Emmanuelle by Emmanuelle Arsan Page B

been for her beauty,” said Christopher, returning to their earlier conversation. “That’s easy to understand.”
    “Maybe, but her beauty wouldn’t have been enough to conquer me.”
    “What did, then? Her household talents?”
    “No, her carnal genius. I don’t know anyone in the world who likes to make love as much as she does. Or who does it as well.”
    Christopher was shocked. This kind of confidence seemed to him in bad taste. But he was eager to hear more. “You’re lucky, of course,” he said with a certain effort, “but aren’t you also running a risk? That . . . what do you call it? . . . that gift she has . . . others may sense it . . . They may be tempted to . . . try to take advantage of it . . . take her away from you.”
    “No one can take something away from me that doesn’t belong to me,” Jean said as if this were self-evident. “She’s not my property. She’s not my beauty.”
    Christopher was puzzled.
    “I didn’t marry her to own her,” Jean added.
    The little girl held out several grapefruit sections, on her joined palms. Jean accepted one, after nodding his thanks, and ate it with obvious pleasure.
    “Don’t you want any?” he asked Christopher.
    Christopher mechanically took some of the offered fruit, staring at the scene with an absent-minded look.
    “Emmanuelle and I are interested in the world,” Jean went on. “And we both have a desire to know more about it.” He laughed and remarked zestfully, “There’s plenty to do!” He took two grapefruit sections from the girl’s hands. “Even for the two of us. And enough to justify teamwork.”
    Christopher wondered if Jean’s words had any connection with his own question. The children had squatted in a circle around them and were now watching them in silence, though from time to time they nudged each other and burst into wild laughter that brought tears to their eyes.
    “They seem to be making fun of us,” remarked Christopher.
    The fruit had refreshed his tongue, but his throat remained curiously tight. He tried to struggle against the images that imposed themselves on his mind with gentle insistence and horrified him. “That’s no way to think of a friend’s wife!” he told himself.
    The vision persisted just the same. He suggested, in a false voice, that they buy another grapefruit. But while the little girl was preparing it for them and he was forcing himself to talk about canal locks and kilowatts, his imagination tirelessly re-created Emmanuelle’s round breasts, her muscular buttocks, the tempting nakedness of her belly . . . Jean leaped to his feet and announced that it was time for them to be on their way. Only then did he notice Christopher’s state of excitement, spectacular under his thin, white, twill shorts. He rounded his lips in surprise and laughed.
    “I didn’t know you had such tastes!” he said jubilantly. “I won’t introduce you to any more little girls.” He mockingly called Christopher’s condition to the attention of their hostess, who did not seem at all offended. “Listen, you should at least wait until they’re a little less green. This one can’t be more than eight years old!”
    Emmanuelle began lathering Bee’s body. She knew how to go about it so well, slipping her hand between Bee’s legs, that Bee had to defend herself.
    “No, no, not all the time, Emmanuelle! It’s too tiring. Let me get some of my strength back.”
    Emmanuelle let her rinse and dry herself, then she said cajolingly, “Come into my bed!”
    Bee made no reply and Emmanuelle immediately became panic-stricken. Bee kissed her on the eyelids.
    “Let’s go to your bedroom,” she said.
    Emmanuelle pushed her down across the big bed, lay on top of her, covered her forehead, cheeks, and neck with kisses, nibbled her ear lobes and her bosom. She slid down to the floor, knelt, and buried her face in Bee’s bare belly.
    “Oh,” she moaned, “how soft!” She rubbed her cheeks, her nose, and her lips