A Ripe Grape

Britney strolled through the vineyards at the palatial Napa Valley winery, not entirely by her choosing. She thought she was just going to get some black cock, like the outsider bitches. But she'd been scrubbed up, inspected from head to toe, waxed, and brought to what had to be the wealthiest man she could imagine.

His name was Nasir Al-Assaf. He now ran his uncle's oil and gas concerns nationwide. He was young, olive-skinned, and exuded wealth and power. Why he was using it to entertain a blonde cheerleader from South Carolina was beyond her understanding.

They walked silently through the groves. He was six feet tall, fit, urbane, domineering. Being so close to someone with such ... power ... felt quite foreign, but not so foreign as he was.

"So ummm ... Sheikh, Sir, I was just wondering ... why are we here? Why me?" Britney asked, fumbling over her words. The Sheikh stopped before one grape, plucking off a particularly ripe one, and proffering it to Britney's lips. She paused for a second, before parting her lips. He lodged the grape between her lips, watching her chew.

"Some say we're a threat to American culture," he said smoothly, looking over the vineyards. "They think we're here to bomb and shoot and die. And for some of us, that may be the case, sadly. But I think we should learn from the days of endless wars and crusades. Our victory isn't through a battle or a war. It's through a womb."

Britney stood stock still, swallowing hard.

"I've been following what my brother Yusuuf has done in South Carolina, and what he has done there has been for the good of all Muslims. But I think back to my uncle, Ibrahim. He coveted a white woman once. He waited patiently for her. And he never got her. So when I see a particularly ripe grape, one so compelling as you in beauty and bearing ... I pluck it as my own."