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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