The Trouble with Trevor (Off Limits Book 1)

by Cin Forrester

  "No drinking," I agree.

  "No nonprescription drugs, either."

  "What about caffeine?" I nod at the mug of coffee.

  Before I can blink, Grady whaps my knuckles with the back of the teaspoon.

  "Ow. Fuck."

  That gets the knuckles of my other hand cracked. They're sticking out where I'm gripping my mug, and it hurts like fuck. With my hands safely—I hope—at my sides, I try to shake out the pain.

  "Don't be a smart-ass."

  "Okay," I snap out.

  Grady looks as if he wants to land another shot with the teaspoon. "I expect you to show respect. Don't lie or give me lip. And pick up after yourself."

  "Like how?"

  "Your shit is scattered all over the house. Keep it contained. Make your bed. Wash your dishes."

  I look over my shoulder into the front hall. My backpack and jacket are where I'd dropped them when I came in. Still shaking the pain out of my hands, I push away from the table, pick up my coat and hang it from one of the hooks next to the door. I lift my backpack and start to carry it upstairs.

  "Don't forget the crap you left in the living room."

  Crap? Why was my stuff crap? I went across the hall. I'd left a book and highlighter on the coffee table. I guess there wasn't anything else but my crap in there. Just the furniture, including a blanket neatly folded over the back of the sofa and the TV in the stand. Even the TV and DVD remotes are in perfect alignment with the edge of the coffee table. There's no trace of anything personal. No books, papers or magazines. I wonder if he even has a junk drawer. No way am I ever going to snoop in his bedroom. He'll probably notice that the carpet has been stepped on.

  I haul my stuff upstairs, putting it on the table I'm using as a desk, and look at my bed. After smoothing the blankets and sheets a bit and getting the pillow where it belongs, I scoop the quilt off the floor and spread it over the top.

  When I get back to the kitchen, Grady is tapping out some rhythm on the table with a closed fist. I slink back into my chair and pick up my mug.

  He nods. "Thank you. Do you think you can follow the rules?"

  Since I don't drink, smoke or get high, and it's not exactly going to kill me to not be a slob, I'm about to say yes. Then I wonder if this isn't some excuse to get rid of me. Maybe he didn't want me here in the first place. I mean, what guy in his thirties wants to suddenly have to babysit a teenager? I need to know if I sneeze at the wrong time he's going to use it as an excuse to ship me back to Ohio.

  Well, if that's what he's planning, I might as well pack up now and save us all the trouble. I eyeball the spoon, then straighten my shoulders. "What if I don't? Like not on purpose, but what if I mess up?"

  He spreads his palm out on the table. "What did your folks do if you broke their rules?"

  I shrugged. Jasper had been the wild one. Besides, why should I bother telling Grady they'd barely noticed me at all for the last five years, until I wanted to go to college.

  "I think men learn their lessons best when the lessons are physical." He reaches forward and lightly taps my knuckles.

  It doesn't hurt, but the touch echoes like a shock. Did he mean he'd punch me or smack my knuckles more?

  "Physical?" I echo.

  I can't help thinking of that video again. I shift on the kitchen chair and stare down at his hand. At the dark hair on his skin. I could go a few days between shaving before anyone noticed. Grady probably got noon o'clock shadow. But is this a gift-wrapped fantasy, or is he some kind of sadist?

  Throat tight enough to crack my voice, I manage to say, "You mean like spanking?"

  Chapter 3

  Grady

  SPANKING?

  Where the hell did he come up with that?

  I'd been thinking of basic training, military discipline. Extra chores, running, pushups, though I wasn't sure how many pushups those toothpick arms could manage. The kid needed to eat more.

  But he's so flustered, face red and voice shaking, I know he isn't saying it to be a smart-ass. Although I can't picture Frank laying into him, I say, "Is that what your dad does?"

  Trevor's cheeks get darker, and he won't look up. He shrugs again.

  It's confirmation enough. At least he's not lying and trying to tell me it doesn't happen. Frank had said Trevor wasn't as wild as Jasper, that the younger Nash hadn't gone in for much teenage rebellion. If he's been saving the craziness up for college, I could be in for a fight, but that hadn't been the read I got on him. I suppose discipline should be consistent, but I'm not too sure about spanking a seventeen-year-old, even if he is skinny enough to pass for twelve.

  "Trevor," I start, and he jerks his gaze up to meet mine. "Listen. If you do mess up, I'll give you a choice. I'm not going to make you take a spanking." I shift my left leg. "It's not like I can chase you anyway."

  There's a calculation in his expression. I don't want him getting any ideas. I remember me at seventeen. And at eighteen. If it hadn't been for Frank and the Marines, who knows where I'd have ended up.

  "I promised your dad I'd look after you, and I will. That means rules. I said I won't make you take a spanking, but if that's what we decide to do, I won't go easy on you. It'll be as hard or harder than your dad gives and you won’t be able to change your mind."

  Trevor’s eyes are glued on mine, and his voice is just a whisper as he says, "I understand, sir."

  That bit of respect was long enough in coming. Maybe just the threat of discipline would be enough to keep him in line. Aside from a habit of leaving his shit all over the place, he seems like a pretty good kid. Maybe it wouldn't come up.

  *

  Of course it did. He was an adolescent male. He had to test me. Three days later he calls me at ten with some pathetic excuse about losing track of time and missing a train. I just tell him that he's already late and not to be later if he knows what's good for him.

  I meet him at the door when he gets home at eleven. He doesn't meet my eyes.

  "Sorry," he mumbles as he's hanging up his coat. After pulling off his hat, he glances up at me through the messy strands of his overlong hair. In that moment, he really looks like the kid he'd been when I saw him five years ago.

  "I really did lose track of time." He sounds sincere, apologetic.

  I'm not exactly up on all the latest in parenting, but I'd been close to making gunnery sergeant before my foot got blown off. I knew something about discipline. Rules were good for shit if no one enforced them.

  I catch the way he's watching me, and I know I have to follow through.

  "Are you telling me that's supposed to be a good reason for missing curfew?"

  "Not really?"

  Now he sounds like he's trying to weasel out of the consequence, and my jaw tightens. "Is that a yes or a no?"

  "No."

  That spoiled-brat exasperation in his voice puts me about an inch from getting up in his face to scream. Instead I lean back against the wall and fold my arms. "We talked about this. About consequences."

  The cold has made red and white patches in his cheeks, like a picnic tablecloth. That makes it tough to tell, but I think there's the start of a blush, and his throat works as he stammers, "Ah-are you—? I mean—?"

  "You've got a choice." I could do this. And his attitude is helping me along.

  Under his bangs, his blue eyes narrow. "Which is?"

  "You get your butt blistered like at home, or tomorrow through Saturday you get up at five and come to work with me at the garage. We've got a shithole storeroom that needs cleaning. I'll bring you to campus before your first class."

  "At five a.m. for the next three days?"

  "That's what I said."

  He looks down, then past me, at the stairs, like he wants to make a run for it. His chin shifts, and his upper lip tucks in, giving him a pout. "I guess I'll take a spanking."

  "No guessing about it. I'm not playing some game where you keep changing your mind to find an angle you like.

  "Okay. Fine. Spank me." He
heaves a sigh, and if I do have to heat his tail, he's sure making it easier to want to.

  The last thing I need is him thinking I don't know what I'm doing. "Go upstairs and get ready like you would at home." In this mood, he'd probably look forward to telling me I was doing something wrong.

  His shoulders slump, and he makes his way upstairs. I notice he's left his backpack on the floor of the entryway. My palm itches.

  I give him some time to think about it, knowing from personal experience that anticipation can be the worst part of punishment, hanging there between knowing and uncertainty. You know you're going to get it, but you're trying to convince yourself it won't be that bad.

  When the tension's drawn out enough to bug me, I climb the stairs. Even after seven years and two prostheses, the sound of my uneven steps burns my gut with frustration. Trevor's door is open. Funny how fast that room has become his in my mind. A month ago it was a bare mattress, the bedframe stacked against the wall. I step in, and he jumps up from the bed, looking startled, though there was no way he didn't hear me lurching up the stairs. His legs are bare above white socks.

  Christ. Frank spanked him bare? What was I getting into? Then he moves, and I can see the briefs under the hem of his long-sleeved T-shirt. I take in the chair pulled away from the desk. There's no sign of a belt, which had been my father's choice of correction. Thank God for that.

  I fix him with a stare. "Once we start, there's no changing your mind, Trevor. This is the consequence you're taking." The last thing I want to do is wrestle with him while I'm trying to smack his ass.

  "Okay. I get it." His voice holds a nervous tremor under his bluster of impatience.

  "You can still come clean out the storeroom."

  He shakes his head.

  "All right then." I sit in the chair, and he moves to stand next me.

  This might be my first go at it, but it's not like learning to drill for a color guard. I pull him over my lap, thighs against mine, his ass tipped up. I spread my legs enough so his tackle has room without rubbing on me. His toes are on the floor, and the muscles of his thighs twitch and tremble. I push the hem of his shirt up, and I hear his breath suck in through his teeth. Getting a good grip on his waist, I bring my right hand down against his cotton-covered butt in a smack that sends that breath whistling back out.

  He jerks a little, a grunt escaping his mouth. My palm tingles. I flex my hand as I size up the target. This isn’t something I ever saw myself doing, but it sure as hell feels like the perfect fix to the bratty attitude I’ve been getting. I can see myself getting to enjoy this particular duty.

  I raise my hand and spank him again.

  Chapter 4

  Trevor

  I CLENCH my teeth against an ow and flinch. Newsflash, Trevor, getting your ass beat hurts. Wait. Actually, I think I'm more startled, because right now it doesn't hurt. Not even when he smacks me again and again. Stings, yeah, with the hard crack of his palm, but the aftershock is a rush of warm prickles that shoot straight to my dick.

  His abs are hard against my side, unyielding as a rock, and I love it. Love the contact. A man holding me. No, it's not for sex, but it's the closest I've ever been to it. Yeah, I’m a freak, fine. It’s not like I needed to take Intro to Psych to figure out that I am seriously fucked up.

  His hand covers a good part of my ass each time it lands. He's targeting the same area now, and it's starting to hurt, but not in a way I can't handle. I'm drunk off the sensation of being this close to him. His arm is locked around my waist, and his palm cups my cheek when it lands.

  Thank God my dick is in the space between his thighs, or he'd feel me boning up.

  I shift forward, and my hands land on the carpet. I can see my white socks on the other end, and my whole body gets hot with a weird blend of arousal and shame. I try to stop thinking about my twisted psyche. I just want Grady to hold me here and swat my ass a few more times to get it really hot and tingly, then let me up and leave me alone so I can jerk off. Here's hoping I can hide the tent in my briefs until he's out of the room.

  He moves his left leg, putting his foot on the chair rail so that my ass tips up higher. It throws off my balance, and I cling to his ankle. The dirty, wrong, hot feeling in my belly spreads, making my balls tighten.

  Some instinct urges me want to push my ass up more, but I'm afraid he'll notice, catch on to the game. He may be making my butt sting, but it's not much of a deterrent when it gets me this hard. Snugged up against him, dick full, ass throbbing, I'm pretty sure I want to be late every night.

  His hand lands again, but this time it's much harder. It hurts now. A lot. Before I can even process how much pain I'm in, he follows up with another cement-handed spank, and another fast pound on the same spot. Each smack doubles the hurt from the one before. The exponential explosion in my nerves forces out a yelp, and my legs kick up.

  He slaps my bare thigh twice.

  I don't like that at all.

  "Feet down," he warns.

  I'm trying. Believe me, I'm trying. He shifts the spot he's targeting for bruises, moving a few inches down, some of his fingers slamming into the spot where my ass and thighs meet, right on the leg band of my briefs. God, that hurts.

  No more worrying about him noticing my hard dick now. ’Cause it isn't. Apparently, I'm not that kinky. I twist and shift, trying to move different skin, non-blistered skin, under his hand, but he clamps harder on my waist.

  "Do I have your attention now, Trevor?" He follows the question with his hardest swing yet.

  That turns my yes, sir into a yelp.

  "Good." His fingers squeeze my burning skin. "When is curfew?"

  "Ten, sir."

  He blasts my ass with ten, all at that same force, all on that same spot, where his fingers thud into the crease of my thigh. I am so over thinking this is hot. Kink cured. Thank you very much.

  "One more time. When is curfew?"

  My eyes are watering. I wouldn't call it tears, but we are headed down that path. I'm scared he's going to do ten more and I'm going to be a sobbing basket case by five.

  I want to plead No, stop, but I manage, "Ten, sir."

  "Good." He slams his hand into me again.

  I gasp, and it's damned close to a whimper.

  "Okay then, we're done."

  I realize I'm still clutching his leg in a death grip. I will my fingers to let go.

  He rests a hand on my back as I shift my weight onto my feet. The touch lets me know how sweaty I am. It's gross. I'm gross. The guys in the videos don't look like this, dick soft, eyes wet, sweat everywhere.

  His hand steadies me as I climb off him.

  "You've been doing better about leaving your crap around the house. But you can do better in here." He stands and puts the chair back under the desk.

  I've made the bed, sort of. The quilt hides the worst of the lumps.

  He stalks over and scoops up some clothes on the floor next to the bed. "Like putting this in the laundry hamper."

  Oh God. I want to die. One of the socks in his hand is my go-to come rag. How can he not tell?

  But he just says, "Will I see you for dinner tomorrow?"

  Tomorrow's Tuesday. My last class gets out at four ten, and I usually head home early on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  He's standing in my doorway, holding the pile of clothes. I sneak a look at his face and figure out there a reason he's asking beyond checking to see how much dinner to make. He's trying to put things normal again, after he turned my ass into a hot, swollen bruise.

  I'm not pissed at him. It's not as if I didn't ask for it in every possible sense.

  "Yes, sir. I won't be late."

  "I'm sure you won't." His lips soften a fraction in what passes for a Grady smile, then he leaves me alone.

  I shut the door behind him. There's an age-spotted mirror tacked up on the closet door. I run over and drop my briefs, craning my head around and twisting as I try to get a peek at my ass. After some Exorcist-like moves, I'm disappoin
ted to see it pretty much looks the same as always. Reddened, but the color is fading to pink. No bruises.

  I squeeze it. Still hurts, but not at all like when he was doing it. In fact, that squeeze I did just pumped life back into my dick. I push on the spot where he seemed to concentrate the spanks. It hurts in that good way again.

  Oh shit. I am a total perv.

  I go across the hall to brush my teeth. Grady comes in after a minute or two. He doesn't knock, but then I didn't have the bathroom door shut all the way. He slaps a bottle of lotion and a washcloth on the counter next to the sink, right in my line of view.

  He taps the bottle. "Put the washcloth in the laundry more often than that sock."

  I'm frozen mid-spit, foamy toothpaste dripping off my chin. My eyes cut to the lotion, thinking about the smoother glide of my hand on my dick. At the same time, I'm totally freaking because Grady—whose dick I'm usually picturing when I jerk off—is the one giving me the suggestion. I know I didn't invent masturbation, not even the various versions mine takes, but I can't believe Grady, strict Catholic Marine drill sergeant, is kind of almost talking to me about it and giving me permission.

  "Got it?" Grady forces my eyes to meet his in the mirror.

  "Yes…" my butt feels hot and prickly and I add, "…sir."

  "Good." Grady swats my ass as he leaves.

  It wasn't a hard spank, but it wakes up all the sensations under the skin. The warm sting, the way the heat and tingle translates to a rush of need in my dick. It takes a second for that to sink in, then I'm rinsing as fast as I can to get back across the hall to try out the lotion.

  I've seen enough porn to know about lube, but I haven't worked up the nerve to buy any for myself yet. The lotion has this tangy smell, not flowery or soapy. I lie on my back and put a good bit of the lotion on my hand and stroke my dick. God, yes, that's nice.

  Why haven't I tried this before? So much better than spit. Thank you, Grady.

  I push my ass into the bed, trying to milk every bit of that fading soreness, concentrating on how it had felt with his strength holding me, struggling against the pain, the sweetness of knowing I'm going to lose. He's going to make me take it. Going to make me come.