Another excited phonecall, this time from Elsie. Johanna, the former Kueken (and we have actually gone back to calling her that for the way she behaved lately) - well, Kueken has given birth to a healthy son. Elsie got a call in the afternoon, from a district hospital not very far away: the boy was some days early but all went well. My friends had seen her only now and then, and she had not slept in their house for over a month, but she has told them at least, even on the very first day, and allowed them to see the baby whenever they wanted - so they will drive up there this evening.

Elsie could not say much more, so I don't know anything about the circumstances and the consequences yet. What I know is that his name is Nico - a fashionable name around here, short for Nicolas, because it's St. Nicolas Day today. She had had another name ready but changed it to this spontaneously to celebrate the day. Something Kueken would do - I wonder how happy little Nico with be when he is a big Nico - but this is certainly not my problem, and I am glad for it. No Jacuzzi tonight, though, maybe Phillip can massage me a little for relaxation.

Someone who wrote me a PM asked me the following: "I am a great friend of Austria and have been to Vienna and Salzburg. I love the atmosphere there, and the music and all. So why do you always mention Zürich in your blog, but hardly ever your lovely Austrian towns?"

You can find the answer easily in the following map:



If Austria has the form of a prostate gland with a penis attached to it (which I admit looks a little crumpled, but we are an old country), then you see that I live virtually on its tip - almost like a drop of praecum. This geographical penis noses Switzerland very much (that's maybe the wrong verb), and equally close is Germany. The dialect of these regions is very similar, so when I am in Vienna I am always asked if I am Bavarian or Swiss. Zürich is by far the nearest large town with an international airport, and we regularly go over the border to go shopping, or eating at restaurants (or visit swinger clubs, as you may remember). I studied at Zürich University for some years, only my final qualification as a teacher was in Vienna - a town very far in the east beyond the mountains, in which I do not feel at home so much.

The erratic shooting incident interested me and I found some more information on sites of newspapers. Food for some thoughts, when you ask me:

- Why are not all people in Switzerland as excited about the case as Beatrix, who is living in the vicinity of the shooting? A guy of Chilean origin shot a girl of Italian origin, and she was with a boy-friend who is of Portuguese origin. So the drama was not really Swiss made, was it?

- The guy of Chilean origin is a Swiss citizen, thus his army service. "One should not naturalize these violent foreigners so easily", someone wrote in a letter to the editor of a paper. "But he was adopted as a baby and this is how he became a Swiss citizen."- "Maybe one should not naturalize adopted people until they prove to be non-violent", someone else wrote. How long shall your adopted child stay a foreigner?

- The guy who was provided with a gun by the government also owned a number of violent video games, the police found out. What is the solution some politicians propose to make sure such crimes won't happen again? Yes, you guess right, the obvious: to forbid the sale of video games.

- The shooting guy, who committed his crime for no discernible reason, had been adopted by a well-to-do middle-class family who lives in a neighbourhood of beautiful houses with manicured gardens. Three houses further down, a man, who lived in a similarly beautiful house, killed his wife and two children with a hammer two years ago - for no discernible reason, either.

- I also read that in Zürich, one out of seven people above the age of 65 is a millionaire. This has nothing to do with the murder - but on a second thought, I am not so sure about that.

I had three very excited - if not hysterical - phonecalls from Beatrix in Zürich in the last few days, because of something which was in the media all last week. I doubt that you have heard of it, if you live a little further away on the other side of the globe.

To understand the story one must know that over in Switzerland at the age of 20, every male has to do compulsory military service for four months. At the end of his period he cannot only take his semi-automatic rifle home, but he is also provided with a package of ammunition. Both ammunition and gun a Swiss man keeps in his wardrobe - waiting for the day the country is attacked (no-one knows by who - because who would attack his own bank?).

Now coming from his military training, a young man used his gun on his way home and shot a sixteen-year-old girl at a bus stop who was standing there waiting. He shot from the distance of 100 meters, and he picked his victim randomly - he had never seen her. Actually she was a trainee hairdresser of Italian origin.

What excites Beatrix so much is that it happened so close to their home. It's where their daughters wait for the bus to school every day. I have stood there myself more than once on a visit to my friends. What if they had stood there at that moment? What if I had been on a visit again?

When you come to think of it - although I am not so sure one should think about these things too thoroughly - what does it tell us about our lives, our plans, even about our principles and decisions? Does it not virtually shout at us to enjoy our lives as long as we can, and not put anything off - for what reasons ever? I must admit, I can understand Beatrix's excitement very well.

I am living in a world of literature, and it's obvious that many of the values I believe in have come to me from there. It's certainly a mixed bunch and very contradictory at its best, but one thing has been a stereotype in almost all the books over the centuries: a man guards his woman jealously and is ready to kill anyone who is thinking of touching her in any way.

This is maybe the reason why I can still get on so badly with Phillip's totally opposite behaviour: it makes him proud when guys visibly lust for me, and horny as hell when they actually touch me or I them. Maybe it's because he can have almost any woman he likes, so he doesn't have to be afraid of ever being deprived of female company. I don't know why he is like this.

But after I had told him that the Editor had touched me while talking to me, he didn't give in until I put on my black dress so that he could re-enact the scene. And it terribly excited him to hold both his hands excatly to those parts of my anatomy the Editor had. Even more - doing this in the kitchen after dinner last night, he passionately threw me over the kitchen table at once, so that I tumbled onto my back in between the glasses, dirty plates and half-eaten food, opened his pants and, as I was helplessly lying there, the dress almost lifted over my face, he fucked me there and then in the midst of the culinary mess.

We were a couple of howling wolves, and we kissed and bit and tore, and he thumped and thumped that I wailed with pain and lust, until he collapsed on me exhausted and kept me in his arms ever so long.

When I got up from the table and lifted my dress over my head, it just looked awful - totally soiled and full of stuff and wine, so that I took it to the cleaner's after school today. She looked at me doubtfully, her eyes darting from the dress to my slightly swollen lip, but she didn't say anything - just a friendly good afternoon when I left.

It was a good party on Saturday - not too big, just with the people affiliated with the Press House, and traditionally there was great food from one of the best, very expensive catering firms in the region. There were a few speeches and later some life music so that people could dance, and different rooms to sit and talk and also to play games for those who felt like it. And like always there was a room for the men to smoke cigars, to which also Phillip retired for some time to this male ritual, although it was actually a non-smoking place we were at, but some traditions die slowly here, particularly as long as the Editor will steer the ship.

People were dressed exquisitely, and I certainly drew a few stares because my rather simple black dress was rather more revealing than many others, and proud Phillip at my side said they were all making guesses what I was wearing underneath, which was, as you know from a recent blog, just a whiff of perfume between my breasts. I think Phillip was hard almost all evening because of me, I could feel it well when dancing with him, and he was all smiles. Once when stepping into the garden for some seconds to cool down a little, I put my hand into his crotch and gave him a little squeeze, and he begged me to stop before big wet spots would show on his pants. But I suspect this danger arose because he had pulled down my dress and gave my erect nipple a clandestine little sucking.

I didn't dance so much with others, but all of them sooner or later grabbed for my bra straps or panty hems at the back of my dress or on my sides, and when they didn't find anything were rather flustered. And I felt some unexpected hardness while waltzing with them - I hope their wives were unawares. Phillip's eyes were always on me - eyes proud and full of love, which made me so happy.

I knew that I would be standing with the Editor alone in his study sooner or later - he would look to that. He thanked me for our invitation to the wedding party on Christmas but said he was on a cruise to Antarctica for a month then. So he was sorry he could not come. But he would send tonight's catering team to our house instead, he had already talked it over with Phillip. He wished me all the best for our marriage and joked that this time he was glad he had not to insist on the traditional JUS PRIMAE NOCTIS, as we were already so familiar with each other. The whole time he was holding me the way he likes holding me best: his left hand under the dress on my right breast, and his right hand between my legs, acknowledging my wetness with a smile.

I could not say much, I was so moved by him and his words, so I just threw my arms around his neck and drew him to me, and kissed him on his thin, cold lips. He seemed so frail in my grip that I was rather shocked, but I held him for more than only a moment - the way one only holds a lover, or a father.

That we always believe there is no sky more beautiful than the one above our own heads.

Next to two comments, which I could not make head or tail of, I found the following message from someone I didn't even know he was reading me: "I Love You!! I loved today's blog. Desperately refusing to think. In a way I feel sorry for your Sister Hyde. You're doing your best to keep her at bay. I hope you find some middle ground. Some means of merging your Jekyll and Hyde. And I wish you all the love and happiness your honesty and openess deserves". This is like the sun rising over the mountains on a beautiful day. I love you, too.

December has arrived and there will be great changes ere it's over. I think I am ready for them. Right now I ought to go to town, although I only have to buy some food for tomorrow, as we will be at the Press House party tonight. All is ready for it: dress, heels, ultra sheer stay-up stockings, my fine gold necklace (a present from the Editor), perfume, and my wintercoat for the drive there. It's not so cold anymore, though, there's a warmfront coming in which is slowly melting the snow before my window.

I must hurry - I'll meet Phillip in town for lunch. Under the shower now, Alpina, and off you go.

PS: Just that you are not confused by what I have written: I found bluecat's comment after writing the above. Thank you ever so much, bluecat.

Aldo was a little late to Jacuzzi last night and Elsie and I were sitting in her living-room drinking our third glass of Prosecco when he finally arrived, just before we started to worry. The Prosecco had been Elsie's idea because she wanted to make it an all Italian night: Prosecco, Aldo, Spaghetti, Nebbiolo - all the very tasty things our southern neighbours have to offer.

Sister Hyde had already knocked me over my head at home, so that the area of my brain where you might sometimes find rational decisions was put out of order - I had decided to go along with all that the evening would offer and be open to it in any possible sense of the word. In the bubbly tub we first had a lot of fun teasing Aldo and he complimenting us on the various details of our anatomy - explicit language can be so erotic when it comes from between the right lips.

After towelling down we went to Elsie's bedroom and she was not as shy abusing their marital bed as before. Aldo was a real friend: while he and Elsie tore into each other like animals, and unknowing passers-by could have thought there was certainly some harm done to this yelling woman, he took me very gently in his arms, and very tenderly administed two heavenly, all-consuming orgasms to me, which made me forget the world. He is really the only man I know who can keep himself back exactly as long as he wants, whatever he does with who. Elsie and I held hand almost all the time, and were watching each other being fucked in really great Aldo style.

He had begun with Elsie, and he also ended with her, and when he did she was uncontrollably sobbing with all kinds of emotions. And then came the end, which I have described here more than once: after removing his condom, Aldo did what seems to give him the very best of feelings - while we were lying on our backs side by side, he was kneeling and then cumming all over us with a roar - tummmies, breasts, faces and up to our hair. It made Elsie just frantic - grabbing hands full of cum from her and my body and eating it and smearing it all over herself, while her body violently shook like in a fit.

While I was lying there quietly, very, very relaxed, and desperately refusing to think.

I found a message this morning from someone who says Maria's words were beautiful and very dramatic, but he just didn't believe that she would really have spoken to me like that.

He is of course completely right. Maria could and would never have spoken like this. It's me who has put it in these words. One reason is that Maria speaks very little English as far as I know, because we naturally use our German mother tongue, which is a local Austrian dialect. Pfüete - you remember. To give you an idea: Maria has told her story in the language German Nazi officers bellow at each other in World War II - movies. Only much, much softer, of course. Not loud - and a little hoarse. And she never says Pfüete to me, when she leaves. She always says: Servus, Kleines - which means "my little one", although she is only two centimeters taller than me. And she says other beautiful and moving things which I cannot put into English even if I try hard.

There is so much lost in translation.