It Seems Flint's a Sucker for Poetry

The two of you are having a lovely time. It would seem you have a great deal in common and she seems to like having someone she can actually talk with. You find yourselves talking about sexual psychology and the two of you have been inching closer and closer together. As you enjoy your dessert, you get a mischevious little grin and begin to whisper passages from Ovid's erotic poetry into her ear, in the original language no less.

You weren't quite sure the reaction you expected, but you certainly had underestimated what it would be. At first, Professor Flint seems to gasp in surprise that you even know the poetry by heart, then she begins to squirm in her seat a little bit. Her arm slides around you, fingers weaving through your hair. Her lips touch your ear as she whispers.

"More," she breathes, "tell me more."

You do, gently letting your hand travel over her muscular thigh. Her hand slides over your chest as she moves even closer to you, rubbing her body gently against yours as you purr the poet's words to her. You feel her tongue begin to run over your neck and can feel the heat coming off of her.

"You don't know what you're doing to me," she moans softly, gently gripping your hair.

"I think I do," you purr, placing kisses over her neck and giving her more.

You don't really know what would happen if she truly let herself go. You have a feeling that she held herself back earlier, but you want her to let go, even if it means you may get a little roughed up. You want her to find her own earthshattering release.