, that I needed to respect him, that I couldn't just look away. But I wasn't quite looking at him, more like I was turned in his direction, and looking generally in his direction, at his legs, his knees, his center. Not his eyes. I was avoiding those.

Uncle Ron picked that moment to casually reach down between his legs again; once more to adjust himself. He sorted out his manhood again, while I happened to be looking...there.

"Well, honey," he said. He finished re-aligning his manhood, and I imagined it in there, resting, partially erect, nestled over his relaxed scrotum, emerging from its pubic nest, inside his briefs, his soft cotton briefs sheathing him inside his pants. His fingertips lingered over the slight bulge just below his belt buckle, where the flaps of his fly covered his manhood. I looked away, and swallowed, audibly.

"Now I'm curious. Tell me something, Jamey," he said softly. "Tell me when was the last time you were properly disciplined, by a man."

"Um. Oh, Uncle Ron," I whined. "Today!" I muttered it, the bitterness and shame dripping in my tone. "You...you did!"

He chuckled. Something about the tone of that little, low phrase of murmured laughter went straight to my belly, a swarm of moths jumping to life and swirling, dancing there.

"No, son," he said, his voice low and even. "That? In the study? That was a few swats, over your new swimsuit." He paused, to let that sink in. It did. I squirmed again, trying to stay calm, but I drew a long, shuddering breath. With the side of my vision I saw his hand lift from his thigh, and Uncle Ron reached over, and this time he put a hand behind my head. I felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I felt each of his fingertips as they pressed into my scalp, and his thumb at the edge of my neck behind my ear. The slight, but insistent pressure of his fingertips. My head turned, and I looked at him, and again he spoke.

"Now, I'm tempted to pull you out of this car, bend you over the hood, here in broad daylight, and show you how your Uncle Ron handles disobedience. But instead, let's go inside. I think we'll go over some of the...details...and clarify the rules, with a little more privacy. Shall we?"

I didn't answer, but Uncle Ron didn't wait. In fact, after seeming so relaxed and unhurried, he had abruptly changed gears, and was quite decisive and businesslike. He snapped his keys out of the ignition, quickly unlatched and opened his door, got out, closed the door, and headed briskly around the front of the car toward the condo.

I sat there. I knew I had to get out. I had been anxious, even antsy, to get out of the car the whole uncomfortable time while Uncle Ron was cross-examining me. Teasing me, berating me, scolding me. Now, suddenly, I didn't want to get out.

But Uncle Ron didn't even pause, he didn't look back, he didn't wait for me. He went inside and closed the door.

I sat in the front seat of his car. I looked around. Early evening. Balmy late summer. I could still hear the lingering sounds of the day--people splashing and talking, cars, traffic--muffled by Uncle Ron's closed car, as the uncirculated air grew warmer where I sat alone. What had I gotten myself into?

But although there were muffled sounds of activity, in the car, alone, there was nobody nearby, and the driveway of Uncle Ron's end-unit condo was fairly isolated, so that I did feel that, momentarily at least, I had a moment of privacy. I had to look.

I glanced around. The coast was clear. I put my feet flat on the floor and lifted my hips and pushed my shorts down. I glanced around again, and pushed my underpants down, just enough to unveil my genitals.

My penis was erect. It felt like it wasn't mine, that it was uncontrollably erect, with a mind of its own, flexing itself and twitching. It strained, bobbing and pointing up at my face, with little throbs timed to my heartbeats. I moaned and touched it, and felt the bands of muscle at the base of my erection tighten and spasm in reaction. I looked out the car window at Uncle Ron's house, his front door. I moaned again, thoughts of Uncle Ron making me anxious. I pulled up my shorts and underpants, and wiped my eyes with my shirttail, took one last long, deep breath, and went inside.

It was very quiet in the foyer when I closed the door. I looked around, wondering where Uncle Ron was.

"Is that you, Jamey?" Uncle Ron had heard the front door, heard me come in. He was in his study.

"Yes Uncle," I said. My voice sounded high and hollow in the quiet house.

"Come here." I walked across the foyer, my sneakers squeaking softly on the polished hardwood. The study door was open. I went in. Uncle Ron was sitting behind his desk across the room.

I stood there, already feeling confronted.

"What were you doing out there?"

"I don't know. I needed a... a minute." Uncle Ron continued to regard me, silently. After almost a minute of silence, he sat back in his desk chair and scratched behind his right ear.

"So here's what we're going to do...are you listening?" His voice sharpened there at the end. I had been staring at my feet, feeling sorry for myself, and trying to understand those feelings, and my general disposition in my uncle's home, in his study, in his presence.

I breathed deeply, held it for a second, then looked up. "Yes, Uncle Ron," I said.

"I want you to go upstairs, son," he said. "Go up to your room. Sit down. Don't worry about your bathing suit, or your mother, or your saxophone, or your major. But think carefully, about the next two weeks, and your visit here. Think about what it means to you, about what it could mean. Think about your attitude, your motivation, your feelings and needs and ideas of who you are. Think about the surface we've been skimming over, this afternoon." He stopped talking, seeming to regather his thoughts. I could already feel that squirmy feeling rising up again inside me, as he spoke to me with his tone firm, his expression serious.

"Yes," he said. "Think about all that stuff, then wipe it from your mind. Clear your head. Because I want you to make up your mind. I want you to decide." He stood up. He stepped around his desk, still looking at me. He came across the room, and I took a step back.

"Relax, son," he said, with a chuckle. He put his hands on my shoulders and turned me. He turned me around, pointing me toward the door. He glanced at his watch on his left wrist, and his right hand palmed my hip, then my bottom, and he stopped and held me there. "Take fifteen minutes and think about what I said in the car. Because I want you to think it all over..." he consulted his watch. "...until, let's say 6:15.

"Then, at that time, you will choose," he said. "Now, look at me," he said. He lifted his right hand to the back of my neck, and I turned my face, and I looked at him. He was right in my face. I looked into his eyes.

"If you don't want my guidance--and I think you know what I mean..." While continuing to look me in the eye, his hand slid down again, palming me, the back of my shorts. "Yes. I think you need some help, some work on your attitude, some guidance that an older, wiser adult can provide. But if you think you would rather just spend your two weeks under my roof with...well, with just a place for you to eat and sleep and practice your saxophone, without my....my influence, that's fine. You can opt out."

Uncle Ron gave a firm push to my bottom to propel me forward, out and through the open door into the hallway.

"If you stay in your room, that's what we'll do," he said. I walked across the foyer toward the stairs, his voice following me.

"But if you come back, son, at 6:15--and I hope you do--then we can get started."

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and put my hand on the banister.

I nodded. He was already closing the study door. I went upstairs.

I won't go much into the conflict of emotions that twisted through my mind as I sat alone in that pretty little bedroom for fifteen minutes. But it seemed as if I was on some kind of roller coaster ride. I felt confused, uncertain, and anxious. Worried and scared as I felt, I just kept thinking about Uncle Ron, his hints and gestures, his parental masculinity, and everything else, and what he was saying, and not saying, and implying, and... possibly wanting.

At 6:15, I was still sitting on the bed. At 6:17, I was pacing the floor. Then another minute later, I found myself standing by the bedroom door, with moths and butterflies waging battle in my belly. I was still wondering what to do.

And then, at almost 6:20, as if in some sort of trance, I found myself walking slowly down the stairs, and across the foyer into the hallway, and then I was standing by the door of his study.

I knocked on the door.

"Come in, son," said Uncle Ron. My hand trembled as I reached for the knob. My palm was clammy, turning the knob, pushing open the door, going in.

I found his eyes on me immediately as I went in. I stopped a few yards in, and raised my eyes to meet his. He was sitting behind his desk. He looked at his watch.

"Close the door," he said.

I looked at him. He held still, holding my eyes to his. I felt somehow locked onto him. I sort of backed toward the door, going a little sideways, because I needed to keep my eyes where he held them. I took deep breaths while I closed the door. My hands were shaking.

"Come over here," he said.

I went to him. When I finally managed to break eye contact, I felt my face warming immediately. I didn't want to feel it, the shame, the sinking dread, but it closed over me like a wave, and I knew if I looked up, if I felt his eyes on mine, it would get even worse.

Although I was avoiding his eye, I was aware of him rising from his seat, then standing, and moving. I stood at the side of his desk, staring down at my hands clasped in front of me. He rose, and I wasn't aware of his footsteps, but I was aware of his deliberate intent. I was looking at my feet, and at the rug, and then I felt his immediate presence, standing beside me.

"You are here. Which means you know what you are here for," he said. His voice was firm, but low.

Inhaling a long, slow breath, I glanced up, saw his face. There was a touch of a smile about his lips, and his eyes were watching me, intently, even carefully.

"You came, because you know what you need, don't you honey?"    His voice was even softer, smoother.

Then his hand, his left hand, rested upon my shoulder. Not firmly or heavily, but as a touch, a claiming, an establishing of a physical connection.

"Hmm?" he said. I felt his eyes on me, his hand. My face felt warm again, the intensity of him right next to me. Hearing him revert to honey, my eyes flashed upward, and I felt a shiver run through me, and I twitched, and a small noise rose from my throat and out my nose.

"Yes, I see that you do," he whispered. His other hand touched my waist, my hip, the small of my back, hovering around, but not quite sliding down to my bottom. I convulsed slightly again.

"Mnn hmm," he said in his softest voice.

                                                                                                                                                                               I stopped inhaling, and I didn't exhale, but I was aware, without intending to, that my chin dipped. I was nodding, but just enough to indicate that I didn't want to speak, but that if I could, I would not argue.

I stood there, aware of my breath, aware of my belly, aware of my shorts and my knees and my shins and my toes, because that's where my eyes seemed stuck. I was aware of him. He was in my space. And his steady breathing, as he stood next to me, but so close. I was beside his desk, but partly facing the wall where his credenza backed his desk chair.

Uncle Ron applied slight pressure to my shoulder, so that my body turned. My feet followed, but seemed to be working clumsily, misguided by my rattled nerves, firing at random.

Re-positioned, I lifted my hands, which were shaking slightly, and I glanced up and over a little, but not quite far enough to look into Ron's eyes. Instinctively I was aware that further instructions were coming.

Guided by his hand on my shoulder, I started to lean a little. I think I was going to place my hands on his desk, maybe I was anticipating. I didn't know what would happen, not exactly, and I was very aware of my own uncertainty. And perhaps also beginning to perceive Uncle Ron's seeming sureness, his lack of the uncertainty that was, somehow, keeping me guessing.

"No," he said. His hand left my shoulder. Everything, suddenly, came to a standstill. I stood, poised, my hands lifted but arrested, and he was behind me now, but also not moving. I then felt a touch.

The hand on the small of my back slid down and then up, slightly pushing up on the back of my t-shirt, his fingertips finding the sensitive spot of skin surrounding my vertebrae, above my tailbone. Then he slid his hand down. Lightly he touched my blue gym shorts, his fingertips finding where skin met the waistband and he said, "Pull these down, now."