The Quiet Ladies Man

My name is Darius Jackson. I am 28 years old. This is my story. A story of change. A story of metamorphosis. This is a story of how a scared, nervous boy turned into a man. And I am that man. They call me The Quiet Ladies Man. It took me awhile to get used to that name. It wasn't easy, but I did it.

My story begins with me standing in the graphic novel section of a book store. My rimmed glasses fogged slightly from the humidity that still clung to the September evening. The air smelled of old paper, sandalwood incense from a nearby head shop, and the faint tang of body spray from the teenage girls giggling over a manga display. Back then, I was 22, fresh out of college. I was a software developer by day, a self-described (and proud) nerd by night, and a virgin by pure circumstance. I adjusted my black-framed glasses, his fingers trembling as he reached for a limited edition copy of "Superman."

Now, I had sort of a lanky build. I was six feet tall, but my body was a source of constant anxiety: skinny, very narrow shoulders, a pitifully flat chest, and arms that looked like they'd never lifted anything heavier than a laptop. I wore a faded NASA t-shirt that day tucked into straight-leg jeans, the hem slightly too short, revealing brown ankles and white crew socks. My skin was the color of caramel smooth and mostly unblemished except for a small scar on his left cheek from a childhood bike accident. My hair was cut short, neat, with a fuzzy beard. Nonetheless, my face was boyish, with a rounded chin, full lips, and brown eyes that were too expressive, always giving away nervousness.

While I was there, a taller woman with a muscular build walked past me. She was gorgeous, with black hair cut in an asymmetrical bob that swept across her forehead. Her face was angular, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin. She wore a black leather jacket over a ripped band t-shirt, black jeans that hugged her thick thighs, and black boots. Her body was very athletic yet curvy, with broad shoulders, a small waist, and an ass that filled her jeans like a promise. She had a nose piercing and a tattoo of a crescent moon on her wrist. She smelled like cinnamon and clove cigarettes.

My mind went blank. Believe it or not, I wanted to say something, anything. I knew the band on her shirt--a Japanese rock band. I had a million things I could have said. But my tongue felt like sandpaper. I stared at the Superman comic pitifully in my hand, with my heart pounding.

"She probably thinks I'm some damn weirdo or perv." I thought. Why would she even look at me?

The woman, whose name I learned (through my keen observation skills) was Ingrid, actually glanced at me.

Ingrid eventually walked away with her intoxicating scent of cinnamon lingering. I let out a breath. I eventually put the comic back and left the store with the bell on the door jingling behind me.

That was the old Darius.

--- A few months later ---

March 3, 2016, 11:27 PM.

The bar was called The Bookhouse, a little speakeasy hidden behind a false bookshelf in a used bookstore. The air inside was thick with the smell of bourbon, old leather, and the faint musk of too many bodies in close quarters. Low jazz and R&B played from a speaker hidden behind a shelf of tattered paperbacks.

I sat on a velvet stool with my shoulders still a little bit hunched, but my eyes were different. Since that day when I saw Ingrid, I've been working out--not obsessively, but enough to fill out my shirt at least. My arms had at least a little bit of definition. My chest was no longer concave. I still wore glasses, but they were new, thinner frames, and I had my hair was a little longer. My wardrobe changed a little bit as well. I had on fitted denim jacket over a plain white tee, dark jeans, and black sneakers. I was no fashionista or sex symbol, but I was trying, damn it.

Meanwhile, across the bar, a woman was looking at me. Her name was Valentina Gomez. She was an older Latina, 38 to be exact. She was a literary agent, with a body that was very voluptuous at the least. Her hair was a cascade of long dark curls, wild and untamed, falling past her shoulders. Her face was round, with full cheeks, a wide mouth and pouty plump lips made for kissing... and other things. She also had dark brown eyes. She wore a low-cut burgundy wrap dress that emphasized her large breasts, slightly pudgy belly, and thick thighs. Her skin was tan, and she smelled like vanilla and expensive perfume.

She stood up. The hem of her dress swayed against her bare knees, and walked over. Her black heels clicked on the wooden floor.

"You look like you could use a conversation that doesn't involve a screen," She said. Her voice was low and smoky.

I looked up. My eyes widened. I forced himself to meet her gaze, remembering the advice his friend Ken had drilled into my head a few months ago after I saw Ingrid:

"Eye contact. Don't look away. She's just a person."

"I--yeah," I stammered, then cleared his throat. "I mean, I'm not opposed to it. I'm Darius. Darius Jackson."

She smiled a beautifully imperfect smile, showing a small gap between her front teeth. "Valentina. My friends call me Val. Tell me, Darius Jackson. What's a quiet, timid boy like you doing in a place like this?"

I laughed, a genuine sound.

"Honestly? My friend told me this place had good drinks and better company. So far, he's right about the drinks."

Valentina's smile widened. "And the company?"

"Hmm. Getting better."

We talked for an hour. Before long, I found myself relaxing, asking Val about her work, her favorite books, the kind of music she liked. Meanwhile, Valentina listened, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, her eyes never leaving mine. When she leaned forward, her ample cleavage deepened. My mouth simply went dry.

"I have a proposal," she said, her voice dropping. "I live two blocks away. I have a bottle of single malt that's older than you are. And I have a feeling you have a lot to learn about what you like."

At that point, my heart hammered. This was it. The moment I simultaneously fantasized about and dreaded. I could feel the my old nervous self-consciousness creeping in. What if I'm not good enough? What if she laughs at my body? But then I looked at Valentina's eyes, and I did not see judgment, I saw curiosity, and something hotter.

"I'm not... I mean, I haven't..." I began, but trailed off.

Valentina reached out and placed her hand over mine. Her skin was warm, and her touch was steady. "Darius, honey. Everyone starts somewhere. And I have a feeling you're a quick learner."

I swallowed and said...

"Okay. Let's do it."

Her apartment was a loft with exposed brick walls, tall windows, and the smell of jasmine and old books. She led me to a leather sofa, poured two glasses of scotch, and then sat closely beside me.

"I want you to relax, ok?" She said, setting her glass down. "This isn't a performance. It isn't a race. It isn't a competition. It's a conversation between bodies."

She stood up, reached and gently removed my glasses, folding them and placing them on the coffee table. My vision blurred instantly. However, I could still see her smile. She leaned in and kissed me. It was soft at first, then deeper, her tongue sliding inside my mouth. I groaned slightly with the sound muffled against her pouty glossed lips. My hands hovered at my sides, unsure where to go.

Valentina took his hands and placed them on her alluring waist.

"Go ahead. Touch me. Explore. There's no wrong answer."

My fingers trembled as they traced the curve of her hip, the soft pudgy swell of her belly. She was warm, and her skin was smoother than I imagined. I broke the kiss, panting.

"God, You're beautiful," I whispered, letting my intrusive thoughts flow.

She laughed, a throaty sound.

"Flattery will get you everywhere."

She stood, unzipped her dress, and let it pool at her feet. She wore absolutely nothing underneath--no bra, no panties. Her heavy breasts with large brown nipples tightened in the cool air. Her belly was round and soft, her hips were wide, and between her legs were a thick patch of dark hair glistened. She was not the perfect fantasy that I've seen in porn countless times. She was real, and she was magnificent.

"Your turn," she said.

My hands shook as he pulled off my shirt, then my jeans. I had on only boxers and my skin was prickling with nerves and arousal. I didn't exactly think of myself as sexy or hot. After all, I was skinny, but not as much as before. My chest had a light dusting of hair. My stomach was flat with a hint of definition. My legs were long, lanky, and lean. But the one thing that made me the most self-conscious was my manhood. I knew mine was not that big. It was MAYBE seven inches, maybe seven and a half. but I thought it was... average. It was hard now, tenting my boxers, the head leaking a wet spot.

Valentina looked at me. Her eyes roamed up and down.

"Mmm. Not bad." She said. "And all that nervous energy, that lean body--God, you're excited, are you? Come here," She continued, reaching for my boxers.

She tugged them down, and my cock sprang free, slapping against his belly. It wasn't huge, but it was thick. Pre-cum dripped from the tip, a clear bead that caught the light. Valentina licked her pouty lips in anticipation. It turned me on even more.

Valentina knelt in front of him, her mouth inches from my manhood. She looked up at me, with her eyes dark. She told me something that I will never forget.

"I'm going to teach you something about yourself, Darius. You're going to learn that you're not just enough--you're way more than enough."

She licked the tip slowly. I gasped.

"Oh my fuck--"

The sound was raw, unguarded. Valentina took my hard manhood into her mouth, her lips stretching around my girth, her tongue pressing against the vein on the underside. She bobbed her head slowly, her hand cupping and massaging my balls, which were drawn up tight. My hips bucked involuntarily, and she moaned, the vibration shooting through his cock.

"Nnngh-- Val..." I groaned, his hands fisting in her hair.

She pulled back with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting her lips to his cock.

"You taste good," she said, her voice husky. "I want you to fuck me now. But first, I want you to use your mouth, ok?"

She lay back on the sofa, spreading her legs showing her beautiful entrance. Her pussy lips was slick and pink, the lips glistening with arousal. The smell of her--sharp and sweet, like salt and honey--hit me like a left hook. My cock twitched in response.

"Kneel," she commanded. I did so.

While I knelt between her thighs, my heart began to pound. I read about this, watched videos, but nothing prepared him for the reality. I finally leaned in, my tongue darting out to taste her. She was musky and tangy, and I groaned in response.

"Like that... that's it..." She moaned, her hips lifting. "Use those lips, your tongue. Find my clit."

I then licked and sucked, my movements were clumsy at first, but I was driven by desperate enthusiasm. Valentina's moans guided me: higher, softer, harder--and soon enough, I found that golden spot on her treasure. I lapped her clit while two fingers slipped inside, curling as she'd shown me. Her oh so thick thighs tightened around my head, and she cried out...

"Oh God, yes--right there--don't stop--"

Her orgasm hit like a wave, her body bucking, her pussy clenching around my fingers. She screamed, a raw "Ahh-ahh-ahh--" that echoed off the brick walls. When she came down from her high, she was panting, her chest heaving.

"That's a good boy," she whispered, pulling him up. "Now I want you inside me."

I then positioned himself at her entrance, my cock slick with her juices and my own pre-cum. I pushed in slowly, and her pussy swallowed me. It was hot and tight and perfect. I groaned loudly while throwing my head back.

"Oh fuck, you feel amazing--" I breathed.

Valentina wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling me deeper. "That's it. Fuck me, Darius. Show me what you've got. That's right."

I started to move. My thrusts were tentative at first, then more confident. The sofa creaked beneath us; the smell of sex--sweat and arousal and scotch--filling the air. Valentina's big, heavy breasts bounced with each thrust, hypnotizing me. Her nails dug into my back. When I finally leaned down to kiss her, with my tongue sliding against hers, my hips finally found a rhythm.

"Harder," she gasped. "Don't be gentle. I won't break. I like it hard."

I obeyed her. I was now slamming into her, his balls slapping against her ass. The sound was obscene--wet, rhythmic, punctuated by our moans and groans. Her pussy gripped me like a glove and suddenly I felt my orgasm building.

"I'm close--" I warned.

"Come inside me," she moaned. "Fill me up, baby. Fill mama's pussy up."

That was all it took. I cried out in a loud guttural "Fuuuck--" as I came with my cock pulsing hot stream after stream after stream deep inside her. Valentina let out a long moan, signaling her own orgasm crashing over her again, with her nails raking down my back.

We collapsed together, panting, our bodies slick with sweat. I laid on top of her, my cheek pressed to her breast, listening to her heartbeat. And amazingly, For the first time in my life, I didn't feel like a failure. I didn't feel invisible. I felt... powerful. I was seen. I was the one who did all that to her.

But the old insecurities still lurked inside my head.

Was I good enough? Did I last long enough? Did she like my body?

Valentina read my mind perfectly. She stroked my hair gently while my head was still on her breast. "You were wonderful," she murmured. "And this is just the beginning."

She kissed me on the forehead. And it was at that moment in time, a new Darius Jackson was forming.