Ace Gray

Author

Ace Gray is the author of absolutely filthy things available on all platforms including Kindle and Kindle Unlimited. She likes eggplant fairies, naughty ice cream trucks, and of course, long walks on the beach. 

Magic City

image courtesy of Scott Shondeck @shondeck 

image courtesy of Scott Shondeck @shondeck 

To many the mountains are an enigma. And with the way mist weaves through timber and hangs on the branches, enveloping full bodies and then drips down in desperate want of the ground, I freely admit there is magic in the woods. This magic and mystery is obscured from those that don’t listen with their hearts.

But there is magic in the city too. A magic more human that is heard and seen and felt from a sunlit park bench. 

In the woods you are disconnected, a single, solitary being. In the city you are but a spoke of the web. Better yet a single sparkling dew drop on the web. You are a story in the city. You are a minor character in a hundred others and a background prop in a thousand more. Every person, every car, bike, sidewalk, tree, statue and building are simultaneously your story and using you to create their own. 

The lifeblood of a thousand people courses through your veins in the city. You can look up at the skyscrapers and glimpse on 50, 100, 500 lives? Someone is getting good news, someone is getting bad news. Someone lost their keys, someone lost their love. Someone found that flannel shirt they’ve been looking for, someone found forever. 

And someone is slowly parting the legs of a lover, letting their hands dance along naked goose bumped flesh. Wandering higher, exploring, delighting, pleasuring and receiving all of those in return. Lips are tracing a simpler path, feeling hot, cold, trembling skin. Hearts are racing even if they’re moving leisurely against soft white sheets. 

At least I certainly hope someone in that building is making love, having sex or fucking with wild abandon in the sunlight. 

Because beams will pierce that glass desperate to find a home on pale naked skin the same way a lover’s hands would. They will warm skin and bring out the faintest flush the way lingering against a lover’s skin would.

Those same beams bring a brilliant and luminous vulnerability to taking, giving and rolling against each other. They are the brilliant spotlight on all that you are, all that you are giving another person. They shed light on all that you are getting, all that wants to be yours too. They soften the edges of the scene so when this moment is fondly remembered in its perfect imperfection the edges are softened; faces and limbs go a little blurry. The sunlight leaves you with the feeling of warmth outside to match the inside long after enhancing the magic of this city moment. 

Soft, Warm, Pink Flesh

He felt juices, warm, sticky, run down his lips and pool in the stubble of his chin. This is Heaven. The smell, the taste rocked through his bones and brain and tongue. The smell, the taste moved languidly too, the way wine weaves into limbs, making honied thoughts and joints.

She had been posed when he saw her across the grocery store, all lovely skin and rouge where it should be. Even from afar she seemed soft, fleshy, voluptuous. He could only think of the feel of her, the smell of her. Yearning, hot, wet, fever pooled in his belly. With every step across the white and grey linoleum, with every step under the buzzing fluorescents his heart beat. I. Must. Have. That. Sweet. Golden-pink. Flesh. The words were in time with his escalating beats.

He wooed her, won her, cradled her there in the grocery store like the golden goddess she was. He’d even held her as he moved to the car, the car where they now sat, thinking, waiting, watching, wishing. She was silent in the passenger seat, surrounded by the brown bags of the store he would never remember and never forget. She’d abandoned her friends, resigned to the inevitability she’d feel his lips at her fuzz, his teeth at her flesh. Delighted at fulfilling her purpose, to have his lips at her fuzz, his teeth at her flesh. The car hummed with something unspoken - a mix of anticipation, greed, desire, hunger – all ravenous within.

She now sat on the countertop, that plain grey slab concrete countertop, waiting for him to take her. And take her he did. He cupped her gently, stroking the sensitive skin of her precious globes. His tongue tentatively reached out, unhurried as it pushed into that slightest of slits and moved down lower. And lower. And lower. Till it reached that tiny nub.

He let his lips wrap around that nub, savoring the feel of soft fuzz against his face. Soft fuzz that met hard stubble. The hint of flavor danced on his lips and he couldn’t wait. Couldn’t wait for teeth and tongue and tearing. Couldn’t wait for juice dripping. That feeling, the one that churned in his belly, that rose in his chest, that clenched at his throat, overtook him. With that he plunged in.

She felt him immerse himself, his soul, down deep into that sweet golden-pink flesh. She felt him see and feel her bruises and push right past. Right down deep into the pit of her. She felt the sweetness she held drip down his lips, down his fingers. This sweet devouring, sweet feasting, sweet ravaging continued till there was almost no flesh at all. She was nothing but a firm lump when he finished with her. When he threw her away like she was gone, done, empty. Like he didn’t care what pleasure he’d just ruthlessly taken.

The peach was the best one he’d had this season. He’d enjoyed every second of eating it as he leaned over the kitchen sink. It had just looked so damn good in the produce aisle. Even now, he could feel the tingle of it’s sugary taste clenching the back of his jaw. This was the best golden-pink flesh he’d had all summer. So far anyhow…

Top Five Whaaaaa????

I had a friend recently tell me that sex against a wall, or on unconventional surfaces, was completely unappealing. It took everything I had not to banish her from my sight. I settled for a severely cocked eyebrow instead.

Maybe I’ve watched too many movies or have too vivid of an imagination, but I think my dear friend is batshit crazy. Oh, and there’s the whole, I’ve done it – a few times – and know she’s batshit crazy, thing.

That’s why I’ve compiled a list (because lists are all the rage don’t you know – no one wants to read an actual article or short story – a rant for another day) of the absolute best songs to have sex to up against a wall. Make yourself a playlist and enjoy!

 

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1. “Howlin’ For You” by the Black Keys

The white door bursts open, hinges tested, wood almost splintered. The only thing more violent than the door opening is it being kicked, slammed, battered shut behind them. And it’s lucky they remembered to get it shut at all as the hurricane of arms and legs swirls into the room.

The two bodies are both attached, lips, hips, hands, till they land up against the exposed brick of the place. Her head crashes into brick, her back cold against the stone, her front on fire against him. She lets him devour her lips for a moment before pushing against his body. Together they’re able to yank off his shirt, her shirt, fabric flying before he crashes up against the other wall, the opposite side. For just the slightest breath they smile, laugh, at the sting of the crash, then return to feverish kisses. The bites and kisses and scrapes and licks.

They’ve been too still for that heartbeat. Only lips moving against each other, hands clawing at each other. It’s his turn to push against her, get her somewhere, anywhere, horizontal. Her feet bobble just before crashing against the wall again in their frantic pingpong forward. This time the brick actually does scrape, the sting mingled with hot, cold, wet, tingling skin. The pain just lights her eyes on fire.

Have their lips even left each other? Skin or hips or hands? Judging by the swollen, red, angry, delighted skin, No. Judging by the hard, horney, dripping wet and desperate, hell no.

He’s got her behind the knees, yanking those legs up to wrap around his hips, leaning her back to scratch and scrape against the exposed brick one last time. She growls a truly animalistic sound, sharpening her claws into his broad back. He’s got her for a moment, a breath. Then the tangle, tumble, the hurricane takes back over just to move them forward. In just a little further.

Out of nowhere the couch is there, biting at his legs, at her hips and all too quickly she’s barreling back over the furniture, landing with a thud, a poof, a  groan, a growl. She arches  away from the soft gray, up into the hard flesh. He pushes down away from the cool air and into the hot flesh. The horizontal hurricane, even more feverish now that it’s made landfall, leaving scratches, scrapes and sweet, sweet sex wherever it’s gone.


2. “Trainwreck 1979″ but Death From Above 1979

The song comes on the radio at the same time his fingers start to move up her thigh. She shifts against the leather, the purr of the engine suddenly reaching in and vibrating her bones. The pad of his finger suddenly reaching up into her arousal.

For fuck’s sake get this car home.

Her hand returns the favor without ever giving it conscious thought, moving to his hard dick and stroking. It swells beneath her hand. Desire always swells beneath her touch.

I have to have her NOW.

Across the console, across the stick shift, across a seemingly widening gap, they paw at each other. Hoping beyond hope that the car won’t careen into oncoming traffic.

Somehow the drive got longer. Pavement rolling in front of the headlights for minutes, meters, hours, miles, years. At least that’s how it feels while they tremble with anticipation, fingers still stroking, hands still rubbing.

The second they pull into the driveway he slams the car into park, lurching to an idle. Who can be bothered to turn the damned thing off.

take me.

fuck me.

They’re both scrambling out of the car, hoping beyond hope that they will careen right into each other. A whole new type of wreck, a crash of bodies, of lust and want and need and desperation that seeps from thighs to fingers to lips and then up and over the hood of the car. Because that’s where they crash. Where fireworks ignite and honey pours languidly across limbs all at once, that spot where they meet at the hood of the car.

She’s bent over immediately. He’s draped over even faster. Who has time for fabric when you can make time for plunging, thrusting satisfaction instead. The car still vibrates bones, boners.

Her back to his front, she wiggles up into him. His front to her back, he shoves up into her. And there, humming, buzzing with the engine, the engine of lust, the engine of eroticism, the engine of a Porsche, he hammers, she builds.

All too fast its over. The humming of the engine echoing the hum inside her bones, his fingertips. There’s no key to this ignition, no way to turn this purr off but then again, who would want to?


3. “Eez-Eh” by Kasabian

Their eyes met across the club, both sets glowing with a golden hunger. He doesn’t know her name. She only knows his begins with K because she caught his urgent signature on the bottom of the bar receipt. When his fingers shoved into her hair and and his thick fucking cock shoved between her thighs she stopped trying to figure it out.

No one waiting in the bathroom line seems to care that they are groping, fondling, clawing at each other. First she’s against the blood red wall, feeling the bass thump against her ass, then he is, as the inch toward the locked door. Someone is taking for damn near ever in there. It gives them time to ravage right over top of all things neon, all things fabric, all things decent. It gives them time to anticipate.

Finally, mercifully, thankfully, urgently  they plow through the small door, careening into whoever was doing lines on the sink a minute ago. Feet shuffle through discarded paper towels, creating a tornado of sorts. It’s one mess of limbs ramming into whatever wall space they can find. The sink ledge comes in handy, a shelf for her plump ass.

And as soon as she’s propped up, he can properly fuck her. Thong shoved to the side beneath short skirt. Dick pulled out from undone zipper. There against the blow dusted porcelain, the bass thumping porcelain, the cold and wet and slick porcelain, he thrusts in. No one can hear the moans, the screams, the growls of pleasure, the bass replacing every sound, every heartbeat, in the club, the bathroom, their bodies.

Her head jostles the cheap mirror. His hips hit the sink. She arches up to meet him. He sags down to feel her. For a moment he wonders what’s under her shirt. She probably returned the favor. But there is that bass again, thumping through them, just as thoroughly as he’s thumping into her.

The music crescendos. The bass rattling everything in the room now. Mirror, bones, sink, tits, paper, pussy, blood red walls and big, hard dick. Climax is the only place to go. For the music and sex. And climax it does. Climax they do. Hot, sweaty, sticky, satiated. They’re both left panting as the bass plays out.


4. “Starstruck” by Santigold

He’d consume her if he could. All of her. Lips, hips, vagina. Sweet ass too. Heart, soul even.

His hands are on either side of her face, arms flexing as he pushes her up against the wall. She gasps into his open, desperate, waiting mouth. Hands, feet, hips, chests brushing, pressing, mingling.

Whether she lifted her knee or he grabbed to hitch it up they don’t know, or care or even think about, but there she is, a wet, aching, open pussy for him to press into. She gaspes again when his thick, pulsing cock does just that.

He tightens his grip on her, neither remembering, realizing, caring when he shifted to neck and knee. All they can feel is the heat drawing them closer, the heat radiating from the apex of their thighs. From the apex of their beings.

Closer. Harder. Slower. Deeper.

Gasp. Moan. Whimper. Breath that just won’t catch.

She’s soaking wet. He can feel her arousal drip down his hard cock every time he pushes into her. She’s so turned on by him, so enthralled by him. By his handling of her. Rough, racy, and really really sweet. She knows damn well he’d tear her in two to get deeper into her sex. Into her soul.

He turns her, hands flying to the wall to brace herself. One of his hands crosses her body, down to her breast. He squeezes between his fingertips, she rolls her head back onto his shoulder. That’s when she realizes where his other hand has gone. Down, low, lower than before and choking the head of his perfect dick, right against her perfectly puckered backside.

“Yes,” it’s a breathy plea.

Slow. Gentle. Firm. Slow.

Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. Groan.

He pushes her up against the wall and her skin touches the cool paint, putting on a show of nipples raising, hard, skin goosebumping everywhere, shivers shockwaving down her spine. Or maybe she shakes because he’s settled inside of her. Completely.

Now his hands can leave her body. They can weave in between her fingers up against the wall and they can both brace , grip, claw. Nothing, not even the barely there city lights can shine between their skin. Nothing, not even his hitched breathing can trickle down across her skin. And as he thrusts, in time with the beat, any line between them is gone.

His lips come to her ear, to whisper sweet things, dirty things as her body gets closer to the wall, to the cool brick beneath her. They become a single rolling body. This mass would press hard against the paint if it could. If it could keep rolling, thrusting, fucking flat against the paint.


5. “Gooey” by Glass Animals

There’s is the perfect outline of a female form up against the windows. Is she standing naked or in something that perfectly hugs her curvy form. In the dim light it’s too hard to tell. Too unimportant too. Because she’s beautiful either way. Perfect either way.

As quietly as possible his briefcase, shoes, socks, suit hit the floor and like a moth to a flame he draws towards her. Does she pull? Does her pussy pull? Is he helpless against her? Against his own erotic desires?

Who gives a damn?

Watching her breathing, watching her fog the glass, watching her skin flush. He snakes towards her and her softly sagging shoulders, her rosy skin, her foggy, breathy circles. His breathing hitches, his heartbeat races and his collar constricts. Is she the moth or the flame? Would he mind either way?

She is naked. Pale skin goosebumped and waiting. Rosy flush waiting. His cock is even harder, waiting. Waiting to kiss, caress, trace, tease. Lips start skating against skin. His. Hers. Fingertips skating in opposite and similar directions. His. Hers. To the left and right, into hair and against skin.

Slowly, trembling, she works at every button of his shirt. Slowly, trembling, he lets her fumble with every button of his shirt.

She gasps when he presses her against the glass. He gasps at the wetness between her thighs. Lips start skating against skin. His. Hers. Fingertips skating in opposite and similar directions. His. Hers. To the left and right, into hair and against skin.

It’s one of those times when the moments all seap together, swirling, like chocolate and caramel and melting ice cream or a montage or a montage of all the honey, gooey things that could swirl together. This melting every bit as sweet a treat too. Bodies melding, lines blurring, everything just as sticky. Everything just as swirled. It’s not him or her, his or hers, she or him any more.

It’s movement. Rolling, undulating, hypnotic rhythm. A dance up against the dark city scape. Lips skating against skin. Fingertips clawing in. Aching, pulsing, desperate penis, pussy, tits and ass begging to be next, begging to be all.

It all feels good. It all feels fan-fucking-tastic but what he likes most is her heartbeat. What she likes most is his ragged breathing. The reflection of everything that is inside. The reflection of each other. The rhythm only they can pulse together.

How To Take Over The World

The alternate title for this article was My Love, Hate Relationship with Shellac Manicures. Regardless of title the point remains the same. Those absolutely devilish and delightful treats called shellac manis are going to be the downfall of yours truly and perhaps western civilization (of course the latter is only probable if those in charge of some oppressive dictatorship far, far away happen upon my blog and decide on peaceful means of conquering…)

I blame Canada really. Well my Canadian friend Dana more specifically, for forcing me into getting one about a year ago. She was going to Mexico and all but threatened my livelihood if I didn’t accompany (ok really she said” lets go get a mani, pedi” and I had extra cash laying around but in the retelling of this story she’s going to get more violent and aggressive every time simply so I have a scapegoat.)  Besides we had just watched Anjela Johnson’s “Nail Salon” skit on You Tube, (which is HIGHlarious by the way – “honey why you no hab?” “you so prittaaay!” – if you don’t know what I’m talking about go watch it now, I’ll wait…) so it seemed appropriate.

Anyway…this event, the Canadian-You Tube-Shellac debacle, began my relationship with what has become a cruel, vicious, unyielding bitch of a mistress. If you’ve never gotten a shellac mani you’re probably rolling your eyes, insisting that I’m being a tad dramatic. To you I say two things, 1) no friggin’ way am I exaggerating 2) good for you, keep going with your nail purity, you’ll help ensure our children’s future and our children’s children’s future, thank you.

See shellac isn’t like normal nail polish. It’s hard and shiny and stays on for three weeks (if you can resist picking at the edges…Laura…). As the hubster would say they make you look “blah-blow” (yes that’s apparently the technical term for the sexy polish.) Practically perfect nails for three weeks for $25ish dollars, not too shabby! Sounds like a sweet deal, right? Well just remember that somewhere, someone thought it was a great idea to put cocaine in Coca Cola too. The theory sounds sooooooooo much better than the reality.

What you haven’t realized in the three weeks that your nails look perfect, is that all too soon they’re going to start growing out. (Nails have a tendency to do that…) When they grow out all hell breaks loose. The nail equivalent of Sodom and Gomorrah rains down. And it’s all because that once perfect seem, the one down by your cuticle, will slowly creep up, exposing naked nail. It then has a tendency to curl up just the slightest bit, leaving you at the mercy of your sleeves, and jobs, and pets and dim sum for peeling. Don’t even get me started about what happens if you break your stupid nail! We’ll leave it be that your once beautiful nail is now chipped. And not it that simple “ah, it’s just one nail” kind of way. Shellac is thick and anytime you run your fingers over your nail or push a hand through a sleeve or your hair or whatever you feel that thick polish peeling up off. The natural reaction is to start picking, biting off even (Laura…) but what you’re actually doing is peeling off layers of your nail bed rather than the polish. (Those dictators I was referencing earlier would love that part – I mean what kind of sick bastard forces you to painfully destroy your own nail?)

Should you decide to forego the self mutilation you only have one option, return to the salon and have them remove it. They’ll soak the cotton balls in acetone, wrap you up in tin foil so you feel the humiliation your dog goes through when you put boots on him, and then scrape it off. Not awesome but better than the alternative. If you are a braver soul than I, perhaps that’s when you’ll tell the sweet Asian woman across from you that you just want polish removed. She’ll undoubtedly question you, try to upsell you, desperately maneuvering to get shellac back on those paws and unless you’re heartless, you’ll cave… It’s her job after all. And at this point you’ll need to treat yourself after such a traumatic experience? You easily justify another mani! (MORON!)

Here’s where complete and utter world domination comes in. If someone could provide an endless stream of free shellac mani’s this whole cycle would evolve into complete mind control. Myself, and women like me, wouldn’t feel caught in the endless loop of guilt, agony and bankruptcy that shellac mani’s produce. We’d feel better about ourselves and pulled together. And happy wives make happy lives or whatever that stupid saying is right? Without even trying you’d have legions of women voting for whomever was running on the “Shellac For Everyone Campaign” (obviously they’d be on board for equality and women’s rights too!) The government could employ a vast army of talented technicians rather than a literal army (think of the all the colors our defense budget could buy…) and we’d all be sucked in, over and over, to these state-run manicure salons. I, for one, look forward to standardized pricing and cleanliness standards. Though I desperately hope propaganda doesn’t completely replace Vogue and Dwell on the lobby table…

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