Page 2 of A New Year's Toy

“Thank you, Daddy.” I manage between sobs that his care helps simmer out.

The physical pain drains away as Alistair places me on a soft cushion. The sofa he has me on offers a view of the lake his home in Medina, Seattle overlooks. It’s soothing. It’s peaceful. It’s becoming my home.

Alistair swaddles me in a thermal throw blanket. Warming flames lick at the stone walls of Alistair’s fireplace, and yet it’s not enough to fight the cold December in Seattle.

Especially in my naked state, emotionally and physically.

With my body covered, Alistair unfolds himself to his six feet two inches. He throws on his gray sweatpants and matching Henley shirt. He rakes his fingers through his short, straight dark-blond hair in an attempt to smooth it, then he sits at my side.

His thigh brushes mine, his thumbs wipe the salty water off my cheeks and jaw, clearing a wayward lock off my face.

“Here.” He beckons me to take the thermos of tea we set near us before we started this evening. “Drink this.”

I prefer Alistair’s warmth over tea, but I take it without arguing. He’s a firm believer in aftercare and grounding me, and I trust him to always have my best intentions in mind.

While I drink in small sips, he dabs a plush, white cloth in a bowl of lukewarm water. I study him behind the rim of the thermos.

He lifts the bottom of the blanket, gently parting my legs to allow him access. There’s an immense tenderness to how he pats the insides of my thighs. He treats my bum with equal gentle care, lifting me to pat it lovingly.

“We’ll have to apply ointment on you.” He levels me with a meaningful stare once he’s done. “But I’d like to talk first for a few minutes. I’m concerned.”

I take another drink of my tea. Chamomile has such a soothing quality.

So does honesty.

Skipping on dancing around the subject, I ask, “About the tears?”

A wide range of emotions tend to flare in Alistair’s smirk—filthy thoughts, conspiring scenes, and sometimes, like today, it’s a smirk that says I see you and thank you for not hiding it from me.

“You said yourself you needed this session today, not to just try out the new toys.” He brushes the corner of my eye, Swiping away the residue of a tear.

Yes, Alistair and I test and enjoy my products and are rough about it.

But it didn’t start this way for him.

He’s aware of the therapeutic benefits of sadomasochism, of why I asked for it as a way to work out my stress, because he’s been using it for the longest time to get over his own issues.

Years ago, Alistair’s younger sister went out for a fun day of diving into the sea from cliffs with friends and his mom asked him to look after her. Since Connie had done it plenty in the past, he trusted her to be fine. He stayed at home to work on his developing business.

Connie never returned from that trip. It wasn’t Alistair’s fault. He couldn’t have done anything even if he’d been there. In his heart, none of that mattered.

He hated himself, hated Mother Nature for stealing his sister from him. His loathing burned bright in a fire he kept trying to put out ever since through sadism.

It’s how he handled his grief and the loss of control that day brought him for over twenty years. Being the bearer of pain and deliverer of pleasure all at once gave him a sense of power, chasing off the nightmares. If only for a while.

He’s been doing better, our love and talks definitely help. But he remembers how it helped him. He engulfs me with his kind of cruel love always, letting me know he’s not like my ex from high school who dumped me shortly after we started having sex.

And he’s that more conscious of it when I tell him in advance that I need to relieve my own stress.

“But it appears I miscalculated the severity of it.” His brown eyes lighten, soften around the edges. “Is there anything other than the shop stressing you out?”

“No…”

Before I get to finish my reply, Alistair places the teas aside. He’s careful of my sore body, hoists me off the sofa, spreads his legs, and positions my wounded behind between them.

His lips press to the top of my head. I melt into his chest. The physical pain is forgotten, the cane a distant memory. I lean into Alistair, finding comfort in his broad, hard chest, clinging to his shirt.

“You know you can tell me anything,” he cajoles.

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