Phillip left very early in the morning. What an evening, what a night. I am a little sore still from making love, and I so much long to feel his cum in me. I could and would like to have a child with him, if he asked me.

I quickly tidied his flat and took the bus home, I went to the baker's and bought myself some croissants. My house felt very empty when I entered, so quiet, just my cat welcomed me with a miaow because she was hungry. I took a shower, washed my hair, did this and that, dressed into a fresh pair panties and then we two had breakfast. I knew I couldn't stay home alone all weekend, I had to do something.

So I phoned my friend Beatrix in Zürich and she was pleased to hear that I would come to see her if she had time. I will arrive at her house for coffee, then go shopping with her before the shops close and have a nice evening together. I will leave as soon as I am dressed, and I am glad I won't spend the weekend all alone.

Tanja phoned during her lunch break and said she wanted to apologize for last night. But she had been so horny she couldn't but masturbate and relieve herself after all that had been. She said it had been so sweet of me, being so very near her and acting as if I was asleep; she had of course noticed that I had woken up and observed her secretly. And that it had additionally aroused her. Oh, oh ... it seems that I miss half my life sleeping.

Later I will take th bus to town and spend the evening and night with Phillip. First we will go to a cosy little restaurant, and then to his flat. Tomorrow he is off to Torino again, for the Closing Ceremony of the Olympic Games.

My body is so ready for the night.

We arrived fairly late at Joerg and Elsie's last night, shortly after 10 pm., and were expected impatiently. We all noticed that Joerg could hardly slip out of his pants - he was so hard from the beginning. Then we all climbed into the bubbly jacuzzi: Joerg's Nude Angels and the Master himself.

But sitting comfortably, we started discussing the Austrian drug scandal at the Olympic Games, that some of our athletes were caught cheating and we wondered about the other medal winners and how clean they are. Actually, how clean any successful athlete is, of any country. Joerg had opened a bottle of champagne, which he served in the pool, but the atmosphere was rather gloomy and sad - we all love sports and hate our most famous sportspeople being crooks.

Later in their bedroom we went on drinking - red wine this time. I must admit I got rather much, and so did the others, particularly Tanja, who all in all was quieter than on the Thursday before. Only late she reminded us that we had brought along my laptop with Willow's masturbation video, ad so we connected it and switched it on. All were mightily impressed - most visibly Joerg.

It was to be expected that he started discussing masturbation techniques and aids, and he urged Elsie to fetch all her toys, which she did, not without being visibly embarrassed. I must admit I was impressed: BIG, BIG dildoes, and a real powertool of a vibrator. Joerg meant that for guys it was easy and uniform - rubbing their things. But what did we?

Now I must admit this was quite a sexy topic - while Willow's video was on an endless loop. It turned out that Elsie loved to feel the powertool on her clitoris, while boring old Alpina admitted to being a purist and only use her fingers.

Now Tanja - she just grabbed one of the BIG boys and started to demonstrate, in tune with Willow, and as deep as she. But we had drunk so much wine we just burst out laughing, and Tanja joined in, and dropped her tool, and we couldn't stop giggling for ages.

Tanja couldn't drive home, she stayed with me and left early for the hospital. I was almost asleep when she insisted on sleeping with me in my kingsize bed - I didn't care and didn't even wake up when she left.

God, how embarrassing - to talk about cars for the first time in my life and get it all wrong !! You're right - it's a 206cc, not the vintage 203. But I remembered something right: it was black. LOL.

I guess that's it:

[url]www.peugeot.de/ihr_peugeot/modelle/index.php?action=modell,206_cc_rc[/url]

I cannot drive a car, and I do not own one. Now all men in my surrounding say that one is virtually amputated without a car - this being an integral part of a person's body nowadays. Joerg and Phillip tell me ever so often that it is time for me to make an effort.

The reason why I never really learnt how to drive is that my parents died in a car crash in 1994. They left the house one otherwise pretty uneventful evening to pop over to the next village to bring a birthday present to a friend, and they never came back. But I was already 26 years old then, I could have learnt before, but I never really felt like it.

Jérome (who is a new French teacher at our school, I think I didn't mention him before) says he already knows the perfect car for me: a French car, of course, a black Peugeot 203 Convertible. That's a real lady's car, he says. I remember the adds for it some time ago - they were everywhere. They showed a young woman in that car on a sunny day, and the caption read: I like the way she takes her top off.

You'd like the way I'd take my top off? I asked Jérome, and he actually really blushed and nodded vigourously. What a sweet young guy.

You deserve better, a comment by a dear friend reads, and he refers to what I wrote about Phillip and what made me cry the other day. Re-reading my blog I see that it is very emotional - but I have decided never to delete any of my texts only because they are emotional - it's how I felt then. What do I deserve? More than I already have? Something different?

I think Phillip loves me, or at least he does when we are together. He is considerate, amiable, open, funny, he entertains me well, he satisfies all my physical desires. What else do I want? He is honest (I know, it makes me cry), he does nothing behind my back, I can trust him fully, he is not an internet wanker who fulfills his desires with stealthy cybersex when I am away. (Look at me ...)

What do I want? Is it fair to expect him to repress his masculine sex drive only because he can have sex with me? Is this "character" in a man, when he looks away from all the pussies out there, that seem to open for him so readily? It excites him when I have sex with someone else - why should he not expect me to feel like him and to be excited likewise by what he tells me? I sometimes don't even know if I deserve him.

PS: Joerg phoned, which he hardly ever does. He told me to make sure that Tanja would really come along on Thursday. Oh my, oh my ...

Tanja phoned this afternoon: she thinks last Thursday was great fun and she liked being one of Joerg's Nude Angels. She thought it made Joerg beautifully horny and her, too, and that the situation had certainly potential. I asked her what she meant and she said she was sure he would almost faint if he could stick his thing into all of us while the others were watching. I explained the rules again to her, and why they were necessary - to protect Joerg's and Elsie's relationship - and why it was agreed among us never to go further than touching each other. Tanja said she was not convinced, and she thought this was certainly boring after some time. I begged her to stick to the rules, if she wanted to come again next Thursday. She said she certainly did.

Yesterday evening Elsie had come over for a coffee. We had a lot to talk. Elsie said that it had been fun with Tanja, but in a way she did not trust her. She thought Tanja was a woman with no limits; she would push them and push them just for kicks and to see how far she could go. Tanja was a woman who used up people - this might be a reason why her relationships always ended very soon. Because she constantly needed new kicks.

With me it was different, she said. I was good for their not always easy relationship - an aphrodisiac, so to speak. Joerg would talk of me when they were together, and I was an invisible third sometimes. But she knew there were limits I kept to and I would never do anything with Joerg without her being there.

Are there people who use up others? I have never really thought about that. People who have to go further and further for kicks, who have to push their limits again and again? Is Phillip such a person, too? And where is he pushing me?

Today I cried during my lesson. I showed my students a video about the life of Franz Kafka, the Jewish-German author who lived in Prague at the time of the First World War and who wrote his wonderful, enigmatic books with his soul. He died early from Tuberculosis, such a wonderful person - and maybe he was lucky, because he has a grave, while his sisters perished anonymously in Auschwitz and only found a grave in the air. None of my ancestors who lived at the time killed them - but not none of them did anything to save them, either.

"You cry, Miss Alpina, because of Kafka?" asked one of my students, full of wonder and disbelief. Yes things like that can make me cry. And Phillip, who showed me a video of the athlete at the Olympic Games who he has fucked.

Most of you may remember that Phillip is not a sports reporter. He was in Torino to write about the games in a more general way, about background events and general news. He had decided to write about a woman who is taking part in the Nordic events, cross country skiing - a woman who has little skill and little support in her country, so no chance of winning at all. He even recorded some video footage, about her hopes before the race, how she raced desperately and hopelessly and how she was disappointed after the race, although she never had a chance from the beginning.

On the day she lost the race - at the height of her disappointment and sorrow - he fucked her. And got so much out of her which he could use in his text: her three-year-old daughter at home, her miserable job in summer, abuse through trainers when she was an ambitious young girl. It is a good text, I have read it: the two sides of sport - glamour and failure, hope and despair, very understanding and sensitive, and it does not mention the woman's name or expose her in any way.

How can he be almost disappointed when I did not have sex last week? How can he think I enjoy hearing about his? How can he ever expect that hearing about it and seeing her on video should even excite me?

How should I not cry about Franz Kafka?

I sometimes wonder who I am, and what I am. Do you think I am a different Alpina now as I am back to work? Most of you just know the sabbatical Alpina, with lots of time to read books, to go for long walks and to plan my daily blog. I miss this now, as life has gone back to the time-table, and all has had to speed up.

What am I like? Back in my business suit, or pant suit in cold weather, for ever travelling on the bus to school, marking essays and standing before my classes. It is true, I enjoy having an audience, having people listen to me and laugh about my quips and puns. Is this the real me? Or was it the soft Alpina, who had time to think about an answer, who sometimes did not speak for hours and could wander about the house in different states of undress and just enjoy being?

And Phillip. Is he a joy or a burden? Does he enrich my life or make me give myself up? I wish I could say - there is little time for this anyway. It's Monday morning and my classes are waiting: a lecture on Kafka, one on German Romanticism, and two English classes with my younger students.

I will dress and style Business Alpina now. And then I will catch the bus.

I was brave when Phillip came home. I concentrated only on his return, his physical presence, on what he meant to me at the moment he was with me. I did not think of where he came from, who had touched his body, who he had touched as intimately as he would touch me. I did not imagine the lips which had lain around his cock, nor the voices whose moans and shouts were effected by his penetrations. Here I was - ready, vibrating with lust, for him, a sacrifice on the altar of eros, all intent on present feelings, without any past and oblivious of any future.

No thought then, of other lips when my lips encircled his cock, no thought where this delicious, firm, succulent cock had been when it entered my body, only my shouts and moans are real. Don't think, just let things happen, feel how my body responds to his, how we get in tune, how one climax asks for one even greater. His lips, his skin, his hair, his eyes, his voice, his cock. All of them touch the center of my universe and make it explode like a supernova. My sex, my universe.

And then winding down, spooning in the warm bed, it is like flying I am so relaxed, so fulfilled, so tired. Gentle touches, rubbing shoulders and backs, whispering meaninglessly meaningful nothings in the dark. I let myself be overpowered by his presence - I am him and he is me. And then sleep.

Right now he is at his Editor's, making plans for their trip to the Closing Ceremony of the Olympics. I have not asked what it was like last week. I haven't even thanked him for the roses. I feel so brittle at the moment - not knowing if I can bear him telling of his conquests, of pussies had and blowjobs got. I feel as if it will make me break, shatter into little pieces, so small that no amount of love will ever be able to put them together again ...