Sparks

This country is one of the most over-legislated in the world. There are rules and regulations covering just about every aspect of life from what you are allowed to name your child to how high your hedge is allowed to grow.

Particularly annoying are the rules pertaining to household electricity and water supply. Anything more technical than changing a light bulb or a tap washer (and even then, there are certain exceptions) and you have to call a tradesman in to do it, on pain of the sort of penalties that society normally reserves for murder or child molestation. Heaven knows, part P of the UK building regs. 2005 is restrictive enough, but the nanny state over here is even more nanny-like.

I wouldn’t mind but that I have to call a sparks in and pay him to do a job I could certainly do as well, if not better. I don’t know of a house over here where the lights do not dim momentarily when you put the kettle on. In an English house this would indicate to me something seriously amiss with the ring main. Over here nobody even seems to know what a ring main is. The various electricians we have had in the house have shrugged their shoulders in a ’What-do- you-expect-me-to-do-about-it’ sort of way when I have voiced my concerns about overloaded wiring.

The lights in the windows in our business are on a digital time clock, programmable in all sorts of different ways. When he installed it, our electrician set it to turn them on at 8am and turn off at 11.30 pm. We have come to the conclusion that, at least with these long, light summer evenings, that this is wasteful so I wanted to reprogram them to turn off at 6pm after we have closed and turn on again between 9pm and 11.30 pm so as to attract any passers-by taking in the night air. I couldn’t get this to work. I read and re-read the broken English of the instruction manual and couldn’t work out what I was doing wrong.

Then I looked more carefully at the display on the timer. The thing shows ’Off’ when it is actually on, and vice versa. The sparks has installed it arse-about-face. What makes it worse is that, as it was him that programmed the thing in the first place, he must have known he had installed it wrong, but hadn’t bothered to do anything about it

Bloody amateurs.

Hit-Counter Whore

I wasn’t going to post this evening. We are just passing through on the way to the summerhouse for some much-needed R&R, leaving the staff to shut up shop. However, glancing at the hit-counter at the bottom of the page I noticed that it was standing at 99,941. When we come back tomorrow morning there’s a good chance it will have passed the 100,000. Who will push it past 99,999. Will it be you? Drop me a comment if it is.

Not that I am at all obsessed by my hit-counter, you understand. That would make me a sad, narcissistic hit-counter whore and that would never do.

P.S. Just keep reloading the page and see those digits rack up.

P.P.S. Please.

P.P.S.S. Pretty pretty please with a pink bow on.

If The Cap Fits...

Today was one of the reasons we have been somewhat stressed of late. Today was the day that Son took his final school exam. I don’t know how things are in the USA or elsewhere, but the system over here is very different from that in the UK. When I took my A-levels, you sat the exams, finished the school year, said goodbye to your classmates and then set about whaterver it was you planned for the summer and, weeks later, the results would come in the post, confirming or denying your place at university.

Over here, you get your result right after your final exam, hard and brutal. To be able to call yourself ’Student’ and to have the right to wear the special cap you have to score a certain average grade when all subjects are totalled together. Son, relaxed as ever, had let it go right down to the wire, whether he passed or failed would be determined by the grade he got for his last exam; History. He was to be examined orally on the origins and causes of the Industrial Revolution.

The tradition also states that parents and other interested parties turn up at the school so as to congratulate (or commiserate with) the candidate as they leave the examination room. So we dutifully trotted along this morning with the traditional cap (ordered weeks in advance and paid for but as yet unworn), the traditional single rose and the traditional bottle of bubbly, and all of this still not knowing what the outcome would be. He went in on time at 11.15 for a half-hour interrogation. When we turned up at 11.35 his girlfriend, M1, was already there wearing the cap she gained yesterday. 11.45 came and went. 11.50. Finally he came out, poker faced, to wait while the examiners discussed among themselves before calling him back in to give him his grade. My nerves were jangling as badly as if it were me sitting the exam.

After what seemed another age he was called in again and this time was out within a minute, trying to suppress the grin that, despite himself, was spreading across his face. He got hugs from M1 and Heather, high fives from me and one of his mates who had turned up to see how it was going. All over the foyer there were other little groups just like ours: Some waiting, others celebrating. Everywhere there were young people in their new caps, carrying roses. The waste bins were filled with empty champagne bottles, teachers mingled in among the newly fledged students, greeting them with knowing smiles.

For us it was a huge relief. For the past three years we have encouraged him and pushed him and threatened him, spoken up for him and, when necessary, woken him just so as we could get to this point. A huge weight has suddenly been lifted. Tonight we are all going out to a restaurant to celebrate. Tomorrow, tradition has it that the whole class hires a bus and visits each of the student’s homes in turn, where refreshments are provided. Fortunately we are near the top of the list so they should be relatively sober. I should hate to be the last port of call.

Friday is the official graduation ceremony, both for Son in the morning and for Daughter at her school in the afternoon. From past experience I know that will be a tearful occasion for all concerned.

Then the summer vacation starts in earnest. On Saturday Son flies to Copenhagen with M1 to attend the Roskilde Rock Festival. We won’t see them for 10 days or so. On Wednesday, Daughter is off to a more local festival with what seems like half of her school and then we have about three weeks to get her ready before packing her off to Brazil at the beginning of August.

In between all of this, there might just be some time for us!

A Midsummer Night's Nightmare

We pretty much struck out on all counts last night. The rain finally stopped, but the violent gusting winds got even worse towards evening. It was clear that it would have been plain irresponsible to light the bonfire. One guy apparently did, somewhere in the country, and managed to burn down 3 farm outbuildings when the fire just blew out of control.

We slept down at the summerhouse and that was no great success either: Despite being in bed by shortly after eleven and giving each other plenty of holding and cuddling we were both far too stressed to enjoy it and finally fell asleep at 3 am, angry and frustrated. It’s a paradox; sex is the best stress-relief I know, but you can sometimes be too stressed to enjoy it. The storm continued through the night and Heather felt uneasy about the possibility of one of our trees being blown down onto the house so didn’t sleep at all well.

Things are a bit tough at the moment: We’ve got stress in our home life, stress arising from the business and our workload is currently having one of those seasonal blips. Not only that, but it is about this time that we would normally be packing our things and preparing for three weeks or so in England, and there is no prospect of that any time soon, at least until about mid-September.

We really need a break.

Midsummer

Sankt Hans A.K.A. Sankt Johannes A.K.A .St. John the Evangelist. One of only two saints’ days that are celebrated over here every year. As I have mentioned before, the other is St Lucy, which is in December. An attempt by the early church to put a veneer of Christian repectability over the age-old pagan celebrations of the solstices? Surely not.

These days, Sanct Hans is a big family occasion. Lots to eat, lots to drink, excited kids being allowed to sleep in a tent in the garden, the adults sitting around the traditional bonfire until the early hours, drinking. Looking up the great sweep of the bay to see the countless other bonfires all along the coast.

On the face of it, the middle of June seems an eminently more sensible time of year to have a bonfire celebration than the beginning of November as I am used to from UK, but today it might just as well be November. It is blowing a gale out there with intermittent but violent rain showers. Not really ideal bonfire weather. It could be so good, it ought to be – it is midsummer after all – but it always seems to be foul weather on just this particular evening.

We’re invited to Heather’s parents’ summerhouse, as we are every year, but the kids won’t be with us this time. Daughter, away at school, will be enjoying the bonfire up there. Son has an English A-level exam tomorrow. They are too old now to be excited by the whole thing anyway. The sound of children’s laughter will be provided by my second youngest nephew, who is just about to start school.

I would like to say that Heather and I would sneak off at some stage after midnight, go over to our own summerhouse, lie out on the lawn under the stars and feed each other freshly plucked strawberries while lapping champagne from each other’s naked bodies, but the way the weather is I think we’ll just tuck up in bed with the electric radiators turned on full.

Which just seems wrong, in June.

Stressed

”You’re not the same person I married”

True. I left my family, my friends and my interests behind when came to live with you in a new country, with a new language. Some change was inevitable. The laughs are fewer and further between these days

“The sex is still great, though”

Well, that’s something. Actually, as things are at the moment, it’s pretty much everything. Just not last night.

“You were asleep before I was last night”.

Yes, but it was a lost cause long before that. I held you in my arms, you rested your head on my chest, took charge of my hard expectant cock and started telling me everything that’s wrong about me, how me getting so stressed out was no good for me or anyone else. True enough, but; time and place, time and place. Recipe for instant deflation.

“You’ve really got to learn to be less stressed during working hours”

We’ve had a nightmare week, you said so yourself. Being here at the summerhouse I can just feel the cares of this week just fall from my shoulders. Do we really have to bring them along with us? Why can’t we just leave them at home, where they belong?

“I just can’t have you going around sulking all the time”

I’m not sulking. I’m not angry, I’m just sad.

“You can’t let people get to you. You’ve got to be like an actor out there, you’ve just got to keep smiling at them, no matter what”

I feel like an actor who’s constantly in fear of forgetting his lines, feeling that the audience are just waiting for the chance to boo him off stage. Why do we watch those guys who juggle with chainsaws? We might deny it but we’re really deep down waiting for one of them to slip up and cut his arm off.

“You just have to make the effort to cheer up”.

You might just as well tell a drowning man to jolly well buck up his ideas and make the effort to stop drowning.

Instead of telling me how stressed I am, how about doing something practical about it? The kids are both out, the rainclouds have blown away and the summerhouse beckons. Shall we try again tonight?

Seven Things

1. The rules of the game get posted at the beginning of the post.


2. Each player answers the questions about themselves in their post.


3. At the end of the post, the player then tags 5-6 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog.


4. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve posted your answer.




1. What was I doing ten years ago?

June 1998: There was a world cup, wasn’t there? Come to think of it, wasn’t that the one where Spice Boy got sent off in the match against Argentina? We had emigrated from UK two years previously and were preparing to holiday over there again. In those days, when the kids were both at the local primary school, term usually ended on the last Friday in June and we left on the Saturday. That year we were booked into the ‘Brown Mud’ holiday centre in South Devon. It was actually called ‘Golden Sands’ but we thought our name fitted it better. Needless to say it pissed down for most of the time we were there and the kids spent a fortune in the slot arcade. The ‘luxury holiday apartment’ turned out to be a pre-fabricated concrete barracks with barely room to swing a cat. If cats had been permitted. Which they weren’t.




2. What are five things on my list to do today?

Take photos of ourselves and all our staff, burn onto a CD-ROM and send to printers, who are making a brochure for our business…Done!

Try and get hold of our local community police officer to get him to countersign Daughter’s visa application for Brazil.

Swot up on the Autonomic Nervous System so as to sound knowlegeable if Son needs any help with revising for his upcoming Biology A-Level tomorrow.

Work on a couple of unfinished posts (apart from this one).

Have sex with my wife. (Long overdue)


3. Things I Would Do If I Were A Billionaire?

“Well, it wouldn’t change me. I’d still be reporting in for work every morning like I always do”….AS IF!!!!!!

I’d hire an entire island somewhere warm and I’d have a hell of a party for all my friends, you included.

I’d bring about the total destruction of my enemies and all oppressors of the poor.
I’m not sure a billion would do it, but if I had a squillion pounds I would buy Britain’s entire rail network outright and would make a bloody sight better job of running it than the amateurs, con artists and bus operators who are doing it at the moment. The Fat Controller has spoken!


4. Three of my bad habits?

I am the least tidy, least organised person in the world

I scratch my big toenail on the woodwork at the end of the bed: This drives Heather crazy (but not in a good way)

I procrastinate. I’ll amplify this satatement a little later….


5. Five places I have lived?


Here. Our home and our business. Somewhere in Northern Europe, five miles from the sea, two from the forest. Where it never really gets dark at this time of year (but gets really really dark by about 3pm in the winter)


Our first house was in a quiet little village just outside Winchester. Two pubs, a filling station and a village shop. Both our kids called it home for the first part of their lives. We lived there 12 years. We wouldn’t be able to afford to buy it back now if we wanted to.


Remember ‘The Young Ones’ on telly? I lived in such a house when I was a student in Cardiff. It was the kind of place where you wiped your feet before going OUT. Your feet would stick to the living room carpet and the kitchen window was a sheet of perspex because it hed been broken so often from people going through it. On one particularly drunken party night, one of the inmates pinched the washing off next-doors drying line and sat up on the roof throwing clothes down at passers-by in the street until the police came and fetched him down.


My first three years were spent in Hornsey, North London. We lived in my grandparent’s house until my parents could afford a place of their own. At the top of the road was a bridge over the main railway line from Kings Cross to the North and in those days some of the big expresses were still steam-hauled. My mum would take me to see the trains almost every day, which explains a lot.


Twenty years later I was back in town, Muswell Hill to be precise, as an undergrad in London. The road next to ours became notorious a couple of years later as the scene of several of the murders carried out by Donald Neilson


6. Five jobs I’ve had?

Washer-up in a very exclusive and expensive restaurant. The front of house might have been posh but the kitchens were a pigsty with flies and scraps of food everywhere. The stench was almost unbearable. I got fired after the first day in any case.


I have taught university classes in both London and Cardiff.


I had a Saturday job in a pet store. One one occasion a budgie got loose and the manageress shouted at me “Don’t just stand there, make a noise like a piece of millet”.


I had a summer job in a pulverising mill. They turned just about anything into powder. We blended flour, powdered licorice root, reduced paracetomol to a fine powder. The shittiest job was milling down lumps of gum arabic to make glue. This was the summer of 1976, the hottest for years and the dust got everywhere, mixed with the sweat and literally glued you up. I would come home every evening with my fingers glued together and eyelids gummed shut.


My favourite job of all time, and the one that I would go back to tomorrow if I had the chance, was as a signalman on a preserved steam railway. It was unpaid volunteer work, but we were subject to the same training and regulations as all other railway signallers. We weren’t just playing trains. On a busy day I could have the safety of maybe 600 people dependant on my doing my job properly when two fully loaded trains were approaching the station from opposite directions.

7. How did you name your blog?


‘Northern Lights’ because we see the Aurora Borealis sometimes, but also because at the height of summer, even at midnight it is still light in the northern sky. ‘Sleepless Nights’ for all the times we’ve made love until dawn.


I need to tag 5-6 other bloggers. I tag GIGGLE, CAKE LADY IN RED NITEBYRD THURSDAY

My thanks to TRIXIE for tagging me with this one.

Lead Us Not....

Yesterday was a very stressed day. Work was frustrating, we’ve both got things preying on our minds at the moment, not least the ’will he/won’t he? of Son’s university entrance exams results, which will be announced next Wednesday. Heather was still hurting from our excesses of Sunday. I had the feeling she blamed me. I blamed me. Under these circumstances the most trivial things get blown out of all proportion. By the end of the working day we were barely on speaking terms.

She called me a shit and she was right. I left the house for a meeting in the city without saying goodbye. This really upsets her. That’s why I did it.

The meeting was over sooner than expected. A lot sooner. I had time on my hands. I wasn’t expected back for a good couple of hours at a pinch. The city, like most cities - especially those connected with seaports, is provided with titty bars, porno cinemas, clip joints, massage parlours and brothels. I could get a hard on, a lap dance, a blow job, a quick fuck. It was all there for the taking and she would be none the wiser.

There is an old proverb that says ’You can’t stop birds flying over your head but you can stop them nesting in your hair’ These thoughts didn’t stay in my head for more than a few fleeting moments before I turned the car for home, but they were undeniably there. Of course I’d go home. See the surprise and joy on her face at my early return. I’d apologise for being a shit and we’d make up and all would be well.

Sort of.

We spoke to each other politely enough throughout the evening but at bedtime she was still hurting, still recoiling from my touch. As she turned away from me I felt, rightly or wrongly, like a stranger in my own bed and the thoughts came creeping back. Perhaps I should have stayed in town after all, had some fun, what difference would it have made? What would she have cared? Not a very positive way to fall asleep.

When we argue like this I never look at her. I never could resist the sight of her naked body so I deliberately avert my eyes, avoid her where possible, as if she were some maiden aunt staying as a house guest. I didn’t watch her undress that night and I turned my eyes away as she rose to take her shower this morning.

We passed on the landing when she was coming back from the shower. She cornered me, daring me to look away, and slipped the bathrobe off her shoulders. I stood there and admired her before putting my arms around her and holding her warm, still-damp body close to mine.

At that point, without either of us saying a word, we both knew that today was going to be a better day.

Intense

If we ever go out on the town together, don’t get me drunk.

I am a very boring drunk, I promise you.

Other people dance on tables, fall over, pick fights with rugby players twice their size or put on women’s clothing.

I don’t. I go to sleep.

OK there was that one time with the basque, the french knickers and the fishnets for which there is, regrettably, photographic evidence knocking around somewhere. But in the main it is my brother-in-law who is notorious for cross-dressing when drunk.

Ply me with drink by all means, but don’t expect me to do anything amusing or outrageous. When my internal petrol gauge reaches the little ’F’ I simply find a quiet corner somewhere, curl up like a dormouse and go to sleep. In the absence of any suitable quiet corners I simply sleep where I’m sitting. Throughout London and the Home Counties there must be photo collections from New-Years parties and birthdays going back to circa 1977 featuring Yours Truly curled up and oblivious in an assortment of armchairs.

So. We were at an un-birthday party on Saturday night. Some old friends of ours who moved here from the UK a couple of years before we did. Irene was 50 around Christmas time, but December in this country is not the most sensible time to entertain 30 people in a marquee in the garden. We weren’t sure what the sleeping arrangements were going to be and we were advised to bring a tent. This sounded interesting. The last time I slept in a tent was about six weeks before I met Heather ergo I have never had sex in a tent. In the event it was just as well it wasn’t necessary. The state I was in by 3am, I wasn’t capable of getting anything up, least of all a tent.

It was quite a jolly party, with good company, lots of drink and a silly game where selected guys had clothes pegs (US: clothes pins) attached all over them and some unsuspecting woman had to rmove them – blindfold. Unfortunately, the girl who had to remove mine was so far gone that she really had no idea, and I had to guide her hand. On the other hand I did think that Heather spent rather longer than necessary making sure that there were no more hidden in her victim’s crotch.

Shortly after that it all became a bit of a blur. I had increasing difficulty holding my head up, a sure sign of impending trouble. When I came to, the tent was completely empty. I thought that maybe the party had moved indoors, but no. Everybody had gone home. We bedded down in the lounge, the tent still in the car.

Sunday night we were back home again. Heather had slept in the car for most of the 3-hour journey back and when I suggested an early night, sleep was not immediately on my agenda.

”I’m cold” Heather declared, climbing into bed and turning so that I could warm the expanse of her back and legs.

But it wasn’t just on the outside that I could feel the coldness. I could sense that there was a certain reserve, a certain distance. She insisted there was nothing wrong, tempers got frayed and at last I got it out of her that what was really troubling her was my always falling asleep at parties and her having to explain to the others.

Well, at least the make-up sex was good. Very good. We did it all; front ways, back ways, sideways and then all over again anally. We were battered and exhausted by the time we finally laid down to rest and Heather is only just recovered now, but it was a hell of a session.

We didn't have sex in tents that weekend, but we did end up having intense sex


Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad in future if I were a more entertaining drunk. I’ll just have to practice more, I suppose. Perhaps her brother can give me lessons

Or lend me his inflatable doll.

Gainful Employment

I nodded in recognition the other day when I read this piece by Lady In Red. Especially the reference to her eldest son. Ours also has no clue about money, is continually scrounging off us and has never done an honest day’s work in his life. He keeps complaining about lack of funds and since he was 15 we have been telling him to go out and ask around in, for example, the music stores he frequents. He has amassed an awful lot of knowledge about guitars, amps, effects pedals and suchlike which he surely could put to good use

No chance.

He’s hoping to go to university in the autumn in the nearby city (IF he gets his exams!!!) and has been looking at flats with his girlfriend, with a view to moving out in the summer. This only makes the necessity for a bit more income that more urgent.

He went out drinking with his mate Pete in the English pub in the city the other night and, next day, he shocked us by casually letting it be known that he’s got a job there from september. Nothing spectacular, but his being bilingual was a definite advantage and, being evening work, he doesn’t have to worry about getting out of bed on time. His studies are another matter of course.

I always knew he’d end up behind bars.

Getting Ideas

We had just shut up the business last night and were making ready to spend another evening in our bedroom by the sea. But there was just something I wanted Heather to read.

”Have you put a new post up?”, she asked.

”No, It’s not one of mine but I think you’ll be interested”

It was this one.

”Well?” I asked, when she had absorbed the piece.

She was impassive. Seemingly unmoved. She tends not to read other blogs apart from this one. Sorry, but that is just how it is. She is wise enough to know that this blogging thing can so easily be addictive and that she simply doesn’t have the time to become involved. She can read posts like that one with a degree of detachment that I cannot.

We decided on an early night; that is to say an early break from the TV. We had come to the conclusion after so many pointless late nights watching the box that when you’ve seen one episode of ’Seinfeld’, you’ve seen them all. The phrase ’Early Night’ for us is loaded with meaning, not implying going to sleep any earlier, just an early tumble into bed.

We lit a couple of candles in the bedroom, and just lay side by side, holding each other.

”Admit it”, I insisted. ”Reading that piece got you wet, didn’t it?”

She didn’t reply. But neither did she object when I climbed over her to retrieve my goody bag from her side of the bed. I had no particular plan in mind, I was just going to dip into it and see what I pulled out.

The leg-spreaders were first. I ordered her over onto her front and slowly, carefully - would it be inappropriate to say ’lovingly’? – tightened the leather straps at her ankles. Wrist-cuffs were next, placed with equal care, followed by leather collar and rubber bit gag.

Then, the implements were lined up on the chair beside the bed: Riding crop, pony-tail butt-plug, inflatable butt-plug, unfeasably enormous butt-plug, Rabbit vibrator, knobbly anal wand. I selected the riding crop first, teasing and tickling up and down her back, probing between her outspread legs and administering the occasional unexpected well-placed smack which made her yelp into her gag. I covered her bottom comprehensively, with the occasional smack on the inner thighs, across the shoulders or on as much of her cunt lips as I could reach. I helped her to her knees and rained down a few more hefty smacks on her bottom, now pert and pushed out by her posture, before roughly taking hold of one nipple, pulling it outward and upward and bringing a sharp little smack on the top of the breast, the same treatment for the other side, then on the soft, smooth undersides of those wonderful breasts until she could take no more and I let her sink back onto the bed.

A little smear of lube and I bored into her arse with the anal wand, eliciting a little gasp as each successive knobble slipped in. With her prone over a couple of pillows and with her grotesque tail projecting from out of her I stroked, tickled and then lashed her with the pony tail. Removing the anal wand was just as painstakingly slow as I eased it out, bump by bump and replaced it with the inflatable butt-plug, which I pumped until her muffled cries told me she could take no more. As I deflated it again, her tense body seemed to deflate too, but the relief was short-lived. I straddled her and pushed myself into her wide-open welcoming cunt, pushing my feet down onto the spreader bar that joined her ankles for purchase, and grabbing hold of her collar as I roughly shoved myself into her and, at the same time inflated the butt plug again so that my cock was squeezed up against her front vaginal wall.

After a while I pulled out of her again and removed he butt plug to give her a panting, breathless respite while I found the Rabbit and lubed it up. Initially I pushed it in to far and she gave a sharp cry of pain as it bottomed out. I eased it back just a half inch or so and Heather just exploded (her description) into an orgasm which just rolled and rolled. I could feel wave after wave of contractions on the finger which I had stuck into her arse and as the rabbit ground relentlessly on they showed no signs of stopping or even diminishing. She pushed her face into the mattress and stuck her bum up into the air and I pierced her arsehole at last with my cock and rode her hard while she sobbed and yelped and convulsed under me. I crouched behind her, jabbing into her with crashing pelvic thrusts which set the whole bed rocking and creaking. I entwined my fingers in her hair to get a better grip, a closer contact. Her velvety softness enveloped me, the vibrations of the rabbit drove me near insane, sweat started to course down my face and chest. With a final thrust I threw myself into her and we both fell, exhausted, into a heap on the bed, still attached. And there we lay, in a little puddle of fluid and the smell of our debauchery. The odour of half a dozen bodily secretions, of leather, rubber and lubricant. I pushed her hair away and kissed the back of her neck.

She turned away from me to sleep. I wasn’t offended, she was glowing hot and so was I. A chaste little kiss on the forehead and a whispered ”I love you” said all that remained to be said.

And then we slept.

Rainy-Day Blogger

A blog is somewhat akin to an exotic and fragile flower. It needs to be tended and watered regularly if it is not to wither away. This, to strain the analogy to breaking point, has been especially difficult to achieve during the hot weather.

Work has been insanely busy at times and, while the good weather lasts, we have just dropped everything as soon as we have closed up and taken off down to our little summerhouse on the coast. The same applies to the weekends. Heather and I were down there last weekend enjoying the hot sunshine, the freedom from kids and all that goes with it. We had to return home Sunday evening to feed Daughter and drive her back to school and we could have stayed home but, despite it being past nine by the time we were ready we decided to sleep at the summerhouse Sunday night as well.

We drove straight to the harbour in the village, bought an ice cream each and wandered off down the beach in the gathering twilight, holding hands as lovers do. There was no sound but the gentle lapping of the incoming tide and the occasional squawk of seabirds. All thre day trippers had long since gone, leaving the remains of their sandcastles to he mercy of the waves.

For some reason the beach was covered with starfish. I had never seen so many before. A whole constellation, a whole galaxy of starfish at our feet. The sea was mirror-smooth with colours ranging from vivid turquoise to aquamarine to deepest midnight blue where it melded into the sky at the horizon. Inland, the setting sun threw a clump of pine trees into silhouette against a blood-red sky while overhead, wisps of Cirrostratus cloud, presaging an incoming warm front and an end to the fine weather, were painted a breathtaking, almost unreal orange.

It was 10.30 and still light when we turned back towards the harbour. As it was still warm we decided that when we got back to the summerhouse we’d sit outside on the terrace for a while and maybe enjoy a glass of wine.

”We’ve still got some red down here and we don’t have to drink it all, we can put the cork back in”, I suggested.

”Good God! Did you see that?”,exclaimed Heather, pointing out to sea. A whole squadron of flying pigs!”

So we sat until midnight, mellowing out with a bottle of Chilean Merlot and setting the world to rights.

And then we went to bed and had the most un-mellow, wild, abandoned sex before falling into a deep refreshing sleep.

That is really what it is all about: We sleep really well down there and we always have the most fantastic sex. It may affect my ability to post and to keep myself updated on everybody elses’ posts but we are going to make the most of the weather while it lasts and the blogging may just have to wait for a rainy day.

Or a quiet one.

Go Buy The Book

Earlier this year, Peach had the inspired idea of compiling an anthology of bloggers’ real-life experiences and publishing them in a book for the benefit of the charity War Child, which campaigns for the basic human rights of children caught up in in war zones around the world. She invited contributions and assembled an editorial team who I know have worked hard, reading and re-reading every submission.

That book is now reality. It is entitled ’You’re Not The Only One’ and it promises amusing, thought-provoking and poignant reading from over 100 bloggers (including this one, but don’t let that put you off). You can read more about the project here





And, most importantly, you can buy it here:



It costs £12.50 and is available either as a hard copy or as a download. With the download, the production costs are minimal, so more of the purchase price goes directly to the charity.

Why not buy two? Perhaps a download for home and a book for a friend?

Dum-Dum-Dum-Dum-Dum. Dum-Dum, Dum-Dum

”It doesn’t really look very blue from up here, does it?”

Heather leaned across my lap to peer out of the little window as I pointed out the River Danube, some thousands of feet below us.

”More like shit-brown, I’d say”, she concurred.

”Hmmm… ‘The Shit-Brown Danube Waltz’ doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, really”.

We were on our way into Vienna on an Austrian Airlines flight from Copenhagen. If by some chance there were any partially-sighted passengers who were in any doubt that they were flying with Austrian airlines, having somehow missed the stickers all down the side of the aircraft proclaiming them to be Official Carrier for Euro ’08, then they would have been left in no doubt by the Viennese waltzes playing over the public adress system as we boarded. I thought this was a charming and endearing touch.

For about 30 seconds.

By the time we reached Vienna, the best part of two hours later, I was ready to give Johann Strauss a thorough kicking.

The journey had started well. Even at 5am, the queues at the check in desks snaked around the terminal. No problem; having overcome the technofear of losing our reservations or of being booked on a flight to Rekjavik, we printed out our own boarding cards and luggage tags at the self service screens. With a certain smugness we joined a queue of only a handful of people by the baggage drop.

You couldn't make it up. Two of the people before us in the queue were a pair of Norwegian women, clearly in their 60's, clearly on their way to a walking holiday somewhere mountainous.

Clearly unused to air travel.

The woman at the baggage drop patiently explained that their walking poles could not just be tied loose to their rucsacs, they would have to be secured in a special container, and she rang for one to be sent over. Then she explained again, very slowly and in words of one syllable. It wasn’t all sinking in. And not just because of the language difference. It’s not all that great in any case.

”Your boarding cards and passports, please” (Long, long pause) ”You do realise this passport is out of date?”

This, too, had dificulty sinking in.

”Your passport expired in 2006. I can’t check your baggage without a valid passport”

Not to mention they wouldn’t even get through immigration.

”Do you have any other form of picture ID?”

Blank incomprehension.

”Do you know anyone locally who can bring in some form of ID?”

At last it began to dawn on them that they weren’t going to get any further by pleading ignorance of airport procedures and one of them reached for her mobile phone. Yes, there was someone locally who could come with some alternative ID.

”Right, can I ask you to step to one side please?”

Back to the incomprehension again. They were seemingly immune to the daggers being shot at them from what had been transmogrified from a chatty little group of half a dozen people to a seething, snaking queue of irate and impatient travellers.

”PLEASE wait over HERE while I deal with all these other passengers”. The assistant’s patience was beginning to show signs of cracking. At last they got the message and were herded to one side like a pair of recalcitrant sheep.

At last it was our turn. Baggage on the conveyer. Boarding card presented. Passport open at the picture page. ”Have a nice flight, sir”. All done and dusted in 30 seconds. As I turned away I couldn’t resist shooting a filthy glance at the taller and more ascetic of the two women, who had assumed an expression of aloof martyrdom as they waited for someone to attempt to sort out their self-inflicted problems for them.

The onward flight from Vienna to Linz was quite jolly, as long as you chose to ignore the fact that an aircraft of the same type is currently on semi-permanent display at the end of the runway at our local regional airport after this happened:



We were kicking ourselves that we didn’t fly business class. The front row of seats was partially screened off from steerage class by a little glass panel, you got a 25cl bottle of wine and the possibility of borrowing a copy of last week’s ’Economist’ for the whole of the 30 minute flight. Worth every penny. Business passengers were not, however, spared yet more bloody Strauss waltzes piped through the intercom. It came as a blessed relief when the music was interrupted while the flight attendant demonstrated the safety procedures.

By the time we reached our hotel it was midday and sweltering hot. We sat at the tables outside the hotel with the others in our group, drinking cool weissbier and waiting for our rooms to be made ready. Definitely a nice relaxing start. We were free for a couple of hours and then we would be collected for a guided tour of the city. Just nice time to christen the hotel room and freshen up.

I have mentioned this before: Is it just us or does everyone strip off as soon as they get into their hotel room? We fucked, showered and I went out for a little explore in the city while Heather dozed on the bed with ’Bend It Like Beckham’ showing on the TV (Dubbed into German… Extraordinary)

Another country, another just-been-fucked-in hotel bed

My little recce of the ancient city yielded lots of trams (I LIKE trams), more Baroque Catholic Churches than you could shake a stick at, four titty-bars and two sex-shops, so they seemed to have all the bases covered. The temperature was up in the 30’s and I showered again before we went down for the guided tour.

Another shower was in order before getting dressed for dinner. I don’t know why people recommend taking a cold shower to dampen your urges when you’re feeling randy. I stood under a tepid stream of water on that boiling hot day and slowly turned the lever to make the water colder and colder and it made me horny as hell!! I was nearly having an orgasm as the ice-cold water played over my body. There must be something of the masochist in me. Come to think of it, Leopold Von Sacher-Masoch was himself an Austrian. There must be something in the water.

Supper was at a restaurant high on a hill overlooking the Danube and the whole city of Linz. The food was exquisite, the service top class and the company jovial, and all paid for by our hosts. Coming from a land of –almost- midnight sun it was strange to see that it was pitch dark by 10 pm but it did give some wonderful views over the city illuminations.

The restaurant is the little white building to the left of the church on the hill

The night was still young when we were bussed back to the hotel, so we all decamped to the bar next door for yet more weissbier and gemütlicheit. We must have crawled into bed around 2-ish, very tired and not a little drunk. We fucked once more and then fell asleep straight away.

Back...But Busy

So here’s the deal. We’re back safely from Austria, with loads to tell, but no time to tell it. We got back at 3am this morning, the business is open till 10pm tonight (late shopping night in our little town) and then we’re going to the summerhouse to flop out straight after. As tomorrow is a public holiday (Constitution Day - yay democracy!) we’re bloody well staying there. Especially as the weather forecast is for continued unbroken sunshine.

Back and blogging soon!

Meanwhile, here is a picture of a typical Austrian tobacconists, in Linz.

...And something I saw in the airport at Vienna, especially for Vi, Giggle, and any other Austrians that may be reading!

Sugasm #134

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #135? Submit a link to your best post of the week using this form.

This Week’s Picks

Tantra is work and a two way street“Tantra is hard work and is not all light and orgasmic play.”

Nyotaimori“She smiles wantonly, but says nothing.”

Submit“But when you’re really attracted to someone, and part of that attraction is to their dominance, it almost gives you a second wind for pain.”

Mr. Sugasm Himself
Sugar Bank

Editor’s Choice
Discussing a lifestyle event with strangers

More Sugasm Join the Sugasm
See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

BDSM & Fetish
53 Days
‘Braking’ His Bottom - F/m Spanking Pictures
Careful, You May End Up In My Novel
Cerebral Trainee Subject: Susan Part 2
Dinner at La Domaine - Reality
Dreaming of the Queen
The intricate natures of men and women.
More than a little bratty
Mrs.Kink’s Strap-On Fantasy
r’s naughty thoughts on squirting
Sadistic Moments
Spanking Sex
Venus 2000 / Milking Machine
Vignette of a Real Life Session

Sex Advice
Ask Miss Bliss-My Girlfriend’s Unhappy Without A Female
The Clitoris: A Users guide for submissive men
Faking? Who are you kidding him or yourself?
How To Pick A Dildo
Sex Dream Analysis: The Panty-less Cowgirl
Starting Your Own Sex(y) Blog
What Kind of Sex Do You Like?

Erotic Writing and Experiences
Anticipation
Carpet burns on her knees
The Chocolate Lovers Part 1
First gay, forever gay
Hero Undone
Insatiable.
Senses
What he remembers…

Sex Work
Sex Workers In The Myths

NSFW Pics, Videos & Audio
Asian MILF gives perfect lickie suckie dickie
Catalina Loves Freckle and Cuff HNT
The Corset That Started It All
Fetish Model Anna Rose In The Perfect Ballet Heel Fetish Picture
I can’t decide
Intimate Moments with Annette Schwarz
Nasty webcam babe bucking like a porn queen
Sexy Little Thing -HNT
Sunny Leone: Showing Off Her Nice Body and Boobs
Victoria Valmer is simply too good to be true
Video: Fresh Out of the Shower

Sex News, Reviews & Interviews
Ava Rose is Carolina Jones
Bondage Threesome With Sara Faye, Amber Rayne, And Device Bondage

Thoughts on Sex and Relationships
How to masturbate, v4.0
I am a masturbator
Reading Sex
Sex as sport, part 1
She’s On Top
Skin — Part I

Wir Fahren Nach Österreich

By the time you read this we’ll be winging our way towards Austria. Hopefully, at least.

One of our main suppliers has their factory in Austria and we have been invited to see how the things we sell are actually made. There’ll be the usual indoctrination and sales pitch (sorry, product presentations) of course, but we’ll also be dining in a restaurant which is part of an old castle, perched high above the Danube. They’re having a heatwave over there at the moment apparently, so maybe we’ll get to dine out on the terrace.



The hotel is a modern glass block in the middle of the city, but it looks very posh inside and the rooms look comfortable.

What’s the downside? The flight was at stupid o’clock this morning and, as there are no connecting flights so early, an overnight drive was necessary to get to the airport. We get back late Tuesday night, meaning another overnight drive back home, though we’ll probably go directly to the summerhouse and crash out there. We’d stay the night in Copenhagen, and make a day of it there, but we have to be back on Wednesday unfortunately.

If we’re not back by then, tell the Austrian police to start searching cellars.