A chance encounter was all it took, really. I stood behind the counter with my palms pressed against the tiled surface. I was – and still am – a barista at Manic Mondays, a local coffee shop in a Wisconsin college town. The population of the town itself was around 65,000, and roughly a sixth of that was the student body. I was a student myself, and we comprised the bulk of Manic Mondays’ clientele. There were also the non-student regulars, who were middle-aged and older community members that had been coming in for many years. The last demographic, and by far the smallest, were people passing through town or staying here on business. While it was doubtful I’d see their faces again, they were my favorites. Ever the introvert, I relished in the fact that I didn’t need to concern myself with becoming acquainted with them on the level expected of Manic Mondays baristas.

            This particular day was rather slow. It was around 1pm on a mid-July Wednesday. Classes weren’t in session, save the handful of summer courses the university offered. Consequently, students had no exams to cram for, and no last-minute projects to complete. This meant that alcohol replaced caffeine as most students’ chemical compound of choice—more so than during the semester, anyway. The regulars were still at work; they wouldn’t begin to congregate here until 4:30 at the earliest. As it happened, I was the only person inside Manic Mondays. The chairs, couches, loveseats, and stools were empty. I stared the screen of my iPod as I skipped through track after track. Why, I thought to myself, did I put them on here if I didn’t want to listen to them? The door opened and the bell rang, alerting me to the presence of a customer.

            “Hello,” I said, my eyes still staring at the screen.

            “Hello!” spoke a soft, feminine voice. The voice stood out due to its erudite-sounding English accent. My initial thoughts were about what could possibly bring an Englishwoman to a Wisconsin town of little importance. This confusion was multiplied a hundredfold when I looked up and saw Emma Watson standing at the counter.

            “Hello, Miss Watson,” I stammered out. Though the nerves were evident in my shaky voice, though it still came across much better than saying nothing at all.

            “At least you realize who I am,” she joked. “It’s even stranger when people haven’t a clue who I am. I mean, where have you been the past decade and a half?” The sarcastic tone of her voice made her more endearing and relatable, and it also made it clear she wasn’t concerned whether people were aware of her high-profile celebrity status. Her eyes glanced up and she examined the menu hanging above the counter. She tilted her head from side to side as she pondered her options. “Just a cup of your darkest coffee,” she decided after about thirty seconds.

            “Room for cream, Miss Watson?” I asked, pouring the coffee into the small ceramic glass. She shook her head.

            “Emma,” she said as I handed her the cup. “Call me Emma. Tell me, how old are you?”

            “Twenty-three.”

            “Well then, that makes two of us! As we’re the same age, there’s no reason you can’t call me Emma.” She smiled and sat down on one of the stools at the counter; she set her small handbag onto the stool to her left. She sipped her coffee and then nodded her head in approval. “Pretty good! Now, what’s your name? You already know mine.”

            “Chris,” I told her. My eyes followed her slender fingers as they unclasped the cup and placed it onto one of the tiles on the counter. “So, I have to ask, Emma,” I said, noticing the smile on her face at having been called something other than ‘Miss Watson,’ “What brings you here? I mean, we aren’t exactly a fancy town, and we’re in Wisconsin no less.” There wasn’t a lot to keep me in this town, to be honest. It made even less sense for Emma Watson, of all people, to be here.

            “Well, I’m technically in Minneapolis. I’m in a movie that’s set in Minnesota, and it begins filming in a few months. The director wanted us to become immersed in the culture and, more importantly, the accent,” she said, her voice switching to a comical caricature of a Minnesotan accent. “Anyway,” she said, returning to her native English accent, “It’s an ‘off week’ for us, meaning we’re free to travel around, provided it’s within driving distance, of course. A few assistants happen to be from this area, and they suggested I come here. They were students here a few years back, I think. They also happened to suggest Manic Mondays when I asked about places to visit. I heard there was a good atmosphere in this town: Nice people, neat things to do, and,” she pointed up, indicating the music playing over the speakers, “a good music scene.”

The current track was Bon Iver’s “Skinny Love.” I wasn’t the biggest fan of Bon Iver, I must confess. However, enough of our clientele listened to his music that I felt compelled to include at least a handful of Bon Iver songs on my iPod. “He went to school here, you know? Justin Vernon, that is, the main guy in Bon Iver. Every once in a while he stops in here.”

“Oh, really? I’d heard he was from the area, but I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. He’s about as ‘celebrity’ as we’re accustomed to,” I laughed. She laughed back, which relaxed me. I was glad I hadn’t offended her.

“What do you do when you’re not hobnobbing with the upper crust here?” she asked, winking.

“I’m a student, actually. I’m studying political science. Ultimately I’d like to travel, or maybe teach, but until then I’ve got this to look forward to,” I said, pointing to the coffee bean grinder behind me.

“That’s great! I recently graduated myself. English literature.”

“Congratulations, Emma! I’m inclined to say, ‘I’ll drink to that,’ but we’re in a coffee shop, and I’m at work. What did you think of the American university system?” I asked, knowing she’d attended most of her college years at Brown.

“It was pretty nice, I’d say. Programs here in the States take longer than ones back in the U.K., which always confused my parents. They constantly inquired why I still wasn’t finished with my schooling. I rather enjoyed the university and the people. After the first week of class, the other students got over the fact that they were in class with Hermione. It took a few stern glances to stop them from saying, ‘Ten points to Gryffindor!’ whenever I answered a question,” she laughed.

Emma and I spent the next few hours in conversation. Every so often another customer would walk in and fawn over Emma’s presence. They then would order their coffee, wish Emma good luck on her future endeavors, and then leave. I looked at the clock above the door. It was about 3:50, and in ten minutes my shift was over. “Say, Emma,” I began. It felt like there was a lump in my throat. “I’m done with work in ten minutes. Since I’ll probably never have the chance to ask this again, I’ll do it now: Would you like to hang out after this? Have a drink together or something?”

Emma finished what was her fourth or fifth cup of coffee. “Sure,” she said. There was no hint of sarcasm in her voice. “For the sake of actually being able to talk together, would you mind if we did this at your place? It would be a lot easier than trying to just ‘hang out’ at a bar. Unless you’re just dying to watch me sign autographs for several hours.” She winked at me.

I shook my head. “No, my place is just fine!”

“If it’s all the same, I’ll grab a ride with you.” She pulled an unassuming cell phone out of her handbag and quickly composed and sent a text message. “Just had to tell the assistant who drove me here to find something else to do for a bit. He’s from the area, so that shouldn’t be too challenging.”

My coworker arrived almost exactly after Emma had returned her phone into her bag. She was a middle-aged woman who seemed to regard Emma as one more patron; she gave no signs of knowing that a world-famous actress was in Manic Mondays. “Have a good one,” she told me. Our shifts never overlapped, and consequently “have a good one” was about all I ever heard from her.

“You too,” I said. I turned and smiled at Emma. “Shall we?” She nodded her head, and we walked out to my car.

.......................

            I returned into my living room, holding two opened bottles of beer. I handed one to Emma, and sat next to her on the black futon. Thank God I cleaned this morning, I thought to myself. “Enjoy!” I told her. “It’s a local beer. So local, in fact, that it’s actually illegal to sell or distribute it outside of Wisconsin.” We clinked our glasses together and took a swig.

She glanced around the room, sizing it up. “It’s nice,” she at last concluded.

            “Really?” I asked. Even on good days I never rated my apartment any higher than ‘livable.’

            “Yes! Most people think celebrities want large, luxurious mansions,” she said, motioning with her hands. “Some of them do, yes, but not me. I want to live somewhere that feels like home, and I’ve never had that feeling in large houses.” She leaned against the back of the futon and let out a sigh. “God, it feels good to just relax.” She took another sip of beer and licked her lips.

            “If you’d like Emma, you’re perfectly welcome to live here,” I said, half-joking. God knows I would enjoy having her live here. “It would certainly help having someone to split the rent with. I’m just unsure of where you’d sleep. It’s a one-bedroom place, and the futon isn’t comfortable for more than an hour or two at a time.”

            “I’m sure there’s plenty of space in bed,” she said with a wink. Oh, my God, I thought to myself, is Emma Watson—yes, Emma Watson!—flirting with me?

            “Well, it’s queen sized,” I said. I could think of nothing else to say, but it still sounded rather unintelligent.

            “Excellent! I’ll call my agent and tell him to arrange for my move here,” she laughed. She suddenly moved closer to me. “You know, I like you. You’re—you’re real,” she said, putting her free hand on my knee. “And it doesn’t hurt that you’re pretty cute.”

            “Emma,” I trailed off. At this point, I had no idea what to say. Thankfully Emma seemed willing to do the talking for the both of us. She set her bottle onto the coffee table. She removed the bottle from my hands and placed it beside hers. She then leaned over and kissed me softly on the lips. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I returned the kiss, and placed a hand on her thigh. I felt my penis twitch and begin to grow erect. Emma and I began to make out; our hands began to explore one another’s body. She could tell that I was obviously a bit nervous as to what was acceptable; my hands were confined to her thighs and stomach. Emma grabbed my wrist and brought my hand to her breasts.

            “You can play with my boobs, silly,” she said before returning her lips to mine. I was more than willing to take Emma up on this offer. My hands gently massaged Emma’s pert breasts through her top. “Here,” she said. She reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, then reached up her shirt, removed the bra, and handed it to me. I looked at Emma and then the bra. 34B, the tag read. “That should make it easier.”

            Feeling emboldened by Emma’s obvious advances, I slid my hand up Emma’s blouse. My fingers came into contact with her stomach. Her fair, English skin was warm and smooth. My hand made its way to Emma’s breasts. Her nipples were just a little smaller than would be expected for a woman with 34B breasts, and I could feel that they were somewhat erect.

            Emma stood up and carefully unbuttoned her blouse before slinging it over the back of the futon. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that Emma Watson would be topless in my apartment, standing in front of me. “You’re so gorgeous, Emma,” I told her. She put her finger over my lips and then, facing me, positioned herself atop me and straddled my hips. Emma grasped the hemline of my shirt and lifted it over my head. She leaned into me, and a shiver ran down my spine as her breasts pressed against my bare, hair-covered chest.

            As we made out, my hands alternated between her breasts, hair, face, and butt. Each time I squeezed her butt—which, might I add, has the perfect amount of fat to it for a woman of her build—I would allow my fingers to trail down to her thighs, where I worked on hiking her skirt up. Emma stood up and slid her skirt to the floor, revealing her black, lace boyshort panties. I reached out and put my hand on her pussy mound; I could feel the heat emanating from her crotch.

            “I want you,” she gasped as I softly groped her through her panties. “If I’m going to be sharing a bed, I ought to see how it is,” she said. I nodded and stood up. My penis, which was at this point fully erect, formed a tent in my beige shorts. This didn’t seem to faze Emma.

            “This way,” I said, leading her into my bedroom. The walls were adorned with posters. In the corner was my desk, empty except for a closed laptop, a few pens, and a coffeemaker. The bed was neatly made, and the taut comforter concealed a few pillows.

            “The bed in my hotel room in Minneapolis is certainly not this made up,” she laughed. “We’ll have to change that!” She grabbed a corner of the comforter and sheets, and pulled them back. I unbuttoned and unzipped my shorts and allowed them to fall to the floor of my bedroom. Emma licked her lips as she gazed at the blatantly obvious erection in my white/blue plaid boxer shorts. She reached out and grabbed my erect penis.

            “Emma, I want you on the edge of the bed,” I said, feeling less nervous. Knowing what was to follow, Emma obliged. She sat down at the edge of the bed and spread her legs. Still standing, I positioned myself between her legs. I leaned down and kissed her on the lips. This time, my lips trailed down her body: First, her slender neck; her round breasts, where my lips spent a good minute or two suckling at each hardened nipple; then to her stomach. I grabbed the waistband of her panties, and Emma lifted her legs and ass an inch or two into the air, which allowed me to remove her panties. I looked down at Emma’s pussy in admiration. Emma was too sophisticated to completely shave her pubic hair, but she did neatly trim it back; a thin layer of dark brown pubic hair covered her mound. I ran my fingers along her pubic hair before finally tracing the outlines of her lips. She let out a groan.

            I lowered myself onto my knees and buried my face between Emma’s soft, creamy thighs, the pale hue of which I found greatly arousing. Emma was rather wet, and I stuck my tongue out and lapped up the juices, eagerly swallowing them. “You taste amazing, Emma,” I told her. While I said that to every woman I went down on, Emma was one of the first who truly did taste amazing. I loudly moaned, still enjoying the taste of her sweet nectar on my tongue.

            “Yeah?” she asked, as if seeking reassurance. Surely, I thought, at least one person besides myself has told Emma Watson how great her pussy tastes.

            “Yeah,” I stated plaintively. I slowly slid my right index and middle finger into her pussy, causing her to gasp. Jesus, even her cunt smells amazing. Using my left hand I spread her lips apart, exposing her engorged clitoris. “Oh, Emma,” I moaned before firmly pressing my tongue against it.

            “Oh!” she let out. Just hearing her darling English accent made me eat her out more vigorously. She ran her hands through my dark brown hair. I began to teasingly suck on her clitoris. My fingers continued to penetrate deep into her, rhythmically exploring her warm, velvety pussy. Emma began to thrust her hips and grind her crotch against my mouth. “Chris,” she moaned repeatedly. After about seven or eight minutes of this, her utterances of my name were punctuated with, “I’m going to come! Oh!”

            Sweet, heavenly-tasting juices gushed out of Emma’s pussy, and I made a concerted effort to swallow every last drop; I was mostly successful, though there was a slight wet mark on my comforter. I made one last pass over her tender clitoris before getting off my knees. I got on the bed and lay down, my back supported by the pillows. My erect penis pointed straight up at the ceiling.

            Emma winked at me. “My turn,” she said, licking her lips. She lay down on the bed on her stomach, and kissed the tip of my penis. She then began to lick the shaft and head until my entire penis was glistening with her saliva. Emma placed her left hand around the base of my penis and opened her mouth, which quickly enveloped my swollen member. I grunted as her soft, sensual lips pressed against the shaft. Were any other girl giving me a blowjob, I’d likely close my eyes and imagine Emma Watson. As my luck would have it, Emma Watson herself was giving me a blowjob.

            As Emma bobbed her head up and down my penis, her lips slid along its length. Slowly, Emma increased the pace of her bobs. She periodically swirled her tongue around in her mouth, and it flicked and grazed my swollen, tender head. “Yes, Emma,” I said, stroking her soft cheeks with one hand and reaching down to caress her breasts with the other. I felt an orgasm beginning to build inside me. “Slow down, Em,” I instructed her, not wanting to come quite so quickly. My endurance was fairly average; while I certainly wasn’t the type who came within seconds, it was also difficult to hold back after several minutes of passionate oral sex—from Emma Watson, no less.

            “Here,” I said, opening the top drawer on the unassuming nightstand beside my bed. I pulled out a single condom. Emma watched with rapt attention—which I found somewhat comical—as I opened the condom wrapper, took the condom out, and unfurled it onto my penis. “Why don’t you get on top of me, Emma?”

            Emma nodded her head without saying anything. As I lay on my back, Emma climbed on top of me and straddled my hips. Gripping the base, I held my penis in place as she lowered herself onto me. Simultaneously we let out a grunt.

            “Fuck, Emma,” I gasped. “You feel amazing.” I placed my hands on her hips and began to slowly thrust upward. I bit my bottom lip as Emma put her hands on my chest and started to ride me. My hands explored Emma’s body, roaming from her breasts to her stomach, from her hips to her butt.

            “Get on top of me, Chris,” she said after five or so minutes. Emma climbed off of me and rolled onto her back. She lay spread eagle on the bed. I followed her instructions and mounted her. I began to thrust myself in and out of Emma’s pussy. My swollen balls pressed against her ass as I penetrated her. She reached behind me and grabbed my ass. I let out a grunt as she gently dug her nails into my flesh.

            “Oh, Emma,” I moaned. As she grabbed my ass, she pulled me deeper into her lovehole, guiding my thrusts. I looked down at Emma. Her mouth was wide open; her breathing was heavy. We looked into each other’s open eyes. I leaned down and began to kiss Emma on the lips, sometimes trailing off to suck on her neck or earlobes.

            “Do you,” she began to ask. “Do you,” she tried again. Each time she tried to ask, she was cut off by her own moaning. Though each word was punctuated by her moans, she at last managed to ask, “Do you want me from behind?”

            “Yes, Emma,” I replied. It was practically a growl. I pulled out of Emma’s pussy with reluctance. I grabbed the pillows and placed them near the center of the bed. Emma leaned over the pillows, which pressed against her breasts and stomach. She lifted her ass into the air. I pressed my hands against both cheeks and gave them a playful smack, making her moan. I grabbed Emma’s hips and entered her.

            “Oh, fuck!” I screamed in ecstasy. Taking Emma from behind allowed me to enter her even deeper than our previous two positions. Emma arched her back, and one of my hands strayed to her breast, which I firmly squeezed. “God damn, Emma,” I groaned. “You’re so fucking tight!”

            “Oh, yes,” Emma moaned. Her moans were becoming much louder. “Fuck me, Chris, fuck me!” My thrusting intensified as I heard Emma talking dirty in that lovely English accent of hers. My hands reached towards her torso, this time sliding up to grab both her breasts. Still inside her pussy, I pulled Emma closer to me. She was almost upright. “Fuck!” she screamed, “I’m having an orgasm!” I felt her juices flowing from her cunt. I tilted my head down and began to nibble on her neck. Her body shook as she came.

            I was on the verge of an orgasm as well. My balls tensed up. “I’m going to come, Emma!” No sooner had I spoken those words than I could feel my cum begin to erupt from my cock. “Fuck! Oh, fuck!” I screamed. I pulled out of her and tossed the condom into the wastebasket. Emma winked at me before she leaned down and licked the remaining cum from my cock. “You little tease,” I said with a smile. She smiled back and then stuck her tongue out at me.

...........................

            The window was open, and a warm summer breeze blew through the room. I was on my back, propped up by the pillows. Emma lay on her stomach, her head nestled on my hair-covered chest. I stroked her hair. While we hadn’t exchanged any words after having had sex, we had exchanged glances and smiles.

            “Emma, did we just fuck?” I asked. I must admit that I was still in shock. Had I just slept with Emma Watson?

            “Mhmm,” she said with her lips closed. She picked her head up. “Did you ever think you would fuck me, Chris?”

            “No,” I said, laughing and shaking my head. “In fact, I’m not even sure I believe that we just fucked. I mean, you were my first celebrity crush, Emma. Like most guys my age, I’ve been even more into you as you’ve grown into a woman. No guy ever thinks he’ll get the chance to even say ‘hello’ to a celebrity, much less fuck her.” I looked down at Emma, who seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say. “I have to ask: When did you think there was a chance we might have sex?”

            “When you asked me if I wanted to hang out with you. People never ask me that. I don’t know—it’s like they’re afraid of me, or something. It’s refreshing to be treated like a person.” She smiled and returned her head to my chest. “What time is it?”

            I looked over at the alarm clock. “Just past nine,” I told her.

            “Alright,” she said. She placed her head back on my chest.

.............................

            I woke up and looked at the alarm clock. 8:53. Sunlight was beginning to seep in through the curtains. I surveyed the room. There was no sign of Emma. Still naked, I got out of bed and walked around the apartment. I noticed a scrap of paper on the kitchen counter. I walked over and picked up the scrap. Emma’s note read, “Thanks for the fun time! Producers called, wanted us back in Minneapolis. You looked too comfy to wake!” Emma scribbled two phone numbers to conclude the note; one was a Minneapolis area code, and I presumed the other number was a British listing. “xoxo, Emma.” I flipped the note over. “P.S., for yesterday, see counter.” I looked at the counter and saw a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Was Emma trying to thank me in a rather bizarre way? I then remembered that I hadn't charged Emma for those cups of coffee yesterday. I laughed and smiled to myself.