Manhattan Man Hunt Pt 7 ~ A romance sex story from sex story sites.

"Suit yourself, buddy. As far as I'm concerned you ain't nothing but a hound dog, anyway."

Beech quivered but kept a straight back as Anita added injury to insult by vandalising his basket. Underneath the cushion was a neatly coiled strip of leather held in place with pieces of ducting tape. She pulled off the pieces of tape and held up the leather coil. At first she thought it was just a spare dog collar for Beech - and then she realised it was much too big for that. This was a thick leather choker as wide as her thumb, embedded with silver pyramid studs and with a big silver restraining ring double studded to the front of it.

"Toni! What the hell are you doing to me?"

Anita put down the choker but kept glancing at it as she put the cushion back inside the basket. "OK, mutt, it's all yours again. No wonder you always look so pissed - that mistress of yours is an evil, evil woman. And her ears are even bigger than yours."

The dog sniffed in disdain, walked back to the basket and began making a big performance out of re-settling himself into a comfortable position.

"Go ahead, have a good night's sleep. It's probably more than I'm going to get."

Back to the computer, back to the e-mail attachment: "Layme.txt" Very funny, Toni. She clicked on it . . .

OK, Anita, it looks like we have an interesting situation here.

Now I need to tell you that I've talked to Tristan a lot about you. He wants to stay in the US for a while longer and he knows a lawyer like you could be a real help to him. What he doesn't want to do is have a lawyer filing a complaint of sexual harassment against him. So he asked me to try and find a way where there'd be no misunderstandings. Now I'm writing this without knowing what happened when you met and if there was any chemistry between you - but I don't think you'd have opened this file if you weren't getting some hots for Tristan Yorstan (hell of a name, isn't it? Sounds like the Swedish Chef on Sesame Street.)

Still, if you're not interested, put the choker in a drawer and forget about it until I come back and collect it. You can have Tristan walk Beech, clean your apartment, your car, maybe even squire you around to anyplace you want to go. I'll pay the wages and he won't lay a finger on you. That's the deal and I guess I'd trust the big lug. I don't think he's ever been short of feminine company in his life and he's not likely to be having a frustrating time in Manhatten.

On the other hand, if you want to be swept off your feet, just open the door to him with the choker around your neck. He'll put that leash onto it, haul you into the bedroom and . . . . well, I guess you get the idea. It's a little game Tristan and I play and Beech gets as mad as hell when I get taken for walkies before he does. Anyway, between us, we've sure been keeping that guy fit.

So there it is. Now you know how to bring the genie out of the bottle but forget about any kind of three wishes routine. I've told Tristan and now I'm telling you, counsellor, as long as that choker is on you'll be doing what he wants and any objections will be over-ruled. That's the way we play it and that's the way you're going to have to play it if you want to join in. You're either going to be a totally unsullied fille d'honneur or a totally screwed every which way but loose fille de joie. These are big girl's games and them's the rules.

I guess the only other thing you need to know is that playing the dutiful daughter in Oklahoma is probably going to be as much fun as a vacation spent cleaning the craphouses in a Mexican nunnery. I'm going with gritted teeth and the intention of spending at least two weeks with the family but don't count on it. I could be back very much sooner and if you're still humming and hawing you'll have lost your chance. To tell you the truth, hon, if there's no other way to keep Tristan I'll move my entire goddam business to Scotland and run it through the internet. And won't I love breaking that news to the bridges and tunnels set who keep turning up late for work with hard luck stories about how far they live from Manhattan.

So there it is - Tristan needs a lawyer and I think you're a lawyer who needs Tristan. He's yours on a strictly loan arrangement because you're the only woman in town I'd even halfway trust with him and because - to be honest - I've got no other choice. I'll also be honest enough to admit that I'd love to know what happens between the two of you.