Halloween already? No parties to go to. And no new fancy dress for Emma to wear even if there were. But lest the day go completely uncelebrated, here is a picture I took last year. Looking back, October has not been a particularly good month for me, although Emma has made every effort to raise my flagging spirits - and has even succeeded once or twice - last Thursday in particular. No-one needs a mental picture of Alfie wading through the Slough of Despond. Not even Alfie. Which is why I have published some general, light-hearted posts held in reserve for such occasions. The main reason for my depression (not that I have ever needed a reason for the black clouds to descend) has been the fear of something which was this week positively diagnosed as benign. “I told you so, ” said the ever optimistic Emma. Alfie will live to fuck another day.

Now where was I? Ah yes. Between my wife’s legs drinking from the furry goblet. As she spread her legs even wider and pulled on my head, my mouth seemed filled with the soft flesh of her pussy. I could willingly have let her smother me - What a way to go! - but now Emma was asking to be fucked. I snaked myself on top of her and kissed her full on the mouth, making sure that she could share in the taste of her own cunt. As we kissed open mouthed, I felt my cock slide inside her. I remember thinking, “God, she’s so wide open I could get it up her without touching the sides.” Which says more about my physiology than hers. I wish I could say that we went on to have athletic, mind-blowing sex. But that’s not how things are in our cosy little world. We fucked in gentle harmony, my own orgasm delayed by the extreme wetness of Emma’s cunt. And Emma’s - if she had one at all - was one that brought a smile of contentment to her lips, rather than a scream of ecstasy.

Wow! What an afternoon we had Thursday last. Emma and I usually make love gently and quietly at the end of the day. The wild passionate fires of our youth - with all that thrashing about and name-calling - have become glowing embers. But occasionally those embers can burst into flame. Emma had complained all morning of a pain in the neck (not me!) and I suggested she take a warm bath, after which I would massage her neck. That’s how it started. A neck massage became a full-body massage, and Emma became more and more relaxed. Then she turned to lie on her back, allowing me to massage her breasts. When I pushed her legs apart, she murmured her approval. With my hands under the ample cheeks of her arse, I went down on her pussy until it was juicy and swollen like an over-ripe peach. And when I asked her to pull it wide open for me, she did so willingly - a rare treat (which she let me put on rerecord one day last summer. Subject to the usual dire warning, see it here if you wish.) I’ll publish the rest of this post tomorrow.

… is procrastination of course. Or the principle of never putting off till tomorrow what you can put off till next week. Or better still, next month. In a word, manãna - used in the sense that tomorrow never comes. We received an email yesterday from my brother in the antipodes, confirming that he and his wife are now pensioners, having both retired from full-time employment last month. Now, he says, he can finally get busy on all those little jobs around the house that he has promised to do “when he got around to it.” I was surprised that he used that actual phrase. Surely he must remember the joke that circulated in offices and schools all those years ago. The old ones are best, so here on the left is the famous token, to be presented to anyone who has made such promises.]

The end of a series of sex-education programmes on Channel 4 has prompted this post. I received no sex education at all from my parents, thank God. My mother thought sex an abomination. At secondary school we did not even study biology - science being restricted to physics and chemistry. On just one occasion, we were herded into a darkened classroom to watch a religious film on animal and - by implication only - human reproduction. Then it was back to double maths with no opportunity to ask embarrassing questions. At a different time, in a different place, Emma watched the same film. In her case it was double needlework which precluded discussion. She tells me that when she had her first period, she screamed, thinking she was dying. Her mother said, “This will happen to you every month. From now on, you must stay away from boys.” And that was the sum total of her sex education - until she met me.

Here’s another picture of Emma how she was (and still is to me) and oh, the memories it evokes. Hours spent alone in the darkroom, nursing a throbbing, often painful erection. I certainly wouldn’t want to go back to the inconvenience of pre-digital days, but there was something magical about watching images of Emma gradually appear on a piece of plain white paper in the developing dish. It made my self-imposed exile worth it. The photographs themselves were relatively tame by today’s standards, but I had the thrill of knowing that everything on show was mine for the asking. Besides which, if Emma was in the mood, I always tried to include some more explicit shots. Go here to see what I mean - but only if you want to. It was these images which would inevitably make me come - sometimes with no manual effort on my part. Look Emma. No Hands!

The dominoes season started on Wednesday. Emma and I usually greet this with great enthusiasm - the chance for a night out socialising and generally having fun. For some reason, this year, we were not looking forward to it. Perhaps it was the lingering memory of last season. We seemed to remember that it rained heavily every Wednesday evening, that several of the other players had dreadful colds which they insisted on sharing with us, and that our games frequently coincided with televised football matches, filling the pub with noisy, heavy-drinking supporters. And with our team short of players, Emma and I felt duty bound to turn up every week, come what may. This week, we were competing with a sudden influx of diners, a Wales match on the wide-screen, and we had trouble even finding tables to play on. We could only manage a draw - which was more than Wales could manage.

Emma was quite impressed with this shot in a condescending sort of way. That’s my hand - on her left breast, well worth the pressing - as I groped her from behind. Emma looked up at the camera held in my right hand at arm’s length. And hey presto! We had been preparing to take some more formal photographs when I grabbed the opportunity and her tit. And as sometimes happens, it was the un-posed shot that made the session worth while. Mind you, our photo-shoots are nearly always worth while for another reason. Getting herself ready and flaunting herself for the camera always puts Emma in the mood for hot sex. And watching her cavorting always puts me in the mood to oblige. But that’s the subject of another post. [The quote by the way is from Shakespeare, but I can’t for the life of me remember from which play.]

I’m really looking forward to Emma getting her kit off in the living-room, and to taking some one-on-one shots to celebrate our privacy. Which goes to show how quickly things can change. Less than a week ago I was having a mini-moan about our friendly next-door neighbours calling unexpectedly and preventing Emma and me from getting into mischief during the day. Yesterday, Mr C called (unexpectedly as always) to tell us that they have sold the house, in order to buy a larger place just outside the village. Don’t misunderstand me. We are very fond of Mr and Mrs C, and we’re glad they will still be in the vicinity. We will continue to meet and go for meals together, but they will now be obliged to let us know when they are coming to call. Our new neighbour is to be “a very private lady who keeps herself to herself.” [This is another picture taken when we were last able to misbehave in our living-room without fear of being disturbed.]

[Monday, 20th October, 1958] The world’s shortest romance. Took a fancy to Jane Wallace at the chapel youth club - great tits, pity about the face. Reggie W said she was being pestered by a couple of lads on the college bus. Got Reggie to give them a note from me on Thursday telling them to lay off, hoping Jane would see me as her K in shining A. Walked her home from the club on Friday and had a quick snog under the bridge, resisting the temptation to grope her. Arranged to meet her outside the Allerton on Saturday at eight, hoping to smuggle her in and ply her with Babycham on the basis that "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker." Spotted her passing the pub at half nine and dashed out to catch her. She said she’d forgotten, and gone to see her friend Amy. Bitch! Gave each other the heave-ho on the spot. Went back to the pub and got pissed with KC to celebrate. Spent Sunday recovering.

You would think that after all these years I could read the signs. Not so. Perhaps it’s these little uncertainties that help keep the magic in a relationship. When I’m photographing Emma, she sometimes insists on coyness, and is aghast if I suggest that she spreads her legs or pulls her panties aside to reveal all. Which is okay by me. I consider myself lucky that she poses for me at all, and accept her terms without question. Just occasionally, however, she will suddenly display her goodies as if to say, “Look what I’ve got. Wouldn’t you like some of this?” Then it’s click, click, click, as I get as many shots as my patience will allow before setting the camera aside and sampling the delights on offer. This was one of those occasions. The image looks innocent enough, but click here and you’ll understand what I have to suffer for my art.

This is Emma doing what she does best - putting temptation my way. And she was later to find me wanting in the resistance department, I should add. I have been waiting less than patiently for a chance to take some more photos like this of Emma - and of Emma and me - in our living room. This should not be a problem. We are both up for it. But our next-door neighbours, who normally spend a couple of days every week walking in the Shropshire hills, have not been away since Mr C ruptured his Achilles tendon. As they frequently call without warning, even if only to ask if we want anything from the shops, Emma is reluctant to prance around in the altogether. Mr and Mrs C have no idea what Emma and I get up to, and we’d hate to shatter their image of us as models of respectability. Nor do we want to hurt their feelings by asking them not to call without first phoning to see if we are “at home”.

Well, I suppose it had to happen one day. If you have arrived here, you will have already noted that our Blog is now subject to the dreaded Content Warning. It’s ironic that it should happen only days after we started a new Blog specifically to publish images which we thought might be too explicit for some tastes. But that’s life. I suppose our readership is bound to suffer, but for those of you who are prepared to make that one additional mouse-click, thank you from the bottom of both our hearts. And to the person or persons unknown who flagged us as obscene, thanks a bunch!

Under that grotesque clock-tower, Emma and I have spent many an hour spit-swapping while waiting for the last bus to arrive. It’s from Machynlleth station that our train journeys begin and end, and no-one has ever thought to co-ordinate the bus and train time-tables. Apart from being our train terminus, the weekly street-market attracts us there quite often. Within a stones-throw of the clock, daughter Eva bought a tiny cottage, which Emma and I spent months renovating. Eva immediately sold it, without even spending a night there - although Emma and I had christened it one afternoon while waiting for paint to dry. Sex on the bare boards, with splinters. In 1404, Owain Glyndwr set up his parliament in the town when trying to free Wales of English rule. Now the town is full of aging English hippies, attracted by the nearby Centre for Alternative Technology. Ye gods, there is even a place selling tepees!

Last night, Emma was “feeling better in herself” as the saying goes. She was anxious to break her sexfast and was lying on the bed naked when I came from the bathroom. I’ve not see her out of her pyjamas (in the bedroom) since she was stricken with her cold. But I do wish she had warned me because, oddly enough, celibacy can become a habit. Even after a week, I had become used to not making sexual overtures. To make matters worse, Emma is still convinced she is contagious, and is determined not to pass on the affliction to me. So, no kissing on the mouth, which to me has always been an essential part of our love-making. And, when the time came, no cock-in-mouth action either. Lots of touching and feeling and groping and stroking however. Lots of tit and finger-pie, while Emma was bringing me to the brink manually. Then suddenly I was sliding into her gaping pussy at long, long last. A week can be a long time.

I have always been wary of posting images on this Blog which some might consider too explicit. I really have no wish to cause offence or have a content warning imposed. (And while I am on this subject, is there no court of appeal or reprieve for Blogs which have been flagged as unsuitable? Surely the title of such Blogs should usually be sufficient to warn off the occasional narrow-minded voyeur.) In the past I have resorted to using one or other of PhotoShop’s “artistic” filters to tone down images likely to cause offence, especially those that some wit has elsewhere described as gynaecological. But I can’t really say I enjoy censoring myself in this way. To avoid censorship, I have opened a new Blog, to be accessed mainly from within posts on this Blog. Click here, to see what I mean. I will post any dubious pictures on the new Blog. I know there are other ways of doing this, but this way best suits my way of working.

A naked Emma (as she was at thirty something)) may not really be appropriate, but at least we’ve remembered what day it is. Thanksgiving in Canada goes back to the explorer Martin Frobisher, who had been trying to find a northern passage to the Orient. In the year 1578, he held a formal ceremony, in what is now the province of Newfoundland and Labrador to give thanks for surviving the long journey. This feast is considered by many to be the first Thanksgiving celebration in North America. While the actual Thanksgiving holiday is on a Monday, Canadians might eat their Thanksgiving meal on any day of the three day weekend. Thanksgiving is often celebrated with family, it is also often a time for weekend getaways for couples to observe the autumn leaves, spend one last weekend at the cottage, or participate in various outdoor activities such as hiking, fishing, and hunting. Have a nice day everyone.

Don’t let Emma in the nude distract you. Remember that today Spain celebrates its National Day, Fiesta Nacional de España or, if you prefer, Día de la Hispanidad - the day of Spanishness. This day honours the discovery of the New World by Christopher Columbus in 1492 - although native Americans will be quick to remind you that they found it first. Tribute is also paid to all the Spaniards who have died for their country. The day will start with an impressive military procession in the Plaza de Colón, Madrid. As part of the tradition, King Juan Carlos, accompanied by the Royal Family, will be presented with a bay leaf laurel by selected veteran soldiers, in a gesture of remembrance. The celebrations end with an air display of low-flying planes over Madrid, painting the sky with red and yellow stripes - the colours of the Spanish flag. Enjoy your day.

Yesterday’s picture was my attempt at a more formal portrait of Emma, although she will be wearing more than her bra if I decide it’s worth having another go at studio portraiture - with or without investing in an SLR. Here she is again, looking somewhat less than elegant. My preferred genre. It’s the sort of candid shot I like to take when she is adjusting herself between more sedate glamour poses or - as here - limbering up before we start. I’m obviously not the only one who has a liking for the casual un-posed picture. When a starlet flashes her knickers as she gets out of the car, that’s the shot that will make the tabloids, rather than the one she poses for on the red carpet. Incidentally, Emma is recovering well, thank you for asking. It won’t be long before I am between those legs.

I have a birthday looming on the horizon and had toyed with the idea of buying a top-of-the-range single-lens reflex digital camera, even though I seldom photograph anything or anyone other than Emma. What has put me off is the fear that it would start me on a slippery slope. By far the best photographs I ever took of Emma were taken on my old 35mm Konika AutoReflex, combined with an assortment of lenses, photofloods, reflectors, etc. I loved the control that all this equipment provided. But it also prompted Emma to remark to a friend, “Alfie doesn’t take photographs. He collects photographic equipment.” There was no such thing as an impromptu photo-shoot, and taking it all on holiday was out of the question. So I think I’ll be sticking with my pocket-sized camera - or maybe upgrade to a superzoom at best - even though every photograph I take will (like this one) look like a snapshot from a cheap Kodak Brownie.

Nice arse. And (in the mirror) nice tits. Pity the photographer was crap and the photograph irredeemably out of focus. Just for the record, I do know how to take such photographs successfully. Say after me: “Move the camera so that one of the subjects is in the AF frame; press the shutter button halfway to focus on the subject; continue to hold the shutter button down halfway; move the camera back to the original position; press the shutter button fully.” What could be simpler, for goodness sake? Sorry, I’ll do better next time we’re staying at that Llandudno hotel. It’s just that, in the excitement of the moment, my technique suffered a temporary blackout. After all, Emma had promised me a few held-open shots on that four-poster bed. Images I may dare to publish one of these days.

Poor Emma remains hors de combat and I am left to browse idly through some images of her until she’s back to her insatiable self. I’ve posted a picture of her wearing this titillating little number before, but make no excuses for posting another of her in the same outfit. She made it herself, at my suggestion, out of an old sweater she was throwing out - recycling at its very best. Subtle it ain’t, but there are times when we simply have to give our full attention to the things we love most. Whenever she puts it on, the garment seems to cry out: Here are my tits. Enjoy! I feel like a rabbit caught in her headlights, unable to take my eyes off them. And I can guarantee she will soon be riding me cowgirl-style, with her tits like twin moons in a black sky. And given my present enforced celibacy, I wish I hadn’t reminded myself of that!

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Well, it had to happen, didn’t it? Emma and I enjoy the juniper-flavoured spirit, and the sparkling mixer with a touch of quinine so much that they’re now selling it as Alfie. It’s a great leg-opener, as they say in the trade. But despite the convenience of these cans, I won’t be drinking it ready mixed except on the occasional picnic. It’s a fact that alcohol gives men the inclination while taking away the ability. So I like to start the evening with a G and T and add further tonics all evening until my drink is as dilute as a homeopathic remedy for gout. By the end of the evening, Emma will have had four or five G and Ts and be eager to get her knickers off, and I will have had one G and umpteen Ts and be ready and able to take advantage. It’s a convenient arrangement and the deception is minimal. It has the added advantage that, with so much quinine inside us, we need not fear the tsetse fly. [Which reminds me, Emma insists that the Indian tonic water has rid her of night-cramps.]

So much for rabbits, white or otherwise. Perhaps I said it with less conviction than I ought, implying it was no more than an old wives’ tale. Or perhaps a rabbit’s foot is a sine qua non for the good-luck spell to work. Whatever. The magic didn’t last long. Yes, Emma and I had a more than pleasant afternoon (on Wednesday) and I have the scratches to prove it. But on Thursday morning Emma woke with a splitting headache which heralded a sever cold - just the first of the season if our recent history of chest infections is anything to go by. I am left to cater to her every whim, unrewarded by any sexual contact whatsoever, until inevitably I too succumb. Till then I will amuse myself editing pictures which remind me of what I should be doing. How long before they find a cure for the common cold?

[Es tut mir leid, aber Ich spreche kein Deutsch.] Today is German Unity Day. It was on 3rd October 1990 that Germany was officially reunified. In contrast to the November booze-up that commemorates the night the Berlin Wall came down, the official reunification celebrations tend to be structured civic events. The organisers stress the European dimension of 1989, when the breaching of the Wall showed that the cracks in East European Communism were beginning to split wide open, letting unity between East and West flood through. Sounds a bit boring. Thank goodness Berliners know how to throw a party, with live entertainment, food, drink and lots of dancing. Einen schönen Tag allerseits!

It’s considered lucky if the first thing you say on the first day of the month is “Rabbits!” or “White Rabbits!” -or both, just to be on the safe side. The superstition is related to the broader belief in the rabbit or hare as being a “lucky” animal, exhibited in the practice of carrying a rabbit’s foot for luck. The origin of the superstition is unknown, though it has appeared in print at least as early as 1420 in England, where it is most commonly said to have originated. Some reports place its origins even earlier, in the 1200s. Today it has spread to most of the English-speaking countries of the world. Well, “Rabbits, white rabbits!” was the first thing I said on waking this morning. If it works, Emma and I will be at it like rabbits before sundown. I’ll let you know.