After tea I sat at my desk and gloomily contemplated my Latin homework, an essay on the love poems of Catullus. Catullus from Verona, who wrote love poems to a girl called Lesbia and also to an unnamed man. He was bisexual, as we all knew even though we imagined Miss Graves our Latin Mistress would never use such a word. I sat with a blank page in front of me. I wrote the date in the margin wrote the title and underlined it and sat and waited. No inspiration came. Then I opened my book of Catullus’ verse and began to read again. And the words carried me off to ancient Verona.
The streets were narrow, it was noisy and dusty and the stench was dreadful. I must have looked a bit odd in my pleated skirt , blazer and straw boater. They say some men fantasise about schoolgirls in uniform but I can’t see it. At sixteen I just felt sexless in my uniform. And people going by in togas were indeed staring at me.
I stopped someone.
‘Ubi est domus Catulli?’ I asked nervously hardly daring to hope that the man would understand.
He replied quickly and pointed. I carried on and came to a large villa with a wooden door on which I knocked. A beautiful young woman opened, beckoned me inside.
‘Ego Lesbia sum’ she said.
‘Catherine’ I said taking off my boater and looking around. Lesbia helped me off with my blazer showed me into a room off the courtyard where she invited me to recline on a couch. A slave girl came to wash my feet.
‘I’ve come to see Catullus. I need help with his poems.’
Lesbia smiled and said
‘He’ll be back in a couple of hours. Let’s have a glass of wine and talk. I think you’re very attractive.’
She called the slave girl who poured a thick sweet wine into bronze goblets. Lesbia motioned to me to recline on a couch and came over to join me.
‘You don’t need words to understand us’ she said ‘appreciate his poems. Just relax and enjoy me, and then you can enjoy him. Perhaps he’ll write you a poem.’’
She slipped off her gown and stood before me naked, freshly bathed, freshly perfumed. She came to lie beside me unbuttoned my blouse and unhooked my bra. I felt a bit embarrassed as she began to kiss my breasts, suck the nipples which soon got hard. I was sixteen and a virgin and was suddenly in a strange and wonderful place. I desired this woman and when she slipped down the pleated skirt, nuzzled her face in my now luxuriant bush I did not resist. She took my finger and guiding my hand began to introduce me to the delights of my body.
‘This is your clit. This is the heaven you carry with you. You play with it, massage it gently as I work with my tongue lower down and quench my thirst on your juices.’
She licked and worked her tongue around my sex I played with my clit and could feel myself getting wet.
‘I love you Lesbia, I love you, I love you’ I shouted as I came and Lesbia grabbed my head roughly and forced me down over her pussy. She opened her legs, arched her back and I moved down to explore the beauty of a woman for the first time.
Her juices were sour to the taste at first but soon turned sweet as I got used to the rough stubble of her shaven pussy and to the juices that kept coming, like a well of desire that could never be exhausted. As I licked and worked my tongue up and down she began to moan and placed a finger inside her. She played with herself slowly at first but then faster, faster as she exhorted me to move in step with her with my tongue.
She came and pulled me onto her and we kissed. Even at sixteen I knew what to do and pushed my tongue in deep felt it intertwine wit hers, kept pushing, pushing, even as she gasped for air.
She pushed me away took a deep breath and said.
‘Now we’ve both come let’ just lie and feel each other, skin against skin. The love of woman and woman is the most beautiful thing there is.’
‘And Catullus?’ I asked.
‘Romans have no hang ups. Everyone I now is openly bisexual. He has men I have women and the most beautiful sex is with women.’
We reached for our goblets and drank.
‘You have tasted a woman. Catullus will teach you more than poetry when he comes but believe me you will never again be able to live without a woman.’
She climbed on top of me and began to kiss me slowly and deeply. And I suddenly remembered what Miss Graves had said.
‘Girls, great literature is sensual, it is erotic, it will grip you and never let go. It will change your life.’
I felt myself go limp with submission as Lesbia began again to adore my breasts. I felt her soft fragrant skin against my clit, felt the juices of desire well up again. Miss Graves was surely right.
TO BE CONTINUED