The Growing up of Little Miss Watson {darkest_Fate&DeRe}

[darkest_fate]

Eighteen years. She'd been around for that long in total, as the ID her "director" currently held said in quite clear letters. True, it matched up with her country of origin, and given her current locale, it may be a tad difficult to read through the UK standard. Bit it wouldn't take too much to realize that Miss Emma Watson happened to have very, very recently passed 18 years. In point of fact, her birthday lay only a week or so away from the current date. That had apparently been appropriate, or so the various agents and handlers who had set this up had kept assuring Emma. Strike while the iron is hot! (One jokingly said 'strike while the girl is hot!', which Emma had thought was in poor taste, but she'd laughed it off all the same; a little joking like that would be allowable, so long as it didn't go so far).

Plus, though Emma certainly wouldn't admit it, she appreciated people acknowledging her as 'hot.' Thus far, millions knew her as Hermione Granger, and those films were still wrapping up, which meant that lasting role wouldn't leave her any time soon. In truth, she'd about earned enough from that to last her the rest of her life, but Emma knew how to capitalize on her rising stardom. There had already been a few outside roles she'd accepted, many showcasing her range and her willingness to do what it took to put on a good performance. Already buzz had gathered about how she rarely needed more than one take, how she almost embodied the character she'd been known for, and how personable the young lady happened to be.

All of which had set her up nicely, but she'd hit a rough spot. There would be no denying a part of reality: Emma Watson was a child star first and foremost. She'd started young enough to be 'cute' and 'precocious' and had grown up in front of all her fans and viewers. It would take some doing to 'break' the public of that particular image of her. They'd need to see 'Miss Emma Watson' as someone who'd matured, who'd become a fully fledged adult, someone who they could admire and, yes, on some level lust after. it did make Emma rather uncomfortable, particularly since she knew her own experience in that venue was... lacking. That happened when you balanced studies with press tours and a full time job acting. It was truly remarkable that she'd done as well as she had. So what if her only sexual experience came from a few bashful, almost hurried experiments involving various wands that some of her fans had sent in? Not objecting the one time she'd gotten a little a little more intoxicated than she perhaps should have and worked to map out her tight little sex. The girl at least knew what an orgasm was, what it felt like.

But now she had to come off as someone with some maturity, and with that came some sexual awareness. Her current significant other, Ben, had coyly suggested quite an obvious way of doing that. But Emma had brushed that aside, and, as always, she'd gotten her way there. Instead, she'd requested some aid of her handlers, including an insider in Hollywood who often helped child stars transition into more adult roles. Rumor had it that she'd helped Hilary Duff and the Olsen Twins and a few others grow into fully functioning (mostly) adults. Supposedly she had just the right organization in mind to really help Emma develop herself and her persona as an adult.

So they'd arranged it. First Emma had apparently needed to get fully medically tested, the files sent ahead to said organization. They'd show the truth: she was almost squeaky clean, with a fully intact hymen and no health issues whatsoever. They'd asked Emma to dress casual, which meant a loose flannel that hid much of her recently blossomed body and a pair of jeans that only just cupped her firm, softly rounded ass. She'd done some basic makeup to enhance her quasi-girl next door meets glamorous English Rose face, drawing attention to her expressive brown eyes and mostly hiding the freckles that had a tendency toward erupting across her face. They'd said something about possibly changing when she got there, and that the people there would be more than ready. For now, that 'more than ready' had mostly been giving Emma a few introductions, asking for her ID (and she had to leave her mobile elsewhere, which would no doubt irritate Ben, who'd been texting her), and escorting her to a rather luxurious dark leather couch. There she currently sat, patiently looking up, feeling excitement bubbling within, making those eyes shimmer. This would be it! The first step toward her embracing adulthood as a starlet, and showcasing just how her new persona would be for the eager public and fans both old and new!

Emma could hardly wait!

 

[DeRe]

For the hundredth time Prince Yahshua turned to regard himself in the gilded mirror. Nervousness was normally a foreign trait to him, but he could not disregard the peculiar mix of anxiety and excitement that churned within. After all, he was a few mere moments from plucking one of the sweetest peaches at the peak of its ripeness, and just the thought of the juice following through his fingers was enough to set him trembling. A lesser man would perhaps be undone by such "stage fright", but Prince was certainly no 'lesser man' in any sense. He stared back into his own hard-eyed gaze, channeling the urgent adrenaline into a cold focused energy. Take a moment to enjoy the anticipation, he thought, savour it like the connoisseur you are.

He steadied his boulder-like shoulders, his prodigious bulk shifting in the tight-fitting expensive suit. Checking over the figure before him Prince found himself marveling at the sight. It was a long way from the rough and unappealing world he had fought and fucked his way out of. Some twenty years before, as a failed actor and struggling hustler, he had been initiated into the basement-levels of porn. Now he was literally in the penthouse, having the finest cuts of white meat thrown before him like a lion in a luxury cage. No more meth-riddled runaways or gay-for-pay grind for Prince - he was enjoying delights that millions of men could only dream about. Like some kind of glorious prestige stud he deflowered the choicest fillies in Hollywood for the amusement of a paying audience. And what fillies they were. There was those twins who snorted their coke with the same passion they sucked his cock; the long-legged all-American Southern girl singer converted from racist prude to queen of spades; and most recently some blonde high-school dropout with a soft milky body and no morals whatsoever that he had broken in for that sleazy producer who paid so well.

And now, it seemed, some sweet-cheeked English rose was next on the list. He heard her enter the room outside, her sing-song voice with its clipped accent dripping with politeness. Any father would be proud of such a daughter, he thought with a grin. Until perhaps she had been spitted on a monstrous ebony cock, abruptly delivered to womanhood in his capable hands. Once more Prince checked his ensemble, then finally exited the bathroom and casually strode out into the lounge. Emma was seated there expectantly, like some eager schoolgirl prepared for a crucial test. Prince savoured her the peaches-and-cream appearance, the sincere suddenness of her welcoming smile, and the way her dark brown eyes shone with his reflection. Already he could feel the formidable anaconda awakening, and he was sure its massive profile must be clearly visible through his tight stovepipe trousers. Looks like a squealer, he thought, a sly boyish grin coming to his brooding face.

He stood a good foot in height over her, his lumbering bulk making her seem all the more doll-like in appearance. The girl's slender forearm was barely longer than his urgently throbbing cock. That pretty little mouth which smiled so easily and so sweetly looked like it would stretch to encompass his girth. Aw yeah, this English rose is gonna get plucked hard, he mused as his wicked grin stretched out like a scar. His own ominous gaze wasn't the only thing focused on Emma - every corner of this luxury lounge was studded with hidden cameras, which followed every angle with silent unblinking eyes.

"Well then," Prince drawled in a deep, gravel voice, "so this is the pretty little English witch they told me so much about. You going to cast a spell on old Prince now?

 

[darkest_fate]

Was.... was this some sort of test shot? Emma stared at the imposing figure that lumbered toward her, fighting the urge to let her jaw drop. Oh, she'd met and dealt with black men before. There were some on the casts and crews of various films Emma had dealt with. She'd found quite a few of them charming, and there was something appealing about their appearance in a quasi-exotic sort of way. Emma had never dated one, but that was simply a matter of happenstance, not some strange taste. But this man who came toward her looked almost like a strange variation on the trolls from Harry Potter, or perhaps like some throwback to an era where men were massive, broad, and built like they could strangle large animals with their bear hands. Emma's eyes scanned the man quickly, taking note the massive size of him. His huge chest, his imposing height, and of course the poor thing was eye level with.

Oh dear. She drew her gaze away, realizing that she'd been very near to staring at his crotch. It looked as if he'd tucked something in there, as it was distended in what had to be an uncomfortable manner. Surely that didn't actually happen naturally? Because that would be... wrong. Emma may not know a great deal about male genitalia, but she knew they didn't come that big. Some part of her almost wanted to text Ben, who surely had more knowledge on this sort of thing than her. The thought made her fingers twitch, but she fought it down, instead turning to look back at him.

'Ah, perhaps?' she offered, a little nerves sliding into her voice. She rose, noting that she didn't come up much further than his chest, if even that. 'I take it you're the---um,---my costar?' Emma figured that would be a safe way to phrase it. Her gaze slid toward the director, wondering just what sort of role they were cast in. Was she supposed to be having some sort of heart to heart? Was this some strange way of testing whether or not Emma could handle people from different backgrounds? She licked her lips, looking back toward this imposing man. 'Ah, I don't believe I've heard of you? I'm Emma, by the way, Emma Watson,' she tried smiling then, even extending a hand slightly.

Did he look familiar? she swore there was something vaguely familiar about his... presence.

 

[DeRe]

Prince watched as Emma's eyes swelled like a pair of bright harvest moons. It was like the enormity of his bulk could barely fit into her reckoning, and he half-expected the petite creature to faint dead away like some old-time damsel. There was definitely something of the ingenue about her, with her schoolgirl's eagerness to please and the reflexive courtesy. Her studied insouciance amused him in a wry and detached way. She was an ambitious girl trying to pretend to be a confident woman, like so many he had met before, and her innocent ignorance of what she was in for excited him greatly. More than her untouched peach was going to be destroyed today.

He casually ignored her proffered hand. This ain't no business meeting, you brown-eyed bitch. Prince knew it was important to establish and hold his dominance early on, and condition the girl to immediate obedience while she was still pliable. "My name's, Prince, like the singer," he said in a voice like rocks rolling in a steel drum. "But I had it before him so that little peacock stole it off me." He grinned, but it was utterly devoid of warmth, like a sickle silver of the moon. A pair of solid gold incisors flash sharply in the tiger-like maw. "Don't mind though, he does some good tunes." All the while he loomed over Emma, savouring the pink flush that was coming to her girlish cheeks. "You gonna call me Sir though, you English love it formal, don't ya? And I'll call you whatever I like."

With a curt bob of his head Prince signaled the director, like a monarch barely acknowledging a courtier. Nominally it was the director who was in charge but they were experienced enough to entertain no such delusion. They brought over a luxury gown - a white halter neck piece from Ralph Lauren, with a pleated silk-georgette panel at the hip and and a thigh-high slit. The pale chiffon shimmered in the room's warm light. "Now, you go ahead a put this little number on," intoned Prince. "Get changed right here, we gotta see how it suits you."

 

[darkest_fate]

My he was... big. Emma very nearly said as much, felt the words dangling on the edge of her lips. Just staring straight ahead made her nearly eye-level with his... abdomen, perhaps? She daren't look lower, for fear that whatever weapon he hid down there would somehow spring up to attack her at any moment. The ignoring of her hand did strike Emma as slightly rude, but she told herself to ignore it. Prince clearly had the experience, and perhaps he was a little annoyed at having to deal with an inexperienced teenage girl. That did sometimes happen, after all. Emma would just have to work hard to prove him wrong.

So she nodded as he went through his droll explanation regarding a singer and his name. 'Ah, sir it is then,' she replied, again flushing slightly, the pink making her light smattering of freckles pop upon her pale flesh. She fought the urge to look away, not wanting to come off as insecure, even though she felt a twisting in her belly that certainly made her feel like this was her first audition all over again. She licked her lips, righting herself slightly. 'I do think Emma will work quite nicely though. Not too difficult to say and all... sir,' she added the last after a moment, eyes flicking up to him.

Soon she was frowning. Who was he...? She twisted, seeing the director. Strange how Prince seemed to be in command. Sometimes performers did direct, and part of Emma had seriously considered heading that way herself some day. But that didn't quite seem to be the case here. She twisted back to look at Prince, look up at him, that is, while a dress came nearby. It did look rather lovely ,and like something she'd worn before. Her gaze flicked to it, before back at him, those eyes once again widening, this time, even further than before.

'What?' came out before she could even stop it, blinking again. 'I don't exactly---shouldn't there be a curtain or something?' she also eyed the dress, wondering. What she wore under her flannel and jeans wouldn't exactly... work with that. The bra straps would show, and likely the pantie line would be quite visible. Surely wardrobe would know that, right? Emma let her gaze wander for a bit, eyes flicking to see if someone, anyone, would be rallying to explain that she was being tricked, punked or something or other.

 

[DeRe]

The flash of her pink tongue across those soft little lips prompted a spasm of electric delight in Prince. Damn, but she was a sweet little peach, all petite and eager to please. Like some kind of nymph or elf-girl, slender enough that it seemed he could snap her in two with little effort. He used every bit of his intimidating bulk to effect, emphasizing the dramatic difference in size between them. The way she said sir was definitely a turn-on, carrying this faint tone of ready submission. Certainly her proper English accent added considerably to Prince's pleasure; it reinforced her girlish eagerness and would sound even sweeter when panting the filthiest obscenities. It was just as he had been told: breaking in this one would be both a privilege and a reward.

Prince laughed at Emma's modest protestation about undressing. The sound was more akin to wind blowing through a skull. "Well now, this must be that famous English awkwardness I was warned about! With a hollow chortle he dropped the sleek white gown at her feet as if it were just a rag. "I gotta say, it's definitely something novel out here in the States. But it's certainly not Hollywood, and you be gettin' nowhere acting all Queen Victoria all the time." The hulking figure took a deep breath as the warmth ran from his smile like a dying sunset. Turning to the director he jerked his head towards the door. "All personnel gonna vacate the room. Emma and me have got to have a little privacy and work some things out." Without even a pause the room was emptied save for the pair of actors.

"Now then," drawled Prince, "it's just us two, so you got no need to be worrying out perverts." Well, he though, them and all the manifold hidden cameras, waiting eagerly to capture the savage sexual intitation of one of the world's most desired starlets. "Normally when Prince tells a girl to get naked, she can't do it fast enough." His shark's leer returned again as his cruel dark eyes sparkled. "But you being all English and conservative 'n' shit, I guess a little consideration can be given." Eyeing her up coldly, Prince fantasized for a moment about just throwing her to the ground and tearing her apart. But this one was different; not one of the production-line America's sweethearts he usually pounded into the carpet. Emma's destruction had to be a masterpiece.

"Tell you what," Prince said. "I'ma gonna turn and look out the window over there, while you get into that sexy dress." He cupped her lightly under her chin, lifting her face slightly. "You won't need those bra or panties either, that dress is far too fine to mess up with shit like that. You're a English princess, not some Sunset hooker." Casually he turned away and sauntered over to the stark white window which gazed on the concrete vista below. Prince pulled out his phone, which drew on the feeds on the various cameras in the room. Carefull that Emma did not notice, he could still watch her clearly now even with his back turned. "Let me know when you done, girl," he said with a soft growl.

 

[darkest_fate]

Famous English awkwardness? Emma wasn't sure whether to frown or giggle at that. She tried to keep her expression at least somewhat neutral, professional, even. But those expressive brown eyes flashed for a moment, hinting toward the barely suppressed emotions. Her body tensed for a moment as she watched him drop the clothing, and tensed still further as she noted just how very much... larger than she he happened to be. The emptying of the room might have been intended to make her feel better about the situation, but nerves instead jumped to the forefront. Emma was an actress; she knew how to behave in front of a crowd, particularly a crowd on a set. This felt... shockingly intimate, in almost bewildering ways.

And why was he sitll in the room?

'Ah, thank you?' she managed, figuring that to be the polite response. She let out a nervous laugh at his question, eyes scanning him. Part of her wanted to ask really? since he hardly looked the fine specimen, nothing like pretty Ben or the numerous other striking young lads that Emma so frequently took as her paramours. 'I can certainly see why,' came out instead, her smile at least genuinely pleasant. He had clearly been intending to at least make things less awkward for her, and she did want to maintain professionalism during a shoot. Strange though, his look belied his actions... there was almost something... calculating in the way his eyes swept over her now. She supposed it was just the seasoned look of a performer summing up a costar...

His words jarred her from her thoughts, which was fortunate, as he tiled her head up. Had he just... suggested she go commando? Emma flushed, the pink crawling against her pale skin. 'Generally there's undergarments that would help with that...' she offered, biting her lip. They already had made some consideration, and it wasn't as if she hadn't gone without a bra for certain dresses like that before. She reached up to slice back some of her light brown hair, shifting again. English princess? She wasn't certain whether that was a compliment or not.

Hardly mattered. He'd turned, given his direction, and Emma had to follow through. She gave a deep breath, released it, and went to work. Experience made it easy for her to remove her clothing, even if her fingers stuttered slightly. The shirt went away first, leaving her with the rather simple cotton bra to support her modest chest. She soon removed shoes, then wiggled down her jeans, jarring the panties beneath. A pause followed as she watched Prince, making sure that he wasn't staring. As soon as she was at least somewhat reassured, Emma picked up the dress. She stepped into it first, bringing it up around her body. To her slight surprise, it fit her almost too well, and she was quite certain she'd look rather striking when it was fully on her. She slid off the bra, sliding the front panel into position, adjusting as necessary. Bending down, Emma worked her panties off while still garbed, letting them pool. She gathered her clothing up, looking about for a place to put it.

'I'm finished,' she informed her costar, knowing she looked impressive. She flashed a decidedly more confident smile at him, holding up her clothing. 'Where should I put this then?'

 

[DeRe]

To all appearances Prince was concentrating on his phone, appearing to discreetly ignore the starlet undressing behind him. But the small screen in his hand in fact provided a perfect view of Emma's disrobing. The voyeuristic aspect of the whole thing provided a profound erotic thrill for Prince, and his desperate cock was already throbbing like an red-hot iron. Normally a girl of Emma's physique wouldn't have excited him that much; he preferred his white meat more ample on the bone, enough to grab a handful of. But the nymph-like figure of the young Englishwoman was a refreshing change from the milk-fed Midwestern Homecoming queens he was normally offered up. She seemed like one of the marble statues Prince had seen decorating the gaudy fountain of a Hollywood mansion - impeccably pale, budding little breasts barely enough to make a fistful, every inch as tight and smooth as the skin of a drum. Most importantly he caught a glimpse of a pair of light pink, puffy nipples - which were practically his kryptonite. She was a perfect little package alright.

As her modest casual outfit fell away it was like the shedding of some kind of cocoon, with a white-clad butterfly suddenly emerging. She turned back towards him and Prince reveled at the spectacular sight of her in the Ralph Lauren gown. "Throw your stuff on the couch there," Prince said softly, "'Cept this, I'm keeping it as a souvenir." He plucked Emma's panties from her fingers and stuffed them in his trouser pocket. "Might get you to autograph them later, eh?" He gave his shark grin again, appraising her hungrily. "Damn girl, that fits you like a second skin. Just as smooth, tight, and white as you are". Prince wanted to start pushing her now, testing the limits of her propriety, gently coercing her into bending her will to his. He wanted Emma to be shocked at how much she liked it.

"Now then," he drawled, taking up a pair of scripts from a nearby table. "You're probably itchin' to know what this is all 'bout." He handed one of the slim volumes to Emma, watching the way the dress tightened around her with every slight movement. "You ever hear of a movie called Mandingo? Nah? Bit before your time maybe." Prince settled down into a chair facing Emma, enjoying the desperate schoolgirlish way she was focused on him. "M'brothers and me fuckin' loved it back in the day, 'scuse my language. Anyway, Mr Weinstein is remaking it, only this time we's going to do a version that does right by the women and black characters." He grinned his cemetary row again, enjoying how much the crude appeal to her politics amused him. "You'll be playing Blanche Maxwell; she's just like you, a nice little English girl who finds herself in America, only she's married to this real asshole of a slaveowner. She hates him a'course, being all good 'n' feminist and down on the slavery, so she decides to get some revenge by seducin' one of his slaves, Mede." He reclined further in the chair, letting it engulf his bulk like a throne. "That's yours truly of course. I got the honour of playin' one of the best black dudes from any movie, and if it all goes right I'll get the fun of having you...as my co-star."

It was important to keep the naive creature unbalanced, Prince knew, because the more uncertain she was the more desperate the decisions she would make. He could almost hear her rabbit heart thumping hard behind those pert little tits, flushing her cheeks and cutting her breaths into short excited gasps. There was something erotically provocative about her slyph-like innocence encased in the pure white gown, radiating a sexiness she barely knew she had. This English muffin was such a different flavour to the American confections that Mr Weinstein brought before him; B-list starlets so desperate for fame they were naked on their knees after barely an introduction. But this time - this time was so much different. As exciting as it would be to tear it off, he was going to make her keep that little outfit out when he fucked her.

"Better get into character," Prince said, removing his shirt and tie. A prison-sculpted torso was exposed, bedecked in all manner of streetcorner tattoos. "After all, I'm topless in this scene, " he giggled with a creepy impishness. Prince was well aware of this scene; it involved Emma's character making some clumsy but increasingly aroused attempts to provoke his character into raping her, culminating with 'Blanche' presenting herself for just that purpose. Emma of course had been given no preparation for this. The carefully scripted scene had been specificially chosen so that the words she uttered could be used out of context in the special production that was planned for her. If nothing else, Prince was almost boyishly excited at the prospect of that dialogue dropping from Emma's sweet innocent lips - repeatedly calling him nigger (he loved it went white bitches did that) and offering up her ass with an ease she had never previously known.

 

[darkest_fate]

It felt decidedly odd to not be wearing panties in front of a near stranger. His actions weren't helping to dispel that oddness either. The instructions weren't too bad and made at least some sense, though Emma didn't throw her clothing so much as walk over and gently set. Though his snatching her panties and making a crude joke had her flushing pink for a few moments. A little irritation and disgust bubbled up in those expressive brown eyes, but Emma didn't follow through with saying anything about it. It was just... too odd, too bizarre, and, well, maybe it was some sort of cultural thing? He may be quite purposefully trying to tease her for some strange test to make sure she was actually as adult as she claimed to be.

The volume, which she assumed was the script, extended to her. Emma took it, immediately thumbing through while he spoke. She frowned at the mention of the film: she had heard of it, mostly in disparaging tones. She was tempted to point out that it was supposedly very damaging to racial relations and demeaning toward black men in particular, but he'd already kept going. Apparently he quite liked the film idea, and there was already at least one big name behind it for production. Plus it sounded like this might be attempting to correct the errors of the past. Emma was all about that, and very much in favor of taking a mature role that not only showed her depth and range as an actress, but also allowed her to start rewriting a cultural narrative.

Some of that did diminish as he pointed out that she'd essentially be playing herself: a young British woman in a bad situation. But Emma knew she wasn't exactly a slave owner's wife living in the time period, and it wasn't as if they'd want to go too far away with casting. Emma started flipping through the script, noting the various scenes potentially leading up to something like this, but not exactly finding something that would immediately point to what she should be saying now. She looked up at him and let out a slight smile at his comment. He certainly did fill out that chair, she had to give him that much. 'That all sounds quite intriguing on the whole,' she agreed, flipping through again, pausing to lick her lips. 'I'm not quite finding the page?' She glanced up at him, only to find that he'd already started stripping. Eyes widened as she saw the rather impressive build beneath the shirt, far bulkier than any other men she'd seen topless. The pink again crawled onto Emma's skin, but she tampered it down easily enough: she was a professional, after all.

'I don't know if this is really a period appropriate dress...' she pointed out, gesturing toward her white gown, 'but I suppose it will do for rehearsal,' she shifted, the dress fluttering around her petite frame. She looked back up at him. 'If I could just get the starting page?' she asked again, feeling nervous but, well, ready to start. This sounded almost exciting, and certainly different than anything she'd done before.

 

[DeRe]

"Well now, auth-en-ticity ain't really the main thing here," purred Prince. "It's more like an inspiration thing - sorta method acting, y'know? Get you all in the mood. Y'see that Blanche is a real white she-devil, a total minx despite her being all little miss prim 'n' proper." He shot her a slimy grin as he stood up and took her script, thumbing through the pages. "So that dress should help you get into character - feel like the real plantation princess you gonna be playing. And baby, you gotta admit," he said, "I bet that chiffon 'n' satin feels real good against your skin, right?" Prince languidly winked one of his dark eyes, the smile practically oozing off his face. "Gettin' that good tingle in the right places? Fits you like a glove, bet that makes you feel good too. Nice girl like you, always dyin' to be nasty when she gets the chance." He handed back the script, a thick black finger pointing to a certain section. "Or maybe it ain't the dress makin' you tingle? Eh? Something else heating up the butter on that English muffin?"

Languidly Prince sat back down into the leather chair, like a lion reclining across a warm rock. He airily continued his discussion of the scene, swiftly passing on from the suggestive banter. "So in this scene, Blanche is all husband at her asshole of a husband, but she's feeling all frustrated because she doesn't know how to hurt him - like REALLY hurt him, as only she could." Arching his fingers Prince's grinned ebbed away and his tone grew colder as his previous humor started to drop. "So she goes out to where he's got Mede locked up, because I - ah, I mean Mede - is the thing he hates the most. She comes out there on a wet 'n' wild night, her dress all tight as yours now, and she decides to give herself to him coz she knows it'll rip hubby the most." Prince leaned back into the chair and sat at ease, his trunk-like legs spreading a little as his crotch swelled notably. The leather creaked as he said up a little, lost for a few moments at the sight of one of Emma's creamy thighs as it peeked at him. "Or maybe, she goes out there cause she knows that it don't matter how many English boys she goes with, she'll never be a real woman until some trueblooded African stud breaks her in."

He met Emma's gaze, watching the storming racing through her expressive brown eyes. Can't wait to see them when the tears start streaking the mascara, Prince thought with idle satisfaction. "So we'll start with the bit where she's come in, and you open with that nice little speech there, the one about "you're my husband's slave and I want to be yours," all that hot-as-fuck dialogue you got the pleasure of dropping." Slowly the shark-like grin returned as he continued. "We'll go up to the part where she presents herself - bending over the table 'n' all that nasty shit. Okay? 'Member, this is all 'bout striking a blow against the patriarchy and all that shit. You want this, right girl?"