Solitudes

I was a college student... She was the mother superior and the Latin teacher. She taught me to lick a clit.
She said me: "Close gently in the incisors meat button and then repeat: “Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus / rumoresque senum severiorum / omnes unius aestimemus assis. / Soles occidere et redire possunt: /nobis, cum semel occidit brevis lux, / nox est perpetua una dormienda. / Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, / dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, / deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum. / Dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, / conturbabimus illa ne sciamus, / aut nequis malus invidere possit, / cum tantum sciat esse basiorum.”
The imperceptible and tapping movement of the tip of the tongue, that over the years I felt, on the clitoris, became a torture when pleasure began to grow. I wanted the light touch to become strong and domineering opening the road to orgasm just about to explode. But when the first contraction seemed ready to unleash the others, the tongue, spiteful, was away and it seemed that everything had to start again. The pleasure was so restrained that grew slow but inexorable as the cream of the milk on the fire. It salts on; if you lower the flame it comes back down; however, its temperature continues to rise; you have a lot to do in holding the boiling, but sooner or later the foam goes up up up and pours from the pot in a boiling river. These were my orgasms with the verses of Catullus.
I emptied completely, too; it took me a sense of abandonment that in those moments did not seem so bitter as I would have thought with the progress of time. The walls of the vagina, in the contract, would have liked to shake a dick; but whose? That fluid embrace would be wasted with an absent-minded man, not attentive to my needs; I was not interested in love, but in the attention and care yes. And so I continued and continue, in the quiet of my room, to live with my uneasy peace.