Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: Chapter 28

Vicki Marie’s Sexy Summer Reading Series: One Chapter A Day


Chapter 28

It was my first day of work after the trek in Nepal, when I answered my cell phone and heard Kyle’s distinct Alabama accent.

“Oh my God, you called,” I said, drawing each word out to express my surprise.

“Dinin’ I tell you I would?” I had misjudged him, and I was stunned to discover how wrong I was. That’s when he told me he wanted to see me again.

“OK,” I heard myself say, “I would love to show you my city.”

Blond Tune-up, with cocktail, At Ryan's Salon in Buenos Aires, where I started writing The Bachelor Chapters in 2012

Blond Tune-up, with cocktail, At Ryan’s Salon in Buenos Aires, where I started writing The Bachelor Chapters in 2012

I had been anxious all week. It was January 2005, and Chicago’s Finest was flying in for a three-day weekend. I had spent eight meaningful hours with him back in October, but we had only talked two or three times since. Hell yes, I was anxious. I was almost a year into my nonexclusive lifestyle by then, and in true bachelor fashion, I had discovered an unexpected preference with my lovers; I didn’t do sleepovers. My meaningful connections were about sex, not intimacy, and I liked my morning-after’s solo, thank you very much. Now I had agreed to host a stranger in my bed, and every other room in my house, for three long days. What if I didn’t like him? At the airport I parked in the lot and waited at the gate. I was doubtful I would remember what he looked like—his face, I mean—and when I saw a brother speed walk through the gate, I wondered if that might be him. But, without even a flare of recognition, I returned my attention to the deplaning crowd. After twenty-five minutes, and confirmation from the airline that the plane was indeed empty, a familiar disappointment hit my gut. He wasn’t on the flight. Chicago’s Finest had vaporized.

I tried his phone, but it went straight to his voicemail. Of course, I sulked. He’ll never answer again. I made my way back to the lot, when the phone rang.

“Where you at?” he asked, impatiently. “I’m waitin’ on you outside Southwest baggage.”

I was embarrassed when I came around the bend and saw that Kyle was that speed-walking brother, the first one out of the gate. Oh my God, I thought. I didn’t even remember what my five-star lover looked like? That even sounded slutty to me.

I drove him straight to the city for a late lunch at one of my favorite places, Maximilian’s, a French restaurant in the Pike Place Market. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and large windows let in that day’s extraordinary winter light. The view was magnificent, stretching across the chill blue of the Puget Sound, to the green forests of Bainbridge Island, and the snow-covered Olympic Mountains. Seattle was drop-dead stunning when a rare winter sun emerged, and it was outstanding luck to have it on Kyle’s first visit to the city. It was also our first meal together, and I learned that Kyle loved food from every country and was no stranger to French cuisine, or France, for that matter. He was a world traveler with a full passport, and we traded stories of where we had been, and the future destinations that we each had on our list. When the food came, I was about to raise my glass for a toast, when he bowed his head, closed his eyes, and paused for a private and silent prayer before his plate. It was a seamless interruption, uncommon in my dining life, but was a practice I would see often in my dates with Black Americans. Given the free love Kyle and I had exchanged in Chicago, I wondered how he reconciled his faith with his sex practice, while at the same time, I wondered about the implications of fucking a Christian from Chicago. When he raised his head, I raised my glass to start the meal with my own tradition of prayer. “Bon appetite, Kyle. Welcome to my city.”

Merci, Vicki Marie. Merci de m’avoir invité.” How could this be, the man spoke French, with an Alabama accent? Was it too early to conclude that Black Americans were just more interesting than the white men I’d dated?

Over lunch, I heard more about Kyle’s life. He had two boys; one an adult playing basketball in the European League, and the other in middle school and living with his ex-wife. He told me about growing up as a boy in Birmingham, about his memories of the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church, and the four young girls who died there. There had been no dad in his life, lost to philandering and an early grave. Kyle’s mother struggled with her family of four children—she was neither loving nor nurturing—which is a kind summary of her maternal record. If she had been my mother, I would describe her as cruel and selfish. But Kyle only spoke with empathy about his mother; he was unwaveringly devoted to her, in spite of the emotional pain she still caused him as an adult.

He’d been lucky that she sent him to Chicago to live with his grandparents when he was ten. Grandma and Grandpa gave the young boy stability, and the city gave him the space to dream and grow. Sports, dance, diversity, opportunity— divorced from the gutter of Jim Crow and the racist violence of the South—Chicago transformed a provincial southern black boy into a culturally rich man. Kyle loved Chicago like most people love their family; the city gave him his identity and his strength. His pride and love of Chicago were infectious; he wanted everyone to know it was the best city in the world.

I took the scenic route on the drive home, the road that traced the Alki Peninsula and offered the breathtaking eastern view across Elliott Bay to downtown, and the incomparable western view across the Puget Sound to the Olympic Range. Kyle was impressed with the scenic wonder that Seattle is known for, and I was impressed with the scenic wonder imported from Chicago sitting beside me.

Kyle liked my home, and complimented my distinct style of interior decoration. He explained that design was also a priority in his place, and that his condo walls were painted in wild and vibrant colors too.

“These paintings—they bold, an’ sexy,” he said, admiring the large, abstract art hanging in the living room.

“No, those are photographs, my new work,” I explained. “The colors and scale always remind people of painting, but it’s all done with my camera.”

“These are yours? Vicki Marie—you need to take this to Miami—ooooo-weeee-woman!—South Beach, yea! South Beach’ll eat it up! I have a friend—I can hook you up!” He pulled out his phone, scanned his contacts, and placed the call. He was on the line within seconds, testifying to his buddy about the perfect art for South Beach that he had found in Seattle. I watched in wonder. This was not a Northwest date. This was a made-for-TV movie.

“You are fabulous! Thank you, baby!” I shouted after he hung up and we moved his luggage into the dance studio. I left him to unpack, but Kyle followed me out of the studio into the kitchen. “It’s time to take you home,” is all he said, before grazing my lips with a kiss. I felt his firm grip on my narrow hips before he turned me around and pressed me onto the island counter in the middle of the room. I went with the cue and sunk into position: my breasts and my belly on the smooth surface of the hardwood counter top, my ass suddenly the most compelling view in the room. Not even HBO invents this kind of action.

My skirt was short above my bare legs, and he pushed it up to my waist and pulled down on my panties, my tight, heart-shaped ass starkly naked before his brown eyes. He squeezed the white cheeks with his black hands, and then brought his hard dick between my legs, slapping the pouting lips of my pussy. Next, he was inside me in a heartbeat, filling me up in one rapid thrust. My throat closed and my uterus protested, but I dealt with it the best way I knew how; I spread my legs wider, pushed my ass higher, and willed my pussy to relax and my organs to give way as he began the rhythm of his fucking.

My wetness followed soon enough, coating his erection and smoothing the ride, and I easily passed over to pleasure as I allowed his dick to consume me. My cheek was on the table now, and my hands clenched both sides of the island to stabilize my position against the force of his stroke. Kyle fucked me long and deep, making a mess with my slickness, swelling my pussy from the beating and unrelenting tempo driven by his dick. He led fiercely, sending me straight into erotic and savage territory. I moan, and I sweat, and I even swear like a soldier with good fucking, and Kyle brought it all out: primal and proud and shameless. I came again and again, but he showed no pause of pride: just that relentless thrust and recoil that sent me spiraling into another contraction. When it was his time, he came suddenly, as he tightened his grip on my arched ass and he pulled in vain for more depth until every fiber in his frame went rigid in ecstasy. I held on hard, and when he came inside me I held on tighter, squeezing every muscle in my core until I could hold on no more.


TOMORROW: Chapter 29

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Copyright Vicki Marie Stolsen, 2014, Forever Forty-Four Publications, Publicity Rare Bird Lit, Tyson Cornell,, Distribution by Ingram, Available online and in bookstores in paperback, eBook, and audio format.