Emmanuelle (5 page)

Marie-Anne arrived in a white American car driven by an Indian chauffeur with a turban and a black beard. He left as soon as she had gotten out. “Will you be able to drive me home, Emmanuelle?” she asked.

Emmanuelle was struck by her familiarity and also noticed, more than the day before, how much Marie-Anne’s voice was in harmony with her braids and her skin. She had an impulse to kiss the girl on both cheeks, but something held her back. Was it the pointed little breasts under her blue blouse? Ridiculous!

Marie-Anne was standing close to her. “Don’t pay any attention to the stories those idiots tell,” she said. “They’re always bragging. They don’t do a tenth of what they say they do.”

“Of course,” Emmanuelle agreed after taking a second to realize that Marie-Anne was referring to the older women at the pool. “Shall we sit on the terrace?”

Marie-Anne accepted the proposal with a nod. They went up to the second floor. As they were passing the door of her bedroom, Emmanuelle suddenly remembered the big nude photograph of her that Jean kept by his bed, and she was afraid her guest would see it. She quickened her pace, but Marie-Anne had already stopped in front of the mosquito netting that separated the bedroom from the landing.

“Is that your bedroom?” she asked. “May I see it?”

She went inside without waiting for an answer. Emmanuelle followed her. Marie-Anne burst out laughing. “What an enormous bed! How many people sleep in it with you?”

Emmanuelle blushed. “It’s actually two twin beds pushed together.”

Marie-Anne looked at the photograph. “You’re beautiful. Who took it?”

Emmanuelle wanted to lie by saying that Jean had taken it, but she was unable to do so. “An artist, a friend of my husband,” she admitted.

“Do you have any other pictures? He must not have taken only this one. Don’t you have any that show you making love?”

Emmanuelle felt slightly dazed. What kind of a little girl was this who looked at her with those big green eyes and that bright smile, and asked such astounding questions in a tone of camaraderie, with no apparent emotion? And the worst of it was that, perhaps because of those eyes, Emmanuelle felt that she could do nothing but tell the truth, and that this child had the power to make her confess all her secrets if she wanted to. She abruptly opened the door, as though that act could protect her. “Shall we go?”

Marie-Anne smiled fleetingly. They went out onto a terrace that was sheltered from the sun by a yellow and white striped awning. A warm breeze was blowing from the nearby river.

“You’re so lucky!” Marie-Anne exclaimed. “There’s no other house in Bangkok with a location like this. What a wonderful view, and what a comfortable feeling!”

Marie-Anne stood still for a moment before the landscape of coconut palms and flame trees. Then, with a natural movement, she unfastened her high raffia belt and tossed it onto one of the wicker chairs. Without further delay, she unzipped her colorful skirt, let it drop to the floor, and stepped out of the circle it formed around her feet. Her blouse came down to her hips, below the sides of her panties, so that nothing could be seen of them, front and back, but a narrow, crimson, lace-trimmed vertical strip. She sprawled on one of the deck chairs and picked up a magazine, not wasting a minute.

“It’s been so long since I saw any French magazines! Where did you get these?” She stretched out at ease, with her legs sedately joined.

Emmanuelle sighed, drove away the confused thoughts that were assailing her, and lay down facing Marie-Anne, who burst out laughing.

“What kind of a story is this, ‘Owl Oil’? Do you mind if I read it now?”

“Of course not, Marie-Anne.”

She plunged into the story. The open magazine hid her face. She did not remain motionless long. Her body became animated with sudden starts, like the shying of a colt. She raised her knee, and her left thigh, no longer pressed against her right one, leaned gently on the arm of the chair. Emmanuelle tried to look into the gap of her panties. One of Marie-Anne’s hands left the magazine, moved between her open legs, pushed aside the nylon, sought a point farther down, found it, and stayed there for a moment. Then it rose again, uncovering, as it passed, the groove in her flesh. It played over the swelling beneath the cloth, descended, slipped under her buttocks, and began the same itinerary again. But this time only her middle finger was lowered; the others, gracefully raised, flanked it like the open wings of an insect. It brushed against her skin until her wrist, abruptly bent, came to rest. Emmanuelle felt her heart beating so hard that she was afraid it could be heard. Her tongue was thrust forward between her lips.

Marie-Anne continued her game. The middle finger pressed down more deeply, pushing her flesh aside. It stopped again, drew a circle, hesitated, patted, and vibrated with an almost invisible movement. An uncontrolled sound came from Emmanuelle’s throat. Marie-Anne lowered her magazine and smiled at her.

“Don’t you caress yourself?” she asked in surprise. She leaned her head on her shoulder with a sly look. “I always caress myself when I read.”

Emmanuelle nodded her approval, incapable of speaking. Marie-Anne dropped her magazine, arched her back, put her hands to her hips, quickly pushed her red panties down over her thighs, and kicked her legs in the air until the panties were off. Then she relaxed, closed her eyes, and separated her pink mucous membranes with two fingers. “It feels good there,” she said. “Don’t you think so?”

Emmanuelle nodded again.

“I like to take a long time,” Marie-Anne went on in a tone of ordinary conversation. “That’s why I don’t touch the top too much. It’s better to go back and forth in the crack.” Her actions illustrated her precept.

She finally raised the small of her back and moaned faintly. “Oh! I can’t hold myself back any more!”

Her finger fluttered on her clitoris like a dragonfly. Her moan became a cry. Her thighs opened violently and snapped shut on her hand, imprisoning it. She cried out for a long time, in an almost heart-rending way, and fell back, panting. A few seconds later, when she had caught her breath, she opened her eyes. “It’s really too good,” she mused.

Inclining her head again, she put her middle finger into her sex, cautiously, delicately. Emmanuelle bit her lips. When Marie-Anne’s finger had entirely disappeared, she heaved a long sigh. She was radiant with health, a clear conscience, and the satisfaction of having fulfilled a duty. “Caress yourself, too,” she said encouragingly.

Emmanuelle hesitated, as though looking for a way out. But her confusion did not last long. She suddenly stood up, opened her shorts, and took them off. She was wearing nothing under them. Her orange sweater accentuated the gloss of her black pubic hair.

When Emmanuelle lay down again, Marie-Anne came and sat at her feet, on a soft plush-covered ottoman. They were now both dressed alike—chest covered, naked from the waist down. Marie-Anne looked at Emmanuelle’s sex from close up. “How do you like to caress yourself?”

“Why, the same as everyone else!” said Emmanuelle, unsettled by the light breath on her thighs.

Marie-Anne could have released her from the tension of her senses, and also from her embarrassment, by putting her hand on her. But she did not touch her. She merely said, “Show me.”

At least masturbation gave Emmanuelle immediate relief. It seemed to her that a curtain was being hung between her and the world, and, as her fingers accomplished their familiar mission between her legs, peace descended upon her. This time she did not try to prolong the pleasure of waiting. She needed to find a base, a known terrain, quickly; and she knew none better than the dazzling refuge of orgasm.

“How did you learn to come, Emmanuelle?” Marie-Anne asked her when she calmed down.

“I taught myself—my hands discovered it all by themselves,” Emmanuelle replied, laughing. She felt cheerful now, and in a mood for talking.

“Did you already know how to do it when you were thirteen?” Marie-Anne asked dubiously.

“Of course. I’d known for a long time by then. And you?”

Marie-Anne refrained from answering and pursued her inquiry. “What’s your favorite place to caress yourself?”

“Oh, I have several. The sensation is different at the tip, or on the side, or at the bottom. And the tiny little opening just below—you know, the urethra—is also very sensitive. All I have to do is touch it with my fingertips and I come immediately. Isn’t it the same with you?”

Marie-Anne again ignored the question. “What else do you do?”

“I like to caress myself inside my labia, where it’s wettest.”

“With your fingers?”

“Yes, and also with bananas.” Emmanuelle’s voice took on a ring of pride. “I push them all the way in. I peel them first. They mustn’t be ripe. The long green ones that you can buy here at the floating market . . . I can’t tell you how good they are!” She was so captivated by the images of her solitary delights that she had almost forgotten Marie-Anne’s presence. Her fingers kneaded her vulva. She wished something would penetrate it now. It was absolutely necessary for her to have another orgasm. She rubbed her joined fingers against the insides of her labia with large, regular, rapid movements for several minutes, until she was relieved.

“You see, I can caress myself several times in a row.”

“Do you do it often?”

“Yes.”

“How many times a day?”

“It depends. In Paris I was away from home most of the time—at the university, or shopping. I could never make myself come more than once or twice in the morning, when I woke up, or while I was taking my bath. Then two or three times before I went to sleep, and whenever I happened to wake up during the night. But when I’m on vacation I have nothing else to do, so I can caress myself much more. And my life here is going to be one long vacation!”

They were both silent for a time, close to each other, savoring the friendship that was being born of their frankness. Emmanuelle was happy that she had been able to overcome her timidity and speak of those things. And she was especially happy, though she did not dare admit it to herself, that she had masturbated in front of a girl who liked to watch and knew how to come. In her heart, she was already adorning Marie-Anne with all sorts of merits. And she looked so pretty now! Those elfin eyes . . . And that thoughtful groove that formed a pout on her lower face, as expressive, distant, and full-lipped as the pout on her upper one! And those thighs, open without embarrassment, heedless of their nudity . . .

“What are you thinking about, Marie-Anne?” she asked. “You look so serious!” And she playfully pulled one of her braids.

“I’m thinking about bananas,” said Marie-Anne. She wrinkled her nose and they both laughed till they were breathless.

“It’s good not to be a virgin any more,” remarked Emmanuelle. “Before, no bananas! I didn’t know what I was missing.”

“How did you begin with men?”

“It was Jean who deflowered me.”

“You hadn’t had anyone before that?” exclaimed Marie-Anne.

She was so obviously scandalized that Emmanuelle answered apologetically, “No. Well, not really. Boys used to caress me, of course, but they didn’t know how to go about it very well!” She recovered her self-assurance. “Jean made love with me from the start. That’s why I loved him!”

“From the start?”

“Yes, the day after I met him. The first day, he came to our house—he was a friend of my parents. He kept looking at me with an amused expression. He managed to be alone with me and asked me questions about everything—how many boyfriends I had, whether I liked to make love. I was terribly embarrassed, but I couldn’t help telling him the truth. It was almost the same as with you! And he wanted all kinds of details, too. The next afternoon he invited me to go for a ride in his beautiful car. He told me to sit close to him and he immediately caressed my shoulders, then my breasts, while he was driving. Finally he stopped on a little road in the Fontainebleau forest and kissed me for the first time. He said to me, in a way that completely reassured me about what was going to happen, ‘You’re a virgin and I’m going to take you.’ And we sat for a long time without talking or moving, pressed against each other. Finally my heart stopped pounding so much. I was happy. It was happening exactly as I might have dreamed it would, although actually I’d never dreamed about it. Jean told me to take off my panties myself and I quickly did so, because I wanted to cooperate in my defloration, not submit to it passively. He made me lie on the seat of the car. The top was down and I could see the green heads of the trees. He stood in the opening of the door. He didn’t begin by caressing me. He entered me immediately, but in such a way that I don’t remember feeling any pain. Far from it! I came so much that I fainted or fell asleep, I don’t know which. In any case, I don’t remember a thing until the restaurant in the forest where we had dinner. It was wonderful! Afterward, Jean asked for a room and we went on making love until midnight. It didn’t take me long to learn!”

“What did your parents say?”

“Nothing. The next day I went around proclaiming that I was no longer a virgin and that I was in love. They seemed to think it was perfectly normal.”

“And Jean asked you to marry him?”

“Certainly not! Neither of us had any idea of getting married. I was only seventeen, and barely out of school. And I was too glad to have a lover, to be a man’s ‘mistress.’”