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Emmanuelle	By : TippyMidget Category: Titles in the Public Domain > Les Miserables Views: 2021 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work fiction, based on Les Miserable by Victor Hugo.

Chapter List
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On his walk home, Javert finally felt the sting of Boisson's words – he could give her a good life “until she's forty and you're nearly seventy,” as the boy had said. She was so young. She needed a son to take care of her once Javert was too old. He needed to give her a child. He resolved on the way home to make love to her every day that he possibly could. All this nonsense of stewing in his depression, wasting precious days, not touching her, much less making love to her, for nearly two weeks now... that was just idiocy, when a child was so important.
What if he couldn't give her a child? What if something was wrong with one of them – if she was barren or if something was wrong with his seed? But no, she'd only bled for one month now; he'd hardly given the process any time at all. Surely, a child would come. But he knew that Beasse had been married for sixteen months before his wife became pregnant. Still, Emmanuelle was so young – even if it took that long, everything would be fine.
Javert told himself all of this to fight against the gnawing pit in his stomach that argued he was too old for her and had locked her into a life in which she'd have an elderly husband while she was still young and beautiful.
Javert passed a wine and liquor shop on the way home and reluctantly went inside. He bought a bottle of Chartreuse for Emmanuelle, feeling like a sinner as he handed the money over to the shop keep.
He reached the flat on Rue Sainte Marguerite and put his key in the door with a sigh. He stepped over the threshold, bringing a gust of winter wind inside with him. He stomped the snow off his feet on the mat at the front door and took off his hat.
“Oh, thank God you're all right,” Emmanuelle gushed from the parlor to Javert's right.
He looked at her and scrunched his brow. “That's a bit insulting,” he said plainly.
“Why?”
“You think that petulant little insect was going to do me physical harm?” He raised his eyebrows at her and scoffed.
“Well, I just worry because you're still hurt and -”
“I'm six inches taller than him, I probably weigh half his weight over, and I was armed with a nightstick. And I'm a trained police officer, Emmanuelle. Please give me some credit where credit is due.”
“I'm sorry,” she said, taken aback.
He pulled off his overcoat and made for the stairs to change back into house clothes. Emmanuelle came trotting after him breathlessly.
“Wait!” she exclaimed. “What happened?”
Javert didn't say anything. He was more than a little bit miffed with her about Boisson's marriage proposal that he hadn't known about. He'd stewed about it on the way home. Yet he chastised himself for giving her the silent treatment. Hadn't he just told himself how precious their time together was? But he was too angry right now to behave. He continued up the stairs and into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He was half-way to his wardrobe when the door flung open again and Emmanuelle came running in.
“What happened?” she asked again, breathless from chasing him up the stairs.
Javert continued wordlessly to his wardrobe, setting the bottle of Chartreuse down on the table next to his wash basin He began to methodically undress and sighed.
“When were you planning on telling me that he proposed marriage to you when you were seventeen?” Javert demanded.
She gaped, open-mouthed and wide-eyed, as if that had been a special secret Boisson wasn't meant to share.
“I – I didn't think it was important...” she rambled quietly, throwing up her hands and shaking her head, her curls swinging back and forth.
Javert paused with his shirt in his hand. “Not important?” he asked incredulously, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What was that joke you made that day in your room when I came to get your police report? When I asked about your marital status? You said you were 'uncourted.' Ah, yes. 'On track to be an old maid.' That's what you said.”
“It was a joke!”
“It was a lie!” Javert spat. “You never would have been an old maid. Boisson would have snatched you up. If your mother is letting him come over to socialize for hours at a time, you don't think she'd let him marry you if I were never in the picture?” His cheeks grew hot and his breath quickened. “The only difference is money. Is that all I am? A financial guarantee?”
“No!” Emmanuelle yelled, equally angry. “I'm in love with you!”
“And you were never, not even a little bit, in love with him?!”
“No!”
“I don't believe you.” Javert turned away from her and put on his shirt from earlier, hanging his uniform undershirt up in the wardrobe.
“He asked my father to marry me; he never asked me! I'm not lying!” She shouted from behind him.
Javert whirled around. “You certainly misrepresented your relationship with him, Emmanuelle. When you came home from your mother's house that evening that he'd been there, you described him as a childhood friend. You said nothing about the fact that he'd asked for your hand; that he clearly had been and obviously still is in love with you. The entire time we've been together you've never told me about anyone else – you've always acted as though I was your first for everything: first kiss, first lover... but it's all a ruse, isn't it?! I'm just a financial safety net to the daughter of a widow.”
“WHAT?!” Emmanuelle yelled. She was crying bitter tears now. “Listen to me! Henri is nothing to me! He never really was! I didn't want to marry an art student! It had nothing to do with money – they're recusant and immature – all of them! I didn't want to be an artist's wife! I didn't want a man who was only three years older than me and knew nothing of the world and its ways... someone who had no experience with which to guide me! I could never love him! And you were my first kiss and my first lover! I never kissed Henri until he forced himself on me two days ago, and I've never kissed anyone else. When I told you to kiss me in my room, when you got that look in your eye... I'll never forget it. That was my first kiss. You know you were my first lover. Your money means nothing to me! My father was far richer than you are! My mother and I received a pension from him; she has plenty of money! I'm in love with you! Why can't you believe me and trust me? Please, please, just trust me!”
She was sobbing now, great heaving cries that bent her over at the waist, and she gasped for air, struggling to take deep breaths against the confines of her corset. Javert stood motionless, his shirt on but unbuttoned. He felt all his anger at her flood from his system like water from a bucket full of holes. He was still enraged at Boisson, at his impudence and presumption, at his history with Emmanuelle, and, of course, for forcing himself on her.
Javert strode over to Emmanuelle and embraced her sobbing body, pulling her panting torso against his bare chest.
“Emmanuelle,” he murmured, “I do trust you. I'm sorry. I believe you. Do you remember what you told me about making love roughly when I'm angry about something?”
He felt her head nod against his skin.
“Well, right now I'm as angry as I can be at that little snake, and I need to calm down. I love you. Will you help me?”
She nodded again, still shaking as she cried.
“I love you,” he said again.
She pulled back from his chest and looked up at him. “I think you should let me get drunk first,” she said, gasping for air through her sobs.
Out of nowhere, he laughed. Through all his anger and frustration, she was amusing him. “I'll feel like I'm taking advantage of you if you're drunk,” he told her, smiling crookedly.
“I'm giving you my consent right now,” she said, her face serious.
He sighed and nodded. “Fine,” he said. She pulled away from his body, wiping tears off her face with both hands. She looked into his eyes, and he tried not to look angry at her. Her cries subsiding, she headed for the door. Javert sighed again and shook his head, walking over to the fire to build it back up. It was chilly in the room. He thought about what Emmanuelle had said, and he knew in his heart that he believed her. He knew that he meant more to her than Boisson ever did or would. He supposed that these feelings of jealousy and inadequacy that he was experiencing were part of the package when marrying a girl nearly thirty years his junior. He frowned into the fire. His birthday was coming up soon, on the second of January. He'd be forty-nine. Emmanuelle wouldn't be twenty-one until April. That meant that for four months, he'd be twenty-nine years older than her. He sighed again and heard the door behind him open and shut. He turned and saw Emmanuelle holding two glasses.
“Why the extra glass?” Javert asked her, though he knew the answer.
“I was hoping I could convince you to drink with me,” she said jauntily, waving the glasses. Her face was still red from crying.
Javert half-smiled at her. “The last thing you want me to do when I'm angry about something is drink, Emmanuelle. There was a time at Toulon when I drank too much with the other guards, and I took it out on a prisoner I particularly disliked... it wasn't pretty, and I got reprimanded. The only time in my career I've been reprimanded.” He shook his head and shuddered at the memory. “I'm not drinking anything today,” he said.
“Well, I am,” she said, “I'm upset and I think I deserve to be happy.”
“You've never been drunk. You don't know that it's going to make you feel happy.”
“Well, let's find out,” she said, fetching the bottle of Chartreuse. She struggled to open it, and Javert walked over to help her. She poured over half a tall glass full of it, and Javert grabbed the bottle from her.
“That's far too much,” he said. “This is strong.”
“I'll be fine,” Emmanuelle said insistently, picking up her glass and walking to a wing back chair.
“Don't drink that whole thing, Emmanuelle,” Javert said again, warning in his voice.
She looked at him and scrunched her face, sticking out her tongue.
He smiled but closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead, walking to sit next to her. His shirt was still unbuttoned. Why on Earth was he letting her do this? He was being a horribly irresponsible husband, and he certainly wasn't acting twenty-eight years the senior. Was he out to prove he wasn't a father figure in this relationship? No; he had tried to convince her not to drink in the first place. He had warned her. She was an adult and could make her own decisions, could learn from her own mistakes.
Javert glanced over at Emmanuelle. She was staring into the fire, but her face was twisted into a horrible look of disgust. He laughed.
“Doesn't taste very good, does it?” he asked rather mockingly.
“It's not like wine,” she answered, taking another gulp of it in her mouth.
“Drink it slowly!” Javert chastised.
“No; it's better to just take big drafts of it,” she insisted.
“You'll get too drunk too quickly that way,” he told her. "And you might get sick."
She took another gulp, and he shook his head. She was going to get ridiculously intoxicated at this rate. Well, she'd be the one to regret it, he thought to himself. He looked at the fire. He wondered what Boisson was thinking right now. Had Javert frightened him, he wondered? He knew he could be a frightening figure to some; he had a naturally unfriendly disposition. He had to struggle to be friendly and cordial around Emmanuelle's family. It was only around Emmanuelle that he didn't feel like a tiger on a chain. Only she brought out the miniscule hint of gentleness that lay hidden deep within his soul, and even with her he faltered and failed at times. He sighed, realizing that he was probably extremely unlikable to almost everybody. How on Earth Emmanuelle had ever been attracted to his personality he would never quite understand. He didn't realize how much time he'd spent thinking in silence until he heard Emmanuelle humming a little tune and glanced up at the clock. He almost gasped in shock.
He looked over at Emmanuelle. The glass was nearly empty.
“Good God, Emmanuelle; you've had far too much!” Javert sat forward in his chair, alert, and raised his eyebrows at her.
She looked over at him and grinned. It was her trademark dazzling smile, but it was a bit crooked and a tad too enthusiastic. Javert stood and walked over to her. He snatched the glass out of her hand. She reached up for it, but he held it out of her reach.
“No more!” he said firmly, as though she were a misbehaving child. He swigged down the remaining Chartreuse in the glass. It wasn't enough to affect his senses; he was much larger than her and was accustomed to having wine with his meals. He made a face at the strong taste.
“You said you weren't going to drink!” she exclaimed, wagging her finger at him.
“I'm not; I had one sip to keep it away from you,” he answered. He took the bottle of Chartreuse and placed it atop the wardrobe, far out of her reach. She didn't seem to notice.
“So now are you going to fuck me rough like you wanted to?” She tried to make her voice seductive, but her words were a bit slurred.
“Emmanuelle! What sort of language is that for a lady to use?” Javert looked horrified.
“Sorry,” she said, clasping her hands together as if in prayer and setting them on her lap. She giggled.
“No, I don't think I am going to... do anything roughly to you. I'll feel like I'm raping you.” He frowned at her.
She stood and wobbled on her feet. “Whoa,” she said, giggling again. Javert sighed. Many times in his career he'd been the sober one surrounded by people who were drunk and amused, and he was used to the feeling that something funny must exist on a plane he could neither see nor hear.
Emmanuelle walked shakily over to the bed and kicked off her shoes. She climbed up onto the blanket and lay horizontally across the bed on her back, putting her hands on her stomach and staring up at the ceiling. She kept giggling.
Javert stalked over to the bed and stood by the foot board, wrapping his hands around the carved wood. “What's so funny?” he asked, trying not to sound gruff or mean.
“It's just... when I think of you and Henri in the same room... you're so strong and you look so... I don't know; like grrrr -” she growled like a bear and put her hands up in claws, “in your uniform, and he's such a little dandy, it's just so funny, because he must have been terrified of you!”
Her words were all slurred together. She giggled maniacally at the ceiling.
Javert sighed and half-smiled. “I'm glad you're so amused,” he said.
“It's funny because you're strong and mighty,” she said, imitating his low, gruff voice on the last three words, “and he's so girlish and stupid and weak.” She looked over at him and smiled broadly, and he tried hard to return a smile without looking nettled.
“You're funny,” he said to her, “because you are completely drunk.”
“Am not.”
“Oh, yes, you are. Is it everything you thought it would be?” he asked pompously.
“Mmmm... it just makes me want you so badly,” she said softly, giving him a hungry look, her eyes glazed from the drink.
Javert stepped around the bed and sat beside where she lay. “I'll kiss you,” he said, “But I'm not doing more than that, because you're far too drunk to do anything else.”
“But you said you were angry and frustrated.”
“I am.”
“I can help you,” she said, fingering the lacy neckline of her dress. She gazed up at him. “You can do it rough.”
He wanted so badly to take her up on her offer, but he knew he'd feel like a villainous cur if he did, and she was getting more drunk by the minute as the alcohol settled into her system. She'd be completely out of it soon.
“Kiss me,” she said, snapping him out of his reverie.
He reached under her arms and pulled her up to a sitting position. She swayed, so he wrapped one arm firmly around her torso and held her up. He placed his right hand on her cheek and leaned in to kiss her. He plied his tongue around her mouth and played with her lips. She moaned wantonly into his kiss, reaching up with her hands to hold his face. Her hands slid down to his bare chest and pushed his open shirt away, and Javert removed the shirt, tossing it off the bed. She touched him everywhere she could reach – his strong shoulders, his muscular back, his hard chest and his trim stomach. He groaned a little into her mouth and she giggled. He broke the kiss and pulled back from her.
“That's enough, Emmanuelle,” he said firmly, but she leaned forward and began to kiss his neck. He shut his eyes and felt his heart and breathing accelerate. “No – stop,” he said, grasping her shoulders and pulling her back.
“Why?” she pouted childishly at him.
“I'll do something I'll regret.”
“Why would you regret it?”
Javert bit his lip. “It's hard to explain, Emmanuelle.”
She huffed indignantly. “I'm wet for you,” she said impishly.
He gaped at her. “You are profane and vulgar when you are drunk,” he told her. She giggled in response and he sighed helplessly. “Let's get you into a nightgown and in bed,” he suggested.
“Only if you do the same.”
“I have to eat,” he said plainly.
“I'm not hungry,” she said impetuously.
“So I would have guessed,” he replied. He stood off the bed and reached for his shirt, which he put back on and began to button. “I'm going to your dressing-room to get you a nightgown; I'll be right back. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone, please.”
She sighed loudly and umbrageously but said nothing.
Javert quickly hurried to her dressing-room next door and opened the top drawer of her wardrobe. Several white nightgowns were folded neatly. He snatched one and returned to his bedroom as quickly as he could.
When he opened the door, Emmanuelle was sitting exactly where he'd left her, and he sighed with relief.
“You have to undress me,” she said to him, trying to sound seductive, but sounding messy instead.
“I realize that,” he told her.
She slid off the bed and stood, swaying gently, and Javert rushed to sit behind her on the bed. He began unbuttoning her dress as fast as he could, and helped her slide it up and off. He deftly untied her cotton stays and removed the rest of her undergarments, and soon she was standing naked in front of him.
She turned around and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her nipples were hard and she had a look of desire in her glassy eyes.
“Aren't you mad at Henri?” she asked, her voice sounding like a child's.
“Yes,” he said simply, trying not to look at her round, ample breasts. He looked instead at her face, framed by the lovely curls Jeanette had made this morning. That wasn't helpful, either. Why was she asking him about Henri?
“I'm yours, aren't I?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Then claim me. Show me that I'm yours. Henri may have kissed me, but he didn't – can't – make love to me. Only you can. Can't you?”
Why was she tormenting him? She was a diabolical drunk, he decided.
“Of course I can, Emmanuelle, but I'm not going to.”
“You haven't in two weeks. Maybe I'm starting to believe you can't,” she said, and that pushed him over the edge. He tore his shirt off up over his head and raced to unbutton his trousers. Emmanuelle grinned. He was nude in a flash, and he stood and grabbed Emmanuelle by the waist, hoisting her up and over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She giggled, but Javert did not smile. It was time to get every frustration, every stressor, every insecurity, done away with and resolved.
He sat on his chair at his writing-desk and laid Emmanuelle on her stomach across his lap. He spanked her hard, once, and she moaned drunkenly.
“You should have told me about Boisson!” Javert said, and spanked her again.
“I know; I'm sorry!” she cried.
“Do I need to spank you again?” he asked, his voice nearly a growl.
“Yes!” she answered. Her curls dangled upside-down to Javert's left. With a mighty roar, he spanked her one last time, a decisive thwack! echoing in the room. Her buttocks were red from his smacks, and he rubbed them with his right hand to soothe her skin. He hauled her up so that she was straddling him, and she pushed curls out of her face. Javert grabbed her head and kissed her fiercely, and she squealed.
“I love you,” he said hoarsely, looking her square in the eye.
“I love you so much,” she insisted breathlessly.
His erection was jabbing into her stomach, and she reached down with her hands to touch it. He slapped her hands away.
“On the bed,” he said decisively, in a rumbling voice.
She climbed off him and staggered to the bed, now thoroughly inebriated. “I'm so drunk,” she noted, trying and failing to get onto the high bed.
Javert stood behind her and hiked her up onto the blankets. He was going to be rough with her, but he was also going to hold out on entering her as long as he could stand it – denying himself pleasure would only make his release more intense.
“Get on your back,” he ordered her, and she lay prone on the blankets. He pushed her legs apart and knelt between them. Emmanuelle wriggled her hips as though she were begging him to enter her. Well, she wasn't going to get her way. Javert grabbed her wrists and shoved them up above her head. They were tiny and thin, and he easily held them both firmly in his left hand. She tried to pull them down and he slapped at her hip. “No!” he barked at her. She moaned again.
Javert used his right hand to finger her entrance, and she was so wet he was amazed. His erection grew harder and more insistent when he felt how ready she was. He pushed in his fingers one at a time, first one finger, then two, and when he pushed in a third she bucked her hips and moaned loudly. He forced in his pinky and roved his four fingers around inside her. She cried out and said “too much!” but Javert continued. He used his thumb to stroke her clitoris as he slid his four fingers in and out of her, tightening his grip on her wrists as she squirmed and wriggled beneath him. Just when he sensed that she was nearing orgasm, he quickly pulled his fingers out of her. She let loose a loud huff of frustrated indignation, but she was so drunk her head lolled to the side and she mumbled words Javert couldn't understand. He wasn't going to let her finish. Not that easily. His erection throbbed hard, quivering and begging for attention.
“Get on your hands and knees,” he instructed her, letting her wrists go free.
She stared at him and then shut her eyes.
“Now, Emmanuelle!” He slapped her cheek lightly.
She complied, shakily sitting up and rotating onto her hands and knees. She let her head dangle freely, and Javert grasped all of her thick curls in one hand and pulled up and back to pull her head up. She gasped and said, “Ow!” but he didn't let go.
With his other hand he guided himself into her soaking wet entrance and glided in, relishing the feel of her tight warmth around his member. He instantly began pounding her furiously, slamming her as hard as he could. He kept ahold of her hair and she whimpered continuously as he thrashed ferociously into her. He couldn't last long; he was far too aroused, and so much emotion was balled up in his release. When he came, he cursed loudly and grabbed Emmanuelle's shoulders to steady himself. His head whirled and he felt intense tingling from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. He could hear his breath gasping and panting unevenly and felt as his heart gradually slowed from its rapid tempo.
Javert pulled out of Emmanuelle and lay on his back, yanking her down gently to cradle her against him. He kissed the top of her head and squeezed her body gently. She mumbled something quietly into his shoulder, but he couldn't understand what she said.
“You're such a good girl,” he told her. “I love you very much.”
She looked up at him with glazed but contented eyes. “I love you, too,” she sighed.

The next morning, Javert awoke to the bells tolling nine. He had eaten supper alone the night before, having managed to get Emmanuelle into her nightgown before she fell fast asleep. She was still sound asleep beside him now, and he roused her gently, saying her name quietly.
She rotated slowly to face him and opened her eyes, quickly shading them with her hand and saying, “Ack!”
He chuckled under his breath. “You're hung over,” he told her. “You're probably not going to feel very well today.”
“No; I suspect I won't,” she murmured. “That was the most bizarre day I can ever remember,” she said incredulously.
Javert laughed quietly again. “Yes, it was. I start out not talking to anybody, you come in and convince me to talk, make me bare my soul to you, tell me something horrible that prompts me to make my first sojourn out of this house since the attack, I meet an impious little worm, come back home, argue with you, you get drunk, and convince me to have rough sex with you to purge my frustrations, then you fall asleep and I eat supper alone, returning back up here to find you utterly passed out, then go to bed.”
“That was quite a summary,” Emmanuelle noted, giggling.
“I have one subsequent request,” Javert said.
“Oh?”
“Let's make today very boring.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
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