More slow-burn, gradual escalation of Jamey's confusion, and Uncle Ron's suspicion that he has a very needy, undisciplined sissy for a nephew.
It's the middle of a warm August afternoon, I'm in my new temporary bedroom, my eyes bleary from crying, wearing just my shirt and my cousin's maroon panties--her tennis bloomers--pushed down just to the tops of my thighs. My face is hot from the shame and emotion, and my bottom is warm and a little sore. I'm lying on my left side, my back toward the closed bedroom door, and I'm stroking my hard penis with my right hand. I'm a guest at my uncle's house, it's my first day here, and I'm wondering how all this ended up happening.
And I stop. Fingers loosely curled over my manhood, not moving. Absolutely still. Quiet. Listening.
I thought I heard something. A noise, in the room, or somewhere in the house, while I was trying to quietly masturbate.
Is somebody coming?
After a moment, holding my breath, I hear nothing, and I turn a little and shift my weight, rolling onto my back and lifting my hips to swiftly pull the tennis bloomers back up. Whatever I heard must have stopped. If there even was anything to hear. Maybe it was all in my mind. It's already been a long, trying day, and my mind and imagination have been struggling to keep up.
I stay quiet, continuing to listen. Nothing.
What I thought I'd heard was something rhythmic, perhaps mechanical, repeated, perhaps a small tapping or squeaking. My imagination jumped, wondering.
I was thinking about Uncle Ron again. Was it him? My mind kept returning there, to him and his hints, wondering, thinking, imagining. Thinking things I didn't want to...think about.
I caught my breath again, shifted my hips again, so that I lay fully on my back, still listening. Was he coming? Suddenly I felt ashamed of myself, a quick wave of it made me shiver a little. Was Uncle Ron coming to check on me? Footsteps were a rhythmic sound. I lifted my head and looked down at myself. My penis still straight up, but under the maroon sport nylon. My breaths came a little faster. Because I was thinking...about him? But there was no sound at all now.
Silence.
Nobody was coming. I lay my head back down on the pillow, and brought my left hand up from alongside my thigh again, and slid it up, feeling what I was wearing.
Panties
. My hand slid over the front, that straight stiff tent of nylon, and I held my breath again. And then without really planning to, I started stroking and rubbing myself through the layers of maroon nylon and athletic cotton mesh, where my manhood twitched and throbbed under my palm.
And I heard it again.
What is that?
I stopped moving, stroking. I held still. It was gone. I heard nothing.
After a couple more stops and starts, and a quick bit of investigation, I figured it out. I listened carefully as I sat up, swung my legs over, and got out of the bed. The springs under the mattress groaned a little when my weight lifted, but that wasn't it. Maybe it contributed, but I was hearing something else. I walked around the bedroom, keeping my footsteps light, listening. I shifted my weight, foot to foot, several times, and faintly, I heard it.
Something in the room was teetering, somehow balanced or tensioned, so that any repetitive or rhythmic movements were setting it off. An unbalanced piece of furniture, or a sprung floorboard, perhaps. And
it
, whatever it was, somehow amplified my...intimate rhythm, causing a squeaking, mechanical moan that was loud enough to be embarrassing.
I tested several spots in the room--over by the window, back by the closet--shifting my weight around, simulating the rhythm of, uh, of slow pleasure, and it seemed that wherever I stood, or sat, the little squeaks, somewhere in the floorboards, or the walls, or something, announced it in that subtle, accusatory, yet somehow mechanical voice.
Jerkoff.
Squeak.
Jerk.
Squeak!
Off!
A mental note wedged its way into my brain, stimulated by my swirling emotions and growing sexual frustration.
Later, when I'm alone, I'll track it down.
I'll find the source of this tattletale squeaking.
But for now, what could I do? I wanted to take a shower. In the shower, maybe I could...complete what I needed to do. But we had just been in the pool, had a rinse. Both of us, Uncle Ronny and I, were clean and refreshed. I wanted to though. The shower was private. I needed just a little quiet privacy. But for now, at least, that was not available to me.
I needed something else to distract myself. A nap? No. It just wouldn't work. I was in that strange, energized state, partly exhausted from the events of the day, but still adrenalized, keyed up, thoughts cascading, twisting my insides. I couldn't possibly sleep--even if I tried, I wouldn't even doze. My mind would keep running a mile a minute. I wasn't much of a napper, anyway. I was nineteen.
Take a walk? Maybe. No. Thinking about it, I quickly ruled it out. I didn't want to see anybody, meet anybody. In my present state of mind, I was too wound up, too on edge to even think about having to talk to somebody about...whatever. The weather. My major. My...living circumstances? Not to mention, I was still wearing panties.
Why on earth was I wearing panties!? The puzzling weirdness of it all was blinking, flashing in all caps, blaring, searing my brain, my thoughts.
I told myself it was ridiculous. It was.
This is ridiculous.
Then I thought of Uncle Ronny's look. His disapproving eyes. I felt myself shrink just a little, involuntarily, when I thought of him, and how he...just took over. Decisive, controlling, domineering.
I couldn't nap, couldn't go back to bed. I couldn't masturbate, release my male tension. I couldn't take a shower, or take a walk.
Why am I wearing panties?
Because I was told to.
I felt my face getting hot again, the humiliation pushing up, squirming up from my belly.
And all because I didn't have a swim suit.
I looked around the bedroom. Sheila's room. My room, for now. For two or three weeks.
Think about what it's going to be like living with your Uncle Ronny for the next two weeks...
He told me that, too. Told me to think about it.
I did. I thought about it and I shuddered. I couldn't really get myself to think about much of anything else.
I remembered Uncle Ron, my embarrassment, his frustration. His big, manly hand pawing through Sheila's underwear drawer. That unreadable, flat smile, as he looked at me. His hand again, pushing the blouses and dresses this way and that in her closet.
Sheila's things. I rolled over on the bed, and I looked over at her dresser, and at her closet. Here were her clothes. Her dresses, skirts, shoes.
