The Quiet Ladies Man Ch. 03

**Saturday, 12:47 PM, Valentina's Off-Campus Apartment, Bedroom**

The text had come through about two hours earlier at 11:02 AM, two words and a period...

Come over.

I read it three times in the kitchen with my thumbs hovering and my heart doing that pathetic little rabbit-kick against his ribs.

I was at her door at 12:15, and by 12:47 I was inside her tight juicy walls.

The bedroom smelled like sandalwood incense and the sharp, animal tang of their last round. Sunlight slanted through half-drawn blinds, striping Valentina's caramel colored back as she arched over me. She rode slow, deliberate, her hips rolling in a rhythm that made the old box spring creak out steadily, hissing and panting as she went. Her heavy tits bounced and swayed, dark brown nipples pebbled while I watched, utterly mesmerized. My hands were clamped on her waist so hard he could feel the bones shifting under her skin.

"Fffuckkk, Val... yesssss..." I gritted out, teeth bared, neck straining. I was buried inside her, slick and hot and strangling-tight. Every time she sank down, her clit ground against the coarse hair at the base of my manhood. My balls drew up, heavy and full, slapping wetly against her ample ass.

Valentina leaned forward slowly with her palms flat on my chest, her long hair curtaining her face. She had that look, the one that made him feel like he was being studied under a microscope--half-lidded, lips parted, a single sweat bead tracking from her head. It made me feel even more naked.

"Don't stop. Don't stop," she breathed, and then she did stop, just for a second, squeezing her inner walls around him in a way that made his hips buck up involuntarily. "Ah--there you go."

I wanted to say something dirty. Something that matched the slap of skin and the wet, obscene sounds coming from where they were joined. But my brain kept shorting out and the insecurities slowly rose up from the ashes.

"God. She's gorgeous. She's gonna see my gut. Don't say anything stupid. Don't think about your gut. She's literally riding your dick."

My belly wasn't flat--it never had been--a soft layer over muscle that I have been trying to build for two years. But Valentina had told me once, in a text, that she liked the way I filled out his hoodies. I still wore a shirt the first few times out of self consciousness. Now I was shirtless, and she was staring at his chest like she wanted to eat him.

"Touch my clit," she ordered, guiding my right hand from her hip and guiding it between her legs. Her fingers pressed over mine, showing him the exact pressure. "There. Circle it."

I did so. My thumb slid through her slick folds, found the hard little nub, and rubbed in tight, fast circles. Valentina's mouth fell open.

"Ah--ah--ah--"

Her inner walls started fluttering.

"Fuck, yes, there it is," she hissed, grinding down. "There it is..."

I watched her come undone above him. This was the part that I still couldn't believe I got to see--her thick thighs shaking, her back bowing, her walls clamping down on him in rhythmic, milked pulses. I was so close. So damn close that it was painful. My balls were tight, his cock throbbing, the base of his spine tingling.

"Where--" he started.

"Inside," she gasped. "Come inside me. I'm on the pill. Just do it."

That was all it took. A few strokes later, my hips snapped up once, twice, and then I roared with a raw, guttural...

"Fuuhhckk! Fuck me!"

I pulsed inside her, ropes of cum flooding her warm, clenching pussy. I could feel it, hot and wet, as she milked him through it, her body still shaking with her own orgasm. I looked down to see the newly made creampie. It was beautiful.

Minutes later...

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Valentina collapsed onto his chest, her breath hot against my neck. The room smelled like sex now--sharp and sweet, their musk mixing with the fading incense. My erection eventually softened and slipped out of her, and I felt the wetness smear against my thigh.

"Jesus," I muttered.

Valentina laughed, low and throaty. "You're getting better at that."

"Only 'better'? That's it?"

She propped herself up on one of her elbows. "Better at letting go. You still think too damn much. I can practically hear it. It's kinda cute, though." She traced a nail down his sternum, through the sparse hair. "You know people are calling you a ladies' man now, right?"

My stomach dropped. "Who's saying that?"

"Girls. Guys. That barista girl at The Grind with the gap in her teeth." She smirked. "They say Darius from the library put in work."

"That's... that's not what I'm doing. See, to me 'Ladies Man' is equivalent to..."

"Fuckboy? Relax, Darius." She kissed my jaw.

"Yeah, and way, WAY more sexually experienced. Ladies Men get women in their sleep. They're more good looking, have pickup lines, all of that. I however..."

"Darius. It's not an insult. It means you're good in bed and not a creep about it. You're actually the opposite of Fuckboy actually. Own it."

I tried to, but couldn't. The word *ladies' man* felt like a costume that didn't fit. I still remembered being seventeen, too scared to even look at a pretty girl in the eyes. My palms were sweating. My tongue, a dead weight in my mouth. I was once upon a time that virgin who practiced silence like a religion. However that was then.

A few days later...

The coffee shop was a converted brick warehouse, all exposed ductwork and mismatched furniture. The air was thick with burnt espresso and vanilla syrup, undercut by the sharp tang of fresh ginger from the juice bar. Students hunched over laptops, a pair of professors argued about funding near the window, and someone's phone speaker leaked a muffled true-crime podcast from a table near the back.

I had come for a cold brew and some quiet time to work on something. I got neither done.

"Well, well, well."

The voice came from his left. He turned and found himself face-to-face with two Latina women who could only be sisters--same heart-shaped faces, same full lips, same determined set to their eyebrows. Both had curves that could kill men. One was slightly taller than the other. They had different smiles. One was imperfect, the other was a million dollar smile. And both were smiling at me. Oh God.

The slightly taller one with the million dollar smile, Lola, tilted her head and smiled like she'd just found money on the sidewalk and whispered to her sister.

"Excuse me. Darius, right?" Valerie leaned one ample hip against the counter, her long, hair--the color of dark brown thick and wavy--falling over one shoulder. Her body had ample curves. However, she had an athletic build with narrow shoulders and a flat stomach visible under a cropped black tee. Her jeans were high-waisted, cuffed at the ankle, but she wore them like armor. A small silver nose piercing glinted.

"Uh, yeah."

"I'm Valerie. This is my sister Lola." She gestured. "We've seen you around. You're in my early modern lit seminar. You sit in the back row and take notes like you're afraid the professor's gonna call on you."

Lola tilted her head. She was shorter than her sister by almost half a head, with her dyed blonde hair cut into a sharp bob that framed her face. Her body was compact and strong--broad shoulders for a woman, thick thighs that strained the seams of her olive cargo pants, an impressive midsection that she was proud to showcase. Her arms were dusted with faint freckles, and she wore a faded band tee.

"Don't listen to her," Lola said, bumping her sister with her ample hip. "She's just mad because she got a B on her last paper. I'm the nice one."

"Ugh. No, you're not." Valerie rolled her eyes. "Neither of us is nice."

Meanwhile, I was looking at them and had no idea what to do with this. I stood there in my hoodie and jeans, holding his cold brew like a lifeline, while two gorgeous women--sisters!--took turns flirting with me like it was a competitive sport.

"You free later?" Lola asked boldly, stepping closer. She smelled like coconut oil and something citrusy. "We're having a small thing at our place. Board games, wine, bad music. You should come."

Valerie studied my face.

"I--" I started to say something then I realized something. I felt heat crawling up my neck. Why was this happening? Was this what Valentina was talking about? Were they only talking to me because of my newfound reputation?

"Don't overthink it," Lola said, softer now. She touched my forearm, just a brief press of her fingers through my sleeve. "We don't bite. Unless you want us to."

That last part she said loud enough for the barista to hear. The barista, a light skinned black woman with a slight gap in her teeth, raised an eyebrow animatedly, then went back to wiping down the counter.

"Okay," I said. "Maybe."

Lola grinned. "Maybe's better than no." She pulled out her phone. "Put your number in. We'll text you the address."

I did, with my hands fumbling slightly, aware of both sisters watching my every move. Valerie smiled at him, slow and deliberate, the kind of smile that promised trouble. I watched them sashay away.

"Ha. Those girls are trouble. Take it from me." The barista said in a sing song tone.

A week had passed since I went back to the coffee house. I had barely gotten his laptop open when a shadow fell across the table, and said:

"Mind if I sit here?"

The voice was low, clipped, not really asking. He looked up, and for a second, all the air left my lungs. The woman standing was utterly beautiful in a way that felt like a challenge. She was mixed--Black and Filipino, if I had to guess--with tan skin, high cheekbones, and dark eyes that seemed to weigh everything they touched. Her hair was a riot of black curls, cropped close on the sides and longer on top, and she wore little makeup except for a thin swipe of dark lipstick.

"I'm Pamela. Pamela Palmer." She said, pulling out the chair across from him without waiting for an answer. She set down a cup of black tea. "You're Darius, I presume.

"Ummm, am I supposed to know you?" I asked but immediately regretted the tone.

To my surprise, Pamela smiled. "No. But I know ABOUT you." She took a slow sip of her tea. "The Quiet Ladies' Man of the Library. That's what they're calling you now."

I winced at that statement. "I hate that name."

"Hate what?"

"The nickname. I'm not... I'm not a ladies' man. Not at all. Whatsoever.

Pamela's eyes narrowed. "Then what are you?"

"I'm just... trying," he said finally.

Pamela studied me for a long moment. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. She wore a simple white tank top over dark jeans, and her shoulders were squared, posture impeccable. A thin gold chain glinted at her collarbone.

"At least you're honest. Good answer." She set her tea down. "The 'ladies' man' label is a trap, you know. It seems flattering, but it reduces you to a function. You become a thing women pass around. And if you try too hard to live up to it, you'll lose whatever it was that made you interesting in the first place. It's a lose-lose."

"Hmm." I said, giving her last statement thought. "And what's that?"

"You're not trying to be anyone else. You still look like you're about to bolt every time a girl says hello." Pamela smiled, and this time it was almost warm. "That's endearing. Don't lose it."

I blinked. "That's... actually good advice."

"I know. I'm full of it." She stood up, slinging a worn leather bag over one shoulder. "I'm around. If you ever want to talk to someone who actually ISN'T desperately trying to get some dick."

And then she was gone, weaving through the maze of tables and out the front door. I sat there for a long time, cold brew warming in his hand, feeling like I had gotten advice from a version of a fairy godmother.

Another week later, a lady by the name of Luna Lovett had texted me three times--

"I heard about YOU, bookworm. Come over. I'll make lemonade."

Luna was hard to say no to. She was an older Black woman in her early fifties and a retired literature professor who lived less than five minutes from campus and rented her attic room to students. I had met her at the library months ago, bonding over a shared love of certain authors and the fact that we both drank their coffee ice cold.

Her porch was painted bright yellow, with wind chimes clinking in the late afternoon breeze. The air smelled like cut grass and jasmine, and somewhere down the block a lawnmower sputtered. Luna sat in a wicker chair, a glass of lemonade sweating in her hand. She wore a flowing yellow sundress and her brown hair with tiny streaks of silver piled into a loose bun, and her bare feet were propped on a worn ottoman.

"Sit down, baby," she said, patting the chair beside her. "You look like you've been through it. You've got that hunted look, like a boy who found out the whole school's been talking about him."

I sat, accepting the cold glass she offered. The lemonade was tart and cold, little bits of pulp floating in it.

"I guess you heard too, huh?" I said, sighing.

Luna laughed, a rich, warm sound. "Honey, I hear everything. The grapevine around this campus is more reliable than the official email system." She took a long sip of her own drink. "So. Ladies' man."

"I hate it."

"I know you do. Trust me. You think you don't fit the name. And that the name is negative. It can be." She set her glass down, turning to face me fully. "But let me tell you something about labels. They only have power if you accept them. You know what people called me when I taught here? The Dragon Lady. Because I didn't tolerate nonsense or BS and I gave out B's like they were gold medals." She shrugged. "I used to hate it too. Then I realized--they weren't wrong. I was tough. I was demanding. But I was also kind, and brilliant, and a whole lot of other things that didn't fit on a nameplate."

I stared at my hands. "It's not the same."

"Why not? Is it about the sex? About your body?" Luna's voice softened. "You're still stuck on that, aren't you? The body thing."

I didn't answer. However, Luna knew me long enough to read the silence.

"Let me tell you something, baby. You are not the first young man to feel like his body is a thing to be hidden. You're sure not the last. But the women who are texting you, the ones who call you The Quiet Ladies' Man..." She leaned forward, her dark eyes locking onto mine. "They're not calling you because you're perfect. They're calling you because you're real. You listen. You show up. You actually care whether they come. No pun intended."

I felt my face heat up. "But... That's... that's just basic. Isn't that the bar?"

"You'd be surprised how many men don't do basic." Luna laughed. "You think confidence is about having a six-pack set of abs, muscles, or always knowing the right thing to say? Here's the thing about confidence: Confidence is learning to be okay with being seen. That's it. That's the whole secret."

She reached out and tapped my chest, right over my heart. "You've been hiding for so long, you forgot what it feels like to let someone look at you. But they're looking now, Darius. And some of them like what they see."

I shook his head. "Valerie and Lola only talked to me because of my supposed reputation. That's not real."

"Oh, honey." Luna's expression was almost pitying. "That's not how sisters work. Especially not those two. The Dominguez sisters? Ha. Valerie and Lola have been running through boys since... shit, a long time. They don't need a reputation. They are it." She took another sip of lemonade. "They saw you. They decided to test the waters. That's all."

I was quiet for a long moment. The wind chimes clinked. A dog barked two doors down. The ice in my glass shifted. I sighed then asked the question that was burning in my head:

"How do I stop feeling like a fraud?" I asked finally.

Luna considered this. "You don't. Not all at once. You just keep showing up. You let yourself be seen, even when it's uncomfortable. And eventually..." She shrugged. "One day, you'll wake up and realize the person in the mirror isn't so bad to look at. You'll get there. I think you're further than you know."

I nodded slowly, feeling better in the moment. "Can I have more lemonade?"

Luna's laugh boomed across the porch. "Baby, you can have the whole pitcher."

That night, alone in my tiny living room, I sat on the floor with his back against the couch and his phone in his hand. Two texts glowed on the screen.

Valerie: 8pm. Bring your A-game, quiet boy.

Lola: Wear something you can get wine spilled on. It might happen.

My heart pounded, but for the first time all day, it didn't feel like fear. It felt like something else. Something that hummed just under my skin, low and electric.

I got up, opened his closet, and stared at my clothes. Then I pulled out a fitted black t-shirt I bought on a whim and never worn, a pair of dark jeans, and my cleanest pair of Nike sneakers.

I looked in the mirror. The mirror showed a young Black man with wary eyes and a soft stomach and hands that still shook when nervous. But underneath that, something else was starting to take shape. Something that stood a little taller. Something that was, maybe, just maybe, learning to be seen.

I grabbed my keys.

"Fuck it. Let's see what happens," I thought, and for once, the thought didn't scare me.

I walked out of the apartment door with keys in hand. The door clicked shut behind me.