Emmanuelle by Emmanuelle Arsan Page B

congestion was added to the harsh sensations of breathlessness, fatigue, and thirst that were burning Emmanuelle’s throat. Suddenly, Ariane dropped the towel, put her arms under Emmanuelle’s, and leaned against her with her whole body. Emmanuelle felt two nipples seeking her own—as soon as they had found them, she abandoned herself to a pleasure that was too great for her to resist—and an active pubis that was pressing her through the cloth of two pairs of shorts. Her position, leaning backward, made up for her smaller height, so their mouths were on exactly the same level. Ariane kissed her as she had never been kissed before—very deeply, exploring her lips, her tongue, all the heights and hollows of her mouth, her palate, her teeth, without neglecting the slightest surface, and for so long that she never knew whether that kiss had lasted minutes or hours. She no longer felt the thirst that had been irritating her throat. She moved gently, so that her clitoris could swell, harden, and seek refuge in the solidity of the other belly. When its erection was so strong that she was like an enormous bud ready to burst, she squeezed one of Ariane’s thighs between her legs, unaware of what she was doing, and began rubbing her sex against it with a lithe movement of her pelvis. Ariane let her continue for several minutes, knowing she needed that outlet for the excessive tension of her senses. Then Ariane stopped kissing her and looked at her, smiling, as she so often did, in a way that seemed to express the joy of having played a good joke on someone. Emmanuelle was embarrassed by this look and, at the same time, reassured to see that Ariane attached so little sentimentality to their intimacies. She wanted to be kissed again, and she did not want Ariane’s breasts to leave her. But Ariane abruptly seized her above the hips, as she had done when they arrived, and vigorously lifted her up the ladder until her heels came to rest on one of the rungs. She thought Ariane wanted to kiss her breasts, but the tyrant kept her head at a distance and her mocking eyes never left her victim. Before Emmanuelle had time to realize clearly what was happening, Ariane’s hand had slipped under her shorts and was already taking possession of her moist sex.
    Her fingers were as deft, skilled, and efficient as her tongue. They grazed Emmanuelle’s clitoris, then both hands, held together, plunged resolutely into the depths of her flesh, stretching the walls of her vagina and massaging the resistant protuberance of her womb with admirable animation and discernment. She let herself be drawn into orgasm without resistance, gathering her strength to make her pleasure as intense as possible, opening herself and thrusting against the hand that was probing her. She had the feeling that lava was welling up from her and flowing, thick and hot, along Ariane. When she finally slid down the ladder, unconscious, Ariane caught her in her arms and held her tightly. If she had been able to see Ariane’s eyes at that moment, she might have been surprised to discover that they had lost their mocking expression.
    By the time she came back to her senses, Ariane had regained her usual roguishness and vivacity. She was holding her by the shoulders, arms outstretched.
    “Do you have enough strength left to climb up the ladder?” she asked with an affectionate laugh.
    Emmanuelle was suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment and looked down at the ground with the expression of a sulky child. Ariane took her chin between her fingers to lift it. She was again very close to her.
    “Tell me,” she murmured in a grave, almost choked voice that Emmanuelle had never heard before, “have other women ever done that to you?”
    Emmanuelle remained outwardly impassive, but actually her mind was in a turmoil that she herself had difficulty understanding. She decided to ignore the question. Ariane insisted, however, imperious and coaxing at the same time. “Answer me.