The Trouble with Trevor (Off Limits Book 1)

by Cin Forrester

“What time is it?” Like we both don’t already know the answer.

  “Around ten.” He shrugs.

  Okay then, here we go. I’m on him in two steps, making sure to land on my real foot so I can pivot as I clamp my hand on the back of his neck. Damn, his hair is so long, soft under my grip. I drag his head down so my watch is in his face. “What time does that say?”

  He doesn’t struggle, but his muscles are rigid. He mumbles something.

  “What?” I loosen my grip a fraction.

  “Ten o’clock.”

  I squeeze and give him a little shake. “Try again.”

  “Ten thirteen.” There’s a sigh of surrender in his voice. “But I’ve already been inside for—”

  “Two minutes.” I let him go.

  His eyes watch me close.

  “You gotta reason for being late?”

  “I didn’t think ten minutes really mattered that much.” Something about the flat way he says it reminds me of the way he’d been last night, waiting for me to say the right thing.

  Looking after him for Frank meant more than just feeding him and making sure he didn’t drink himself to death. “Trevor, is something going on?”

  When he doesn’t answer, I push, “School? Friends?”

  I stretch a hand toward his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch or pull away, but he’s not meeting my eyes.

  “Your nightmares?” I try.

  “No.” He ducks away. “Jesus Christ.”

  There’s enough of a pause for the last to be more deliberate baiting. You caught yourself a damned big fish, brat. “Watch your mouth.”

  There’s no apology. Not that I expected one. I don’t know what the hell he wants with this shit, but I know damned well what he’s going to get. “You were late. You know the consequences. Go upstairs and get ready. Don’t forget about the paddle.”

  He swings his backpack over one shoulder and makes for the stairs, then turns back. “Wait. You said I had a choice.”

  “You had a choice to be home on time.”

  He blinks and sucks on his lip before saying, “I mean about taking a spanking.”

  Oh. I’d never wanted to spank him in the first place, so why am I disappointed now? I think of something substantial enough for all this defiance. The kid loved his sleep. “Okay. Forget about sleeping past five a.m. for the next week. I’ve got lots of chores you can be doing.”

  “A whole week? For ten f—for ten minutes.”

  “It’s a repeat offense. You should probably get to bed now. Don’t count on any free time this weekend either.”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll take a spanking.” Again with the heavy, defeated sigh.

  “Trevor.” I say it sharp, and he looks up. “Your butt is going to be damned sore, probably for days. Last chance for you to change your mind.”

  I was really hoping he wouldn’t, just like I was looking forward to making him sorry about that. I couldn’t explain it to myself. I knew I didn’t want to beat him up or punch him, but making his ass sore enough that he was thinking twice about his attitude every time he sat down was going to be damned satisfying.

  I had to fight a smile when he said with a huff, “I’ve got other stuff I want to do this weekend,” and turned to climb the stairs.

  “Might want to take a piss. You’re gonna be occupied for a while.”

  Chapter 8

  Trevor

  MY dick is half-hard. My stomach rolls back and forth between nauseous dread and ball-tingling anticipation. Lightheaded from the blood rushing downhill, I grab on to the sink and peer at my face.

  My eyes are doing the thousand-yard stare behind my glasses, and my cheeks are bright red. That thought brings my dick into a full chub. So not something I'm gonna be able to hide when Grady calls me.

  God, this is all Cael’s fault. Well, not so much his as the bad timing of his ski events, I hope. I mean, he did seem like he was interested. I texted him to tell him I wanted to give him back his scarf before he left, that I could meet him after his eight o’clock class. He sent me a wink and told me to hang on to it a little longer. Then Kiani spent half of our post-lab meeting talking about her plans with her boyfriend for the weekend while I felt all awkward when she asked about Cael. I’d gone from being happy college freshman with friends and a maybe boyfriend to feeling like the same miserable dork I’d been in Ohio.

  I take off my glasses and splash cold water all over my face, run it through my hair. It doesn't help. I swear to God there is steam coming off me. I knew this had been stupid, but my dick is happy and my stomach did excited leaps when Grady grabbed the back of my neck to make me look at his watch.

  There's a window over the laundry hamper, a few layers of paint peeling on the wooden frame, one tiny imperfection in Grady's high-and-tight world. I force it open enough to stick my head out into the freezing February night. I frost-burn my lungs gulping in air; my lashes freeze up on my watering eyes, but it gets my dick to finally calm down.

  When my eyes adjust to the dark, I can just see past the bare branches of the tree in the back of Grady's yard, the humps and blocks of the old cemetery. Dead people and cold should be enough to keep my horny, perverted dick calm, but I hear Grady's uneven step in the hall, and the half-good, half-horrible anticipation starts up in my stomach again.

  He knocks, and his voice rumbles through the door. "Okay, Trevor. Let's go."

  I jump and hit my head on the window frame. "Jes—Jeez," I remember at the last second. My dick might be confused about it now, but my brain knew how far I’d pushed things downstairs. I’m not swearing again where Grady can hear me. I haul myself in.

  "Trev? You all right?" Grady pushes the bathroom door open. His light brown eyes are wide, staring into my face. "Now come on. It's not that bad. Didn't even start yet."

  My throat's gone dry, and I can't unstick my frozen, chapped lips to answer him.

  He throws a towel over my head and rubs it. Guess my hair froze too.

  God, he's so close. Big muscles stretch the Bruins jersey across his acre of chest. I can smell the tang of his sweat, a hint of coffee on his breath. I chew on my lip as he drags the cloth over my head once, twice, then—

  "What the hell? Were you smoking in here?" He stomps by me and slams the window shut, sniffing around.

  "No," I yelp immediately. I can't imagine what the penalty for smoking is. But even that terror isn't enough to have stopped the curl of heat in my stomach from the brief contact with his chest. He's your godfather. He's old. But I've been telling myself all that every day since I got here, and it hasn't made any difference. I pull the towel off my head.

  Grady folds his arms—fuck, look at his arms—over his chest and leans back against the laundry hamper. "You think if you give yourself a cold, you'll get out of it?"

  All that concerned warmth is gone from his expression now. I tell myself it's just the lighting in here, but his eyes, his whole face, is now dark with suspicion.

  Though my skin breaks out in nervous prickles, my dick starts to fill again. I have some epically fucked-up wiring, that's for sure.

  I hold the towel in front of my crotch. "No."

  "Then why're you heating the Grey Cemetery?" He jerks a thumb at the black rectangle of glass behind him. "They don't need it, and the greedy bastards at the power company sure as hell don't need any more of my money."

  His lip twitches, like it’s almost a joke. Now my stomach and my balls are tingling.

  "I just got really hot all of a sudden."

  Grady snaps to attention and puts the back of his hand against my forehead. "You're not hot now. But a part of you is about to be. Let's go, brat. You've got extra coming for wasting my heat."

  I go. A swat to my ass gets me out in the hall faster. He gestures with his chin at my room, like I might have forgotten the drill from four days ago.

  Before hitting the bathroom, I pulled my desk chair into the middle of the room like I did last time, back when the idea of having Grady spank me was still a fantasy.
Now I know it really hurts, I know it’s going to hurt worse with that paddle, and it’s still turning me on.

  Instead of the straight-backed chair, Grady sits on my bed. "Why are we here, Trevor?"

  So you can beat my ass purple while I try not to spring wood would probably get me put back on a plane to Ohio where I can live with my parents and attend Jackson County Community College and be the only gay boy around. Instead, I say, "If I won't be home by ten, I need to call and have a damned good reason why not."

  I sure as hell didn’t have one tonight. I’d made sure things were going to end with me over his lap. I was counting on this leading to a lot of really hot jerk-off sessions to make up for the fact that Cael had gone out of town.

  Grady rests his hands on his thighs. I wish I still had a towel to hide behind.

  "Do you have a good reason for coming home after ten without calling?"

  "No."

  Grady nods. "Get 'em down.”

  That first time I’d wondered if I should pretend my dad spanked me over jeans or bare-assed. As much as I was wondering what it would be like to have Grady’s hand on my skin, even while he was punishing me, I’d been too nervous and opted for the compromise of my briefs.

  Nerves hit again as I bring my hands to my fly, not the good, exciting kind. Is he looking at my skinny legs? I know I don’t have a dick like the guys on porn sites do, even some of the soft ones I’ve seen. All of that’s enough to make sure I’m completely limp by the time my pants hit the floor.

  Grady’s uptight about keeping things neat, so I pick up my jeans and fold them over my arm, then drape them over the chair.

  Grady nods. “Pick up the paddle and come here.”

  The paddle is close enough for him to reach himself, but I do it. It makes my stomach twist again thinking that I’m holding what he’s going to use to hit me, that I’m bringing it to him. I hold the paddle in front of my dick and go to stand next to Grady in just my socks and long-sleeved Henley.

  “Thank you.”

  The whole thing feels like a strange kind of ritual, the Holy Ass-Roasting Processional.

  Then my breath catches tight and heavy in my throat. What if he’s going to make me bend over the bed? It might be hot in the video, but I don’t want to be taking it with him barely touching me. I want him holding me, even if it is over his lap for a spanking like I’m a little kid.

  It’s too late to argue now. He’d given me an out, and I’d picked this. In every way.

  The relief when he pats his thigh is so strong it almost knocks me over. He’s higher up this way than in the chair, sitting at an angle. “Put your top half on the bed, Trevor. Keep both hands on the paddle in front of you so you don’t put your hands back.”

  His arm around my waist feels so good. Safe and exciting at the same time. As he shifts me, I realize having half my weight on the bed is probably easier on his leg. I’m tight against his body, the hard muscle of his thigh pressing mine. He lays a hand on my ass, covering a good part of both cheeks. I think about how silly this should be, like something in an old cartoon or movie, but now that I’m here, I remember from last time how much I’d wanted him to stop, long before he did. The wood in my hands feels a lot heavier than it looks. He squeezes my butt cheeks with a shake, like you’d do petting a dog.

  Why am I such a freak that I want this? Why does being here make me feel way more than kissing Cael did, even though I’m so scared right now I’m glad Grady told me to take a piss? Most of all, why is he waiting so fucking long? I'm going to vibrate out of my skin if he doesn't start.

  He squeezes and shakes again. “Unclench.” His exhalation is almost a laugh. “I don’t want to break my hand.”

  I force my muscles to relax, and he pats me, holds my ass. Thank God my junk is between his legs because my dick fills with an ache. One more squeeze and pat, then he starts.

  His hand smacks across the bottom of my cheeks, a hard, sharp slap. Though I was waiting for it, my breath jumps out of me in a gasp. He brings his hand down again, three times hard and fast all on the same spot. Fuck. Did it hurt this much the last time? My dick doesn't mind though; it's throbbing along with my ass.

  He's spanking me with rapid-fire, solid cracks from his palm, sometimes all on one cheek and then the other, but usually over and over on both, down low where it's getting super sore. I push my hips up more, hoping the smacks will land a bit off, give that spot a break, but his arm around me is locked tight and his hand gets heavier, harder.

  There’s a nice, steady pulse in my dick, an electric thrill in my balls, dizzy lurches in my stomach, but pain is starting to bleed through all that, an insistent sting. I concentrate on riding those other feelings, but he keeps hitting that same spot, and the pain shifts into something bright and sharp and hot. I don't want to cry and seem pathetic, but fuck, it hurts. I grit my teeth, legs starting to shake from the pressure of keeping my feet against the floor. I grip the paddle tighter to keep from falling apart like a baby.

  I know better than to kick from last time. As bad as it hurts, it’s way worse on my thighs. I try again to shift different skin under his hand, and he clamps around me with that iron grip.

  “Stop wiggling.”

  “Sorry. It hurts.” That's a fucking brilliant observation.

  “It's supposed to hurt, Trevor." He sounds amused.

  Glad I could be so entertaining.

  His voice gets sterner. “I told you it would.” He's changed the angle now, smacking my cheeks up, palm scraping the usually soft cotton against my skin as he skips across. The change feels good to my dick, and if I could just jerk off, I know I’d love it. But I can’t. It hurts bad, and we haven’t even gotten to the paddle, and I’m starting to realize that I am in way over my head. What the fuck was I thinking? I wasn’t. My dick was.

  He goes back to that solid, endless smack against the bottom of my ass. Can we have a time-out?

  "Sorry." It comes out as a groan through my clenched teeth. But once the word is out, there's a whole bunch behind it and I can't stop. "Sorry. Please. God. Grady, I'm sorry."

  "Good." He lands a solid smack and then pauses the assault. My ass sizzles like he’s been hitting me with a shovel full of hot coals.

  Just so I don’t forget what’s happening, he rubs. My dick loves it, so I tip my hips so it doesn’t quite poke his thigh.

  “Now. Your language and you wasting my heat.”

  He starts again, fast, so fast I can’t catch my breath. I don’t kick, but I’m shaking my legs out to try to spread the sensation onto other nerves.

  “Sorry.” I gasp it.

  He just spanks me. I forget about my dick. Forget about how much I want to jerk off at the thought of him holding me. It’s all I can do to make it through the next smack, and the next. I wipe my eyes on my forearm.

  He stops and rests his hand on my ass, right over the spot that feels the hottest, like he's baking in the pain until I feel it on a cellular level. My dick has opted out, my balls shriveled against me like they're afraid they might be next.

  My breath echoes inside my ears, loud and harsh, like I've run ten miles. I wonder if this counts as a cardio workout. Maybe if I live here for four years, I'll be ready for a marathon and Grady's right arm will double in size.

  Grady's next words drop like chunks of ice into my gut.

  "All right, Trevor, hand me the paddle."

  Why don’t I tell him to get it himself? He can't make me hand him the paddle. But I pass it back, and the reminder that I'm participating in him punishing me sends something cold then meltingly warm rolling through my nervous system. My dick makes a twitch like it wants to get interested again. I tip my ass up and relax my cheeks.

  The sensation of solid wood slamming into my ass isn’t much worse than his hand—at first. But by the time my nerves have figured out what happened, that something heavy just smashed against my already sore butt, my dick doesn’t want any part of it. The pain is just dying down to something I can deal with whe
n he smacks me again.

  My leg flies up. I don’t want it to, it just does.

  Grady smacks my thigh with the paddle. “Legs down.”

  But I can’t control that instinct of self-preservation, the nerves making my body move away from pain.

  I hate it on my thighs.

  I’ve got no pride left to worry about. “I can’t. I’m trying.”

  He slips his right leg from under mine and then over them, pinning them down. Pinning me down.

  “Thank you.” Stupid, right? To thank him for making my ass an easier target? But I can’t help it. The good, warm squirms are back in my stomach.

  He makes a sound between a sigh and a grunt. “Give me your hands too. I don’t want to risk hitting them.”

  He puts them together, and I wrap my wrists around the opposite forearm. His hand keeps them bound, keeps me in position with his weight. It’s the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me. I imagine that he’s about to put the paddle down, slide his fingers down my crack and into my ass. He’ll tell me he can’t keep his hands off me, and he’ll fuck my still-burning ass, holding me in those big arms while he kisses me.

  Instead, he snaps the paddle against my ass. Flat, heavy, deep pain. He nails the same spot over and over, damned perfect aim that makes me wonder if he was a sniper with the Marines. Then I’m not thinking anything.

  I only know that I can't. I can't take it anymore. My body won't let me. I jerk, trying to shift away from that horrible stinging thud that doubles in intensity with every smack of the paddle.

  I am certifiably insane. Why did I agree to this? Why did I think for one crazy second I wanted him to spank me again? I've been hanging over his lap forever. It hurts. It hurts so much and I don't want it anymore.

  My feet push against the carpet, trying to move me off his lap. I don't care if I'm acting like a baby. "Grady, please. I can't. I'm sorry. Please. I can't." My voice breaks, and I have to swallow or I'm going to cry.

  "I know." His voice is soft, like a reassurance, but he keeps right on hammering my ass with that wooden torture device.

  I could stand it if he gave me a number, a time. Something so I'd know we were getting close to done. “I swear, I won’t do it again.”