Saturday, October 31, 2015

Naked Chess

I am sure my fascination w this picture, like Rorschach's Ink Blots, says something about me.  And I am not sure I want to know what it says about me.  :)

I think it was Advizor who originally posted it as part of his weekly FFF.  I remember seeing it and being immediately turned on by it.  After spotting it on his blog, I had two tasks that needed my immediate attention.  The first, I needed to write a short story.  I got it written, but did not get it posted.  The second, I needed the Boyfriend inside of me.  I got that handled as well.  Scrolling through some old photos, I came across this photo again.  It still turns me on.  And the Boyfriend is getting ready to benefit again!!!
I like being naked.  I like being naked for the man I love.  I like the idea of him still being dressed while I am so exposed.
And I would probably HAVE to be naked if I hoped to win a game of chess (LMAO!!).
Why does it turn me on so much?  I really do not know.  Y’all figure it out.
Okay, time to go wake up the Boyfriend . . . :)

Friday, October 23, 2015

Blogger Still Hates Me

I have been home sick for the past week.  Yes, I caught the Boyfriend’s cold and I thought it was going to kill me too.  Had all the usual symptoms, but probably the worst for me has been the exhaustion.  Another Rachel fun fact – snotty tissues need to be immediately destroyed, burned to ashes, sent to an alternative dimension, whatever it takes for them to NOT be around me.  Mom would sit in the living room, blow her nose, and leave her biohazardous waste on her table until someone – usually me – cleaned up after her.  I cannot even have a waste basket in my bedroom w them in it.  So, when my nose was pouring snot, to where I am nearly drowning it is so bad, I have to go to the bathroom to blow my nose where I can flush the tissue gone from my universe.  And the teeny walk from by bed to the bathroom felt the Boston Marathon.  I ended up sleeping in the bathroom simply because I did not have the energy to crawl back to my bed.
Finally, except for still feeling wiped out w the slightest task, I started to feel better.  Home alone, pretty much stuck in bed, no one to talk too w everyone I know being at work – what’s a girl gonna do to pass the time.  Why, take naked pictures for my blog, of course.  J 
Except that Blogger still hates me.  Or possibly Blogger does not like the way I look.  Both make me sad .  L  I do not know why Blogger would hate me.  And while I am not ravishing, I do think I am fairly cute.  So, I really do not know what Blogger’s attitude is w me posting pictures.  All I know is that I have tried everything I know to try.  Everyone blames it on Windows 10.  Of course, I had issues before w Blogger before Windows 10 was even a glimmer in Bill Gates eye. 
So, until I can figure out why Blogger hates me, the best I can do is DESCRIBE my naked pictures.  I think I was pretty cute in all of them J.  And I might have even been “ravishing” in a few

Saturday, October 17, 2015

The Boyfriend Gets Lucky Again

Indulge me returning to the day of the Boyfriend's heat stroke. 

He had slept through the night w/o issue.  By morning, I was less worried about him.  Nurse Rachel had saved another patient.
Nurse Rachel, however, was having issues of her own.
Nurse Rachel had woken up thinking about last night.  We had made love one more time last night after the game. It was slow and pleasant.  It was different.  And thinking about it had made Nurse Rachel very horny.
After the game, I had turned off the light.  He woke up enough to roll over and lay his head on my chest.  I think that was all he initially intended, just to cuddle w his head on my shoulder.  I said good night.  He thanked me yet again for being there for him.  We ended up talking, nothing serious, just light chatter about nothing serious.  After a bit, while we were still talking about nothing in particular, I felt his hand beginning to roam.  I laugh thinking about it.  Does not matter the age, men and boys, they never change.  Telling the story now, it is hard not to remember all the boys who started making their move the same way years ago in high school.  But those are stories for another day.  Like I said previously, I never stopped loving the Boyfriend.  I just wanted more from a relationship.  I don’t know – maybe the problem is that I don’t know what I want.  As far as for right then, I did know what I wanted.  I wanted his hand to keep doing what it was doing.  I wanted him to be happy.  I wanted him to feel good.  And he was certainly making me feel good as well.
The interesting thing, to me anyway, was that as his hand roamed my body, pausing at the interesting places, and then continuing on, we never stopped our idle chatter.  If you could only hear us talking, you would have been surprised to know that he was getting his index finger slick w my juices and then running it around my nipples.  I cannot begin to tell you how long he kept this up.  He seemed to be happily enjoying himself.  It made me feel good that, after all the crap he has had to endure lately, he was able to feel some pleasure w me.  And it felt good.  Really good.  I was in no hurry to get more intense.  I was curious to see where he was going w this.  We just kept talking about nothing in particular.  The conversation did drift towards past dates we had gone on.  He mentioned the night we went to the movies for one of our first dates and how he spent most of the movie trying to cop a feel.  I laughed and asked if he could name the movie.  “There was a movie?” he laughed back.  That’s kind of how the conversation went.  He dipped his finger into my soaking sheath, flittered it across my clit a time or two, then would draw on more parts of my body w my wetness.  It was like he was finger painting me w a shiny coat of me.  Aside from pulling my top off me (I was already w/o panties), he said nothing about what he was doing.  I think it was all the more pleasurable because we just kept talking, but never talking about what he was doing to me.
Slowly, he began to focus more on my trigger.  At first, he simply lingered there a little longer before moving on to paint me elsewhere w my wetness.  Several times, he took his wet finger to my lips for me to suck my fluids from it.  (Men seem to enjoy watching me taste my own juices - Is it all men or just the men I pick?)  Over time, his fingers lingered longer and longer on my trigger.  After he had particularly covered my nipple w my juices, he lowered his heard further from shoulder and took my breast into his mouth.  Hmmmmm, his gentle bite felt good.  And as he took my breast into his mouth, he slid his finger deeper inside me.  I had my arm around him, both hands playing w his hair and he continued to suckle my breast.  Leaving my sheath, he took his extra wet fingers and began to massage my trigger at length.  Our idle chatter had stopped finally.  All that could be heard now was my moaning and his hunger as he devoured my breast.  The more I moaned, the more aggressive he became w my breast and w my trigger.  And the more aggressive he became, he more I moaned.  We were a good pair!!!
I do not know if I gave him any warning or not.  I remember only when the first wave hit me that I squeezed my legs together, holding his fingers inside of me.  I pulled his head harder into my bosom.  He responded by taking more of me into his mouth and biting all the harder.  As the waves crashed over me, I squeezed his hand inside of me all the harder w my legs and pulled his head all the harder onto my breast.  I was being impaled and devoured simultaneously.
When the last wave passed, I lay there intoxicated in the moment.  He released his firm grip on my breast, but continued to caress it w his tongue and lips.  He kept his fingers deep inside me for a while longer maintaining that feeling of him being inside of me.
He gently spread my knees further apart and then, w/o words still, got between them.  He easily slipped into me.  It is a special feeling that initial feeling of fullness. 
“I missed you”, I said to him w/o thinking about it.
“I missed you more”, he said back.
“I love you”, I said.
I expected him to say, “I love you more”; instead he said, “I have always loved you Rache”.  Damned if he did not almost make me cum again just by saying he loved me. 
Much like he had that entire evening, he rode me gently that evening.  He thrust slowly into me like he was gently massaging me from the inside out.  We had stopped the idle chatter, but still we continued to talk.  Now we talked more about how we felt about each other.  He said again how much he appreciated my helping him w the lawns.  And while that was like the millionth time he had thanked me, it led to appreciating me for the blow job I gave him in the shower. 
“What’s a girlfriend for,” I laughed, “if not for getting on her knees when her boyfriend is having a matter”.
We talked about different times we made love in the past.  He would recall a memory.  I would recall a memory.  It was interesting to listen to him tell me things he was thinking or visualizing  when we had made love before, all the time he continued gently riding me. 
Much like me w him, he did not give me any real warning that he was about to cum.  He was just suddenly very close.  He had stopped talking and had buried his head into my shoulder.  I wrapped my arms around him and held him tight.
“Cum in me baby”, I whispered, “cum in me”.
After he came, we were both as relaxed as any two people could be.
There was something so special about the night that, come morning; I just lay there thinking about it again.  I got all worked up again and desperately need him back inside of me.  He woke up to the feel of my mouth going around his dick - a perfect way for any man to wake up, if I do say so myself.  I held him deep in my mouth, my tongue wrapping around him, feeling him grow harder and harder.  I like it when I make him hard in my mouth.  Then, I straddled him and slipped him back home inside of me.  “This is where you belong”, I said to him.
It was my turn to gently ride him.

Thursday, October 15, 2015

Not A Good Week To Be A Gator

The week ended awesome w another Florida victory. 
I had sat there, on the Boyfriend’s bed, w him snoring peacefully, and me sitting cross-legged and nervously hugging my pillow, watching the closing minutes of the game.  I read once about how you spot a true Florida Gator fan (I cannot take credit for this):  Up by three touchdowns, one minute to go, Gators have possession of the ball, a die-hard Florida fan will still be on the edge of their seat thinking – “somehow, someway, I know we can still lose this game”.  That night, and the post game celebration w the Boyfriend (more on that later), made for a perfect night – a night I want to remember forever.
And this week has been one I would like to forget forever.
The UPS man came into the office and sought me out like he normally does.  He is an Alabama fan so he likes to gloat.
It occurs to me that now might be a good time to pause and explain.  I am a girl that likes sports.  I do not think that odd, but apparently I am something of an exception.  Like I said, it does not seem odd to me because I have always liked sports.  Some of my favorite childhood memories w Daddy are the two of us watching the Gators or the Dolphins together.  And later, when things got rough between Mom and me, sports was something that me and Daddy could talk about.  I remember once when Mom and I had been fighting really bad, Daddy called me into the garage.  I went w an attitude because that’s what I did back then.  He threw my baseball glove at me and asked if I would play catch w him.  I was never on a softball team or anything like that.  Playing catch was just something Daddy had liked to do when I was much younger and he taught me to do it w him.  Those are also special memories.  It had been a few years since we last played catch, so it caught me off guard.  There was no “talk”.  We said very little actually.  We just fell back into enjoying being together.  Daddy can be Andy Griffin smart sometimes.  Maybe because of that, maybe because of some internal genetic wiring, I am a girl that really likes her sports.  I know we cannot be that rare, but you would think I was the only one from the way my girlfriends act.  I say that about my girlfriends and the guys never say a word.
Guys are another reason I really like sports (get your minds out of the gutter).  When Daddy was in the hospital last year (part of the reason for my disappearing act and I will talk more about it someday soon), it was a lonely scary time for me.  Football made it easier.  One time, I was walking the hallways when I passed a group of hospital staff, all men, debating the rankings and who deserved to be in the top four.  I made a remark, I forget what now, intending to just keep walking.  Instead, they got me talking and for thirty minutes I did not feel so alone.  I got to know quite a few people there all from just having football to talk about.  I work w mostly men.  Sports, especially football, is that universal topic I can talk about w almost all of them.  Nobody gets weird thinking I am trying to flirt w them.  Most don’t get caught into trying to impress me w their knowledge. 
Which all circles back to the UPS man coming into my office, I’m thinking to gloat again about Alabama or Nick Saban.  Instead, he asks me what I thought about the news.  “What news”?  I’m thinking he is playing a cruel joke when he tells me about Florida’s quarterback being suspended, so I race to open up Google.  Seconds later, I just want to cry.  And that has been pretty much how I have felt all week.  Something else happens and I just feel like crying.
First, Will Grier is suspended (I will not be commenting on this . . . ever).  Then, Spurrier resigns.  I will always consider him a Gator foremost, no matter where he is at.  And last night, another player was suspended for firing a gun at his pregnant girlfriend.  Not bad enough he had to shoot at his girlfriend . . . he had to shoot at his “pregnant” girlfriend.  C’mon . . . really?!!!
Oh, last thing, my ‘Bama UPS fan really was not trying to upset me.  Aside from the occasional gloating, he is a pretty good guy.  I think he was really just trying to be supportive.  He did not think that I had not heard yet.
The best thing I can say about this week is that it is almost over.

Saturday, October 10, 2015

Changing The Boyfriend's Luck

I am sitting cross-legged in the Boyfriend’s bed, laptop in my lap, watching the Gator game.  The Boyfriend is sound asleep next to me.  Call it my own little superstition.  I feel like the Gators have more luck when I am doing something more than just watching the game.  Make fun of me all you want.

The Boyfriend has not been having a good week. 

He bought a new car.  This may not seem like much, but the Boyfriend is thrifty (this is me trying to politely say he is cheap).   He white knuckles every penny before he will grudgingly let go of it.  He liked his car and was not looking to let her go.  But the mechanic said he was looking at a lot of repairs in the near future, convincing him it might actually be cheaper in the long run to go ahead and spend the money for a new car.  It took a little Rachel-encouragement, but he avoided practical and finally found a car he really loved.  He stopped for a red light - the car behind him did not.  Less than a month old, his shiny red Charger was a crunched mess. 
He has a new Director.  And she was apparently trying to run everyone off who had been brought in by her predecessor.  I never understand why upper management allows these firing-fests to go on, but we have all seen it happen time and again.  The Boyfriend has been living w a bull’s eye on his chest.  The poor guy went to work every day waiting for the phone call to come to her office.  I cannot even begin to imagine what it is like for him.
His dad has been sick.  His uncle (on his mom’s side) has been sick.  A co-worker of his, an older woman w no children on this side of the continent, had fallen and broken her leg.  He offered to help each of them w their yard work until they were able to do it again for themselves.  And none had a small yard either.  The Boyfriend, the man who lives in an apartment w no yard of his own to take care of, now spends an entire day every week mowing lawns.  He had one Hell of a tan.
Then he comes down w a cold.  I said it was a cold - he insists he is dying from the plague.  Ugh, this is me rolling my eyes and saying again, “It is just a cold”.  But I will agree w him about one thing – it is killing him.  Well, what is actually killing him is that he keeps pushing himself and is not getting any rest.  He felt it dangerous to call out sick given the politics w his new Director.  And sick or not, the lawns were not going to mow themselves.  Whether he simply had a cold or was dying from the plague, he was trying to power through.
This is where I come in.
When he called me this afternoon, he was in sad shape.
He was finishing his third lawn, trying to get them all done so he had nothing to do tomorrow.  He had finished his dad and uncle’s lawns and was apparently trying to power through his co-worker’s lawn.  He said he was trying to get her lawn done when he finally just could not stand up any longer.  He sat down right there in her yard to catch his breath.  Then he lay down.  Twenty minutes later, he still had not gotten back up.  He called me from his cell saying he was not sure he could stand back up.  “There’s nothing left in the tank”, he kept saying.  I do not think he realized that he was repeating himself.  He was miserable.
I ran to him in no time.  I managed to get him into some shade, the entire time he was apologizing for calling me.  In addition to all the apologies, he kept insisting he would be okay in just a few minutes, that he would be able to finish mowing, and if I would mind waiting for him to finish mowing and just help him drive home, then he would leave me alone.  Yeah, I pretty much just ignored him.  Putting him into the shade (the goof had been sitting in the sun), I wrapped a wet towel around his neck and gave him a Gatorade.  I proceeded to finish mowing the lawn myself (read my blog to see that I am quite popular for my mad mowing skills).  He was using her mower, so I simply had to return it to the shed when I was finished.  Then came the more challenging task of getting him into my car and back home (I decided we were going to leave his car at her place for now).  We managed it, but then I questioned the walk from my car into his apartment.  I debated taking him to my home where I had Daddy for more help if needed.  But he needed a shower and to get into something dry – the poor thing was soaked through – and that meant a stop at his place anyway.  His place was, of course, the exact opposite direction from my place.  And he probably would feel more comfortable in his cave.  I debated calling Harley for help.  I have no doubt that Harley would have rushed over to help.  But then I would need therapy for the rest of my life.  Internal debate settled, I turned towards the Boyfriend’s apartment.
We got into his apartment, but that seemed to tap whatever reserves he had found.  He insisted on laying down on the living room carpet saying he just needed a moment.  I knew the Boyfriend and I knew from his tone that a “moment” was going to be anything but a “moment”.  I fought the useless battle - he was spent.  I did manage to get a beach towel under him thinking that might feel better than the stiff carpet.  And I managed to get him out of most of his clothing.  Yuck is all I have to say about touching those sweaty things!!!  He was not much better.  He was covered in dirt and grass.  The sweat was still rolling off him.  Another plus for the beach towel under him.  Driving him home, we had to put the windows down because he had complained of freezing from the A/C.  I was afraid he might get too cold now that he was inside and still wet w sweat, so I covered him a little bit w another towel.  I insisted he wake up enough to drink a little bit more.  I was pretty sure he was dehydrated.  He drank a little bit more because I think he knew it was the only way to get me to shut up.  He lay there, dead to the world.
I sat down on the floor beside him.  After yet another internal debate, I got a rag and bowl of warm water, then I proceeded to wipe down his face, arms, back, and legs.  I did not know what I was doing.  He looked clammy to me.  I did not want to disturb him resting.  But I also was not sure anything could disturb him.  And again, I did not like the way he looked.  I was still afraid he might get a chill from being covered in sweat and now in his air conditioned apartment.  If nothing else, I thought, after I wipe him down a bit he might rest a little better.  I guess I did something right.  He seemed to enjoy it.  I asked him if he wanted me to wipe down his chest too.  He rolled over without saying a word.  I got the hint.  I toweled him dry.  Then I just continued to sit there beside him.
I am not really sure how I knew since his eyes remained closed and he had not really moved any, but I sensed he had woken up.  I was sitting close.  He stunk – love is not a perfume – to bad for me to lie down next to him.  I got on my knees to whisper into his face, “want to try getting that shower now.  I still think a warm shower will help you feel better”.
He grunted okay, but I think he was just trying to shut me up again.  If he had his way, he would have stayed right there the rest of the weekend.  He kind of got to his knees.  He was not moving fast.  “Rach, I really don’t think I can”, he finally said.
I helped him to his feet.  The two of us managed it to the shower; slowly.  He sat, more like fell, onto the toilet while I started the shower.  He insisted he would be okay to take a shower when I asked him.  He insisted he would be okay, but he also kept sitting on the toilet; not moving, eyes closed.  Another internal debate later, I began stripping out of my clothes.  It should be a testament to how he was feeling that he did not notice until we were both literally standing in the shower together.
“I should call you for help more often”, he teased when he did notice.
“Shut up and give me your back”, I said in a teasing firm tone back to him.
Done washing his back, I turned him around and just had him stand there for a bit w the hot water on his back.  Washing his chest, it was hard NOT to notice something developing.
“Oh my God”, I shouted at him, “I swear a man can be on his deathbed and will still get a boner”.
“It’s not my fault”, he protested.
“Like it’s mine”, I joked back.
“Most beautiful girl I have ever known, naked, in a hot shower, rubbing me . . . yeah, I’d pretty much say it’s your fault”.
“Besides”, he added, “you’re like the best thing that’s happened to me all week . . . all month . . . ever”.
“You’re just trying to get into my pants”, I joked.
“Must be working since . . . um . . . they’re off”.
He reached his arms around me, both pulling me closer and pulling my hair so that my face angled up to meet his.  We kissed.
I do not deny it – I love the Boyfriend.
And I love Harley.
The Boyfriend loves me too.  God, I wish so many times that was enough to make me happy.  But apparently it isn’t because being w the Boyfriend does not make me happy.  Harley loves me . . . I think . . . maybe it isn’t love . . . because he runs away.  But being w Harley makes me happy . . . until he runs away.  And the Boyfriend has his own way of running away too; we have gone months w/o his touching me.  I don’t know.  It is all so confusing to me.  It is partially why I started writing this blog years ago, to kind of try to think about it out loud so to speak, and here I am still trying to figure it out.
None of those thoughts were in the front of my brain just then.
What was foremost in my thoughts at that precise moment was the Boyfriend’s hard-on which was pressing into my mid-section while we kissed.  I had not gotten into the shower w him w the intention of making love.  I had spent the past several hours worried to death about him.  I was truly concerned about him and my being in the shower as well seemed like the safest way to make sure he did not fall and kill himself. 
“I suppose you’re hoping I will help take care of that for you”, I asked him.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be interested”, he said.  He did not say it in whiney mode.  It was more like a statement of fact.  He understood why I had gotten into the shower w him.  It had been a while since we had been together sexually.  Normally, I prefer a strong confident man.  Strangely, I appreciated his understanding in this case and in an even more bizarre way it made me all the more wanting to sleep w him.
“Well, I am naked in your shower w you . . . that’s pretty much universal girl code for you’re gonna get lucky”, I joked w him.
“Tell me what you would like me to do”, I continued, taking his erection into my hands.  It may only be a Rachel thing, but I like hearing the Boyfriend tell me what dirty thing he wants me to do for him.  The dirtier his instructions, the better.  This is another place the Boyfriend has a problem though – it is hard for him to open up w me.  Imagine it – I am naked, holding his dick in my hand, essentially offering to do whatever he tells me.  How much more of a ‘sure thing’ can it be?  And yet, w all that, he is still too nervous to tell me to bend over like the slut I am for him to fuck.  Except this time apparently . . .
“I want to see my dick in your mouth”, he said.  I was shocked to say the least.  I knew him so I also heard the nervousness in his voice.  But still . . . he did it.  How could I not reward him for it.
“I can do that for you”, I said in my most submissive tone, lowering myself onto my knees.  His back blocked the spray from my face, making it possible for me to give him a good show of his dick filling my mouth. 

Tuesday, October 6, 2015


Touching base w an old friend that you suddenly stopped talking too for no apparent reason is fucking awkward.  No matter what you say, there really is no good excuse for being a lame ass and disappearing.  Harley has made me an expert of sorts on lame ass boyfriends who disappear.  Harley is always the lame ass getting into the “Vanishing Cabinet” and I am always the confused girlfriend left behind wondering what she had done wrong.  Since I pulled a Harley, it only seems fitting that I use his method of returning – namely, I completely ignore that I was ever gone.  Okay, stop throwing things at your computer, I mean only that I will ignore my disappearing act FOR NOW.  I want to talk about the past – but at another time.  And maybe not all at once.  There is some great stuff that I am excited to share.  And there is some bad stuff that I am not so excited to talk about.  I am always so fucking angry w Harley when he reappears.  At the same time, my heart is about to burst because it feels good to just see him again.  That’s me, for right now, I want to just enjoy feeling good because I am back and talking again here w y’all.
And none of that was actually the awkward I was talking about for this post!!!
I am dying to tell someone about what happened last night.
I knew Daddy had been dating again.  It was not something we talked about.  Mom has been gone ("gone" - I notice that I use almost every euphemism there is rather than say "Mom died" - and yes, it hurt to write it just now) for a while now and, well, Daddy is still pretty young and in awesome shape in my biased opinion.  Never the less, my naive brain had not imagined bumping into an over-night guest . . . literally.
It was the middle of the night.  I only woke up because I had to pee.  I had no desire to get out of my bed, but there was no ignoring my bladder and going back to sleep.  No lights.  Just run to the bathroom, pee, then race back to bed before I was officially wide awake.  But then I wanted a drink too.  Okay, no worries, just a quick detour to the kitchen after peeing before returning to my nice bid warm comfortable bed.  I run into the kitchen and run right into Mrs. Smith (obviously not her real name).
We crashed into one another at the kitchen counter.  Apparently, both of us had wanted a quick drink.  I turned on a small light.  She was wearing one of Daddy’s dress shirts . . . the one I recalled watching him leave the house wearing earlier that evening.  It looked different on her.  Her husband had died as well four to five years ago and I had known her long before then.  She leaned back against the counter while we each tried to pretend this was completely normal.  I was not sure the protocol.  What does a daughter do when she bumps into the half-dressed woman who's been banging her father; do we hug, shake hands, what.  I opted for the hand shake.  And that’s when I realized she was holding Daddy’s shirt closed w her hands because it was still unbuttoned . . . making us more familiar w each other than we had ever planned.
She got a glass of wine before returning w it to Daddy’s room.  She had been getting water when I walked into her.  I'm thinking she needed something stronger after we met.
It was a bit funny I can say now in hindsight.
It is not like I am a stranger to the ‘walk of shame’.
Missed y'all.

Sunday, October 4, 2015