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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