Shane and Carmen: The Novelization Ch. 19

"Mrs. Jaffe? I don't know. I think maybe we can swing it, with a little bit of luck. Can you be here around 1:45? Shane should be free about 1:40 but I know she'll want a cigarette. I've shifted two clients around, and one of them's going to be really pissed, but I think maybe I can talk her down if you're still willing to cover, say half her bill? You will? That's terrific. I think maybe I can sell it, then. So, see you at 1:45?"

Without being too obvious, Shane rushed her 1 p.m., who in any case didn't need much, and finished her at 1:25 p.m. She escorted her downstairs to John's desk, said goodbye, and made a quick trip to the bathroom to pee. Then she passed through the small break room in the rear, grabbed a diet soda from the refrigerator, and went out to the back alley, lighting her cigarette as she passed through the door. Cherie arrived a few minutes early, and when Shane climbed the stairs back up to her station on the mezzanine she found Cherie chatting with John like they were old bosom buddies. When she saw Shane, Cherie jumped up from the chair and embraced her, giving Shane fake Hollywood cheek-brush air kisses, MWAH! MWAH! while John looked on and beamed. He departed, pulling across the privacy curtain that shielded Shane's station from view. The moment they were safely alone Cherie dropped the Hollywood shit and again embraced Shane, this time giving her a lover's kiss, mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

"God, I've missed you," Cherie whispered. "You have no idea. And I haven't had a decent cum in weeks and weeks."

"I missed you, too," Shane said, hugging Cherie and surprised to hear herself say such a thing. She really had missed Cherie, which she didn't understand and it made no sense. But thinking about Cherie's appointment had made Shane's heart beat fast all morning. She had never felt quite this way about anyone, not that she remembered.

Cherie broke out of the hug. "I'm soooooooo sorry I missed your birthday, but I got you something, I think you'll really love it." She had brought with her several shopping bags, for she had just come from Rodeo Drive where she'd found a new Valentino Clemente for tonight. She rummaged in one of the bags and then brought out a tastefully wrapped box the size of a shoe box.

"You didn't have to--" Shane started to say.

"Yes, I did," Cherie said. "I really did. You'll see why when you open it."

Secretly pleased and flattered, Shane began to open the present, her heart touched by Cherie's gesture. Lately Cherie had begun to give Shane a present each time Shane did her hair or had sex with her. At first it was simply a nice gesture, and Shane didn't know how to process it, since almost no one had ever given her anything before, not on this scale. But after the third or fourth time Shane began to feel the gift-giving was getting out of hand. She knew Cherie and Steve were wealthy beyond dreams, and spent lavishly, but that wasn't the point. The point was it was beginning to feel like sex for money, or at least, sex for gifts. Fuck me and you get a nice bauble. Shane had never heard of Pavlov, but there was starting to get a Pavlovian feel to it. Perform, get a treat.

Cherie's face was lit with joy while she watched Shane open the box and draw aside the tissue paper. And then Shane had found it, and looked at it. For a second there was a look of consternation on her face because she didn't recognize exactly what it was. And then her expression changed as she suddenly realized what Cherie had given her. Cherie burst into happy laughter.

"Darling, don't you love it? I know how you despise those big, ugly, industrial ones, and I wanted a modest one that suited your personality. Go on, take it out."

Half a dozen emotions played over Shane's face as she reached into the shoe box and carefully removed one of the most beautiful strap-ons she had ever seen. The straps were elegant, black, hand-tooled leather, supple and softer than glove leather. The harness featured a single waist strap about an inch wide. In the back there was a small gusset, and from it there was a narrowed, round strap that passed between the butt cheeks to the front, where it anchored the bottom of the front mount. The harness encased a beautiful six-inch, modest-sized non-representational dildo. It had a pleasantly shaped round head, not exactly an anatomically correct cock head, but one that would function like one. The smooth shaft had no veins or anything to make it look like a man's cock. Yet it was smooth and flowing, elegant and sleek, made of some kind of material that gave the word "plastic" much more credit than it deserved. It had a hand-tooled leather surround holding it in place, and at the top of the harness right over the joint of the dildo there was inset what looked to Shane like a half-carat or full-carat diamond, smooth on the outward face so it wouldn't cut or scratch the pubes it came in contact with. Shane looked at it a moment, figuring it all out, and looked back into the shoe box. Sure enough, there was an accessory, a modest leather-like pouch, a kid-glove scrotum sack with a tube that could be fed into the dildo. The scrotum had a small attachment strap so it could be slung under the dildo at the wearer's option. The sack could be filled with the liquid of choice, and at the key moment either the wearer or the recipient could squeeze the dildo ballsack and shoot a dose of cum-like fluid into the mouth, pussy or ass of the recipient. Or between the breasts or on the tummy, bottom or face, as desired. Shane could tell it was incredibly well made and must have cost a small fortune. It was not the Cadillac of strap-ons, large, luxurious, and showy. It was the Maserati, compact, sleek, maneuverable, fast, and as such it required a world-class driver.

Cherie stood watching her, her face glowing with pleasure. "You love it, don't you?" Cherie said. "I know your bad experience with strap-ons, but after we fucked with Rebecca I thought maybe you were over it. And I think this one is just so ... so ... well, so Shane, that I can't wait for you to fuck me with it. It's sleek and sexy and modest, and just so perfectly sized, just like your tits and your pussy and your mouth, and I would just LOVE for you to fuck me with it right this minute, but darling I REALLY do need to get my hair done and I'm so running late. So happy birthday, my darling!"

Cherie wrapped Shane in her arms and kissed her warmly on the mouth, and then broke away and plopped herself down in the chair. "Okay! I need a really good wash and shampoo because I think I still have sand in my hair from the Caymans. And listen, what are you doing Sunday? Steve has a golf outing in Palm Springs or some place, and he'll be gone all day and probably all night. I'll be out at the Malibu house, so why don't you come over as early as you can Sunday morning, and be sure to wear your new present."

"Uh, yeah, okay, sure," Shane said as she bent Cherie over a basin and began to wash her hair. She hadn't packed under her clothes in what, seven years? Ever since the rape. Maybe it was time to get over that. Cherie had fucked her ass, and then let Rebecca have a turn, and Shane had liked it well enough, even though she was pretty stoned. Ironically, at that moment, Cherie was bent over the wash basin and Shane was humping into her bottom, and practically butt-fucking Cherie right now, although they were both dressed and Cherie wasn't thinking of sex but planning her evening.

"What are you going to name him?" Cherie asked as Shane washed her hair.

"What? Name who?" Shane asked.

"Your strap-on," Cherie said, her head in the basin.

"Oh," Shane said. "Let me think about it."

Suddenly Shane knew the answer. She'd had the radio on while she worked on customers, and that morning she'd heard Relax, by Frankie Goes to Hollywood, a song and group she'd always liked. The lyric ran through her head, and seemed extraordinarily appropriate to the ambivalence she felt about having her butt invaded:

Give it to me one time now
Yeah-hea, whoa-ho ho ho ho ho
Well-ell No-ow!

Relax, don't do it
When you want to to go to it
Relax, don't do it
When you want to come
Relax, don't do it
When you want to sock it to it
Relax, don't do it
When you want to come
When you want to come

"Its name is going to be Frankie," Shane said to Cherie as she straightened her up and wrapped her wet hair in a towel and led her to a dryer. "'Frankie Goes to Hollywood.' That's the name of my strap-on."

"Cool," Cherie said. "I love it. So, just make sure you bring Frankie on Sunday, 'kay? 'Cause I'm gonna give Frankie the ride of his young life."

And she did.