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Here's a short bit of a morning after story that I started writing a while ago. I'm going to set it free now, but I'd love to revisit it and do a little more in the future. NSFW for nudity and recollections of adult adventures. ❤️

Daphne opened her eyes and glanced at the clock. 8:23. It was a Saturday, but because Iggy had awakened quite some time ago, she figured she'd get out of bed, rather than indulge any longer. 

How he could be completely out of it with his habit for stretches but still have the clearest early bird mornings was beyond her. He was definitely putting her to shame now. But he'd encouraged her to stay as long as she wanted, so she wasn't too embarrassed about sleeping later than he had.

She'd read between the lines the night before and knew that he was lonely. Women and men still fawned over him at Rodney's English Disco, but she suspected he ran them off quickly with the reality behind the mythical stage presence. She'd wrestled in her mind about sleeping with Iggy, because he was such a mess, but the truth was, she was lonely, too. She'd moved from Georgia in hopes of becoming one of the few Black models working, and though she was starting to get gigs, she doubted that anyone in that cutthroat life could be a true friend. 

And, mess or not, Iggy was a friend, someone whose presence she already enjoyed in one capacity. It made sense that they had explored something more.

He'd flirted with her the first time they met and lifted her mood while she sat at the bar and nursed the one drink she could afford. Then, whenever he had money - - sometimes from sporadic gigs The Stooges could still conjure up, sometimes from God knows where - - he'd buy rounds for both of them and ask about the ups and downs of her career. He'd periodically find a way to ask about drugs around her, always sure to warn her of the low points of his life. His concern warmed her heart but also made her protective of him.

She also enjoyed his eccentricities, which often gave way to an erudite mind that opened her up to new ideas. That, and his quirky sense of humor had already made him intriguing.

But, of course, as some unnamed person once said, he was also blessed with the body of a water polo player. She couldn't defy that he was tantalizingly sculpted, and everyone knew what he was blessed with in his jeans. She may have been the one person in Los Angeles who hadn't seen his dick at that time, but it was one good bit of reputation that still preceded him. Then, it was just a matter of both of them being in the right place at the right time that led them to his bed, friendship be damned.

She stood and stretched. At least she didn't have to get dressed after they had slept naked. She chuckled to herself. Being with him meant that clothes were practically against the law. Her mother would probably "hmph" in disdain and pray silently for her at church if she knew what Daphne was doing, but the frenetic need to change clothes at modeling gigs had cured her of modesty. 

She went to the bathroom to relieve herself and looked in the mirror. She contemplated the purplish marks under her chin, on her neck, her collarbone, her breasts. It was absolutely right to call them passion marks - - Iggy had been voracious in his lust the night before. She knew The Stooges hadn't performed in a while, so she imagined that he took his pent-up energy out on her in the best way imaginable. 

Soon the marks would fade into her skin, the color of sand, but she'd never forget. For better or worse, she didn't have any modeling work lined up, so at least she wouldn't have to spend time and money mixing several makeup shades together to mask his handiwork. She sighed at the thought of her need for cash, and also at the reality that the beauty companies had zero interest in catering to people who looked like her.

She walked to the living room, which was flooded with sunshine, thanks to all the curtains and blinds being moved from the windows. She heard strains of Mahavishnu Orchestra surging and receding in swirls of funk and jazz, and the scent of marijuana was just barely perceptible in the air.

It was the home of a friend of Iggy's who had gone on vacation. She could tell that he tried to keep the place neat, but he didn't quite make that goal, with newspapers and beer glasses and cans strewn about. She made a mental note to prod him to straighten things up and offer her help.

She snapped out of her thoughts and focused on Iggy. He was naked and sitting cross-legged on a towel. His back was to her, and she watched it ripple and shift while he did cow face stretches. He then pitched forward on his hands and knees into cat/cow stretches, and her eyes lingered on his cute little ass. Thoughts of him powerfully over her in that position last night began to draw her into her sexy memories. Her clit pulsed in response, and she closed her eyes briefly to savor it, knowing she'd get more of the same very soon.

"Hey, Daphne!" Iggy's voice was cheerful, yet a tiny bit labored. When she opened her eyes, she quickly understood why, taking in the sight of him bent over backwards and staring at her upside down. 

He slowly straightened up, and she marveled at the fluid power of his muscles at work. Then he turned to face her. 

"I wanted to stay in bed and watch you sleep a little more, but my fucking body didn't want to do that." In another person's mouth, that pronouncement would've sounded like frustration, but Iggy's laid-back Midwestern drawl, followed by an awkward chuckle, betrayed his good mood. 

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He was naked in a flash and began removing her clothes. He had the nerve to remove her panties with his teeth, and a little help from her, arching her body. He was downright feral, just the way she liked it. 

He nibbled on her lip before languidly invading her mouth with his tongue. But as sensual as his kiss was, the roughness of his hands made sinful friction on her sensitive breasts.

He was a master of this kind of carnal ferocity. He was a sensual creature who had studied his prey well, and knew how to keep her off guard until he was ready for something more. 

He pinched her nipples while he grazed her neck, teasing her by dragging his teeth, then licking the column of flesh before sucking lightly on her collarbones. 

His tongue was hot on her nipples. She cursed him for how he inflamed her core with each flick that hardened the nubs more than she thought possible. 

She was sure she would've floated off the bed if he hadn't been sprawled over her legs. 

She knew his position on the bed, over her, could only mean one thing that he had on his mind. And sure enough, his hands glided over her legs before parting them. One hand held the folds of her core open, while his mouth engulfed the softness inside. 

He chuckled knowingly at how wet she was, and the vibrations of his mirth made her squirm with delight. He was in the next phase of his seduction, one he almost enjoyed more than the actual sex. 

As rough as he had been with the rest of her body, he knew that the softest kisses and licks were what would make her come undone at this point. He was stunning her with immense pleasure before the kill. 

He lapped and caressed with his mouth as if time didn't exist. He had all the time in the world to tease her, and by her increasingly louder moans, he could tell she didn't mind one bit.

He switched to fingering her, slow and steady, and began speaking to her in German, a fun skill for their intimate time that he'd acquired during his creative flurry in Berlin. His voice was barely above a whisper, hypnotic, and spoken in the lowest, most unnervingly masculine register that he could manage. He crouched over her to murmur the words in her ear. Without breaking the rhythm of his fingers, he translated every bit, explaining how beautiful and tantalizing her body was to him, how he enjoyed the way her pleasure transformed her in their time alone, how he would soon fill her to bursting with his manhood and make her cry with joy. 

She wailed as the sensations became more intense, as her body ached for the release that only his hard length could provide. 

There was one word that might set her free: bitte. Please, she began to beg, over and over. But she knew that he would continue working on his own timeline for a while, because he loved when she became so vulnerable, so dependent on his desires, so single-minded in her craving for being fucked hard. 

Her pleas became quieter until they died in her throat. She'd given in, carried away, in sumptuous anguish while waiting for the thrusts of his cock to come.

Her body began to shake uncontrollably. He knew it was time. 

His exacting fingers were abruptly replaced by the rough, no-nonsense thrust of his largesse. To the hilt. Just the way she liked it. 

She clung to him for dear life as she caught his rhythm and moaned uncontrollably at the sensation of fullness and wetness inside of her. 

The crash of their pelvises was insistent, pneumatic, and seemingly perpetual. She enjoyed time she spent with him however it came, but twining her body and desire with his was at the top of her list. She marveled each time at how it felt like their bodies were made for each other, made for this. 

He grasped her ankles and took her harder. He still hasn't broken a sweat, but his breath was shallow and more ragged, and punctuated by growls and grunts. The animal within him was in a frenzy, and not a moment too soon for her liking. 

She met his vocalized ardor with louder moans and rough scratches on his back. While her body was being pummeled with his, and her voice was going raw from her cries, she couldn't help but smile uncontrollably. It was all that she wanted, and more. 

Ficlet: Hardest Working Man

Who wants some poetic smut? ☺️ NSFW. ❤️❤️❤️

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He was entranced by her warmth and softness. His breath was shallow, but it was just enough to keep fueling the lustful fire that raged inside of him. 

His thrusts were pneumatic, with the same precision and expertise, the same well-coordinated dance, of a team in Detroit getting car after car ready to roll off an assembly line. He was determined to have a hell of a time. By the way his hands held her hips, he hoped she could tell he would burn through every last drop of himself to give her the same. 

He'd warned her of his size and eased in slowly after he'd made her writhe and soak the sheets for an extended period of time. The way her desperate moans gave way to a contented sigh when he was as deep as he could go, and with how she clutched his broad back, he knew he had put her out of her ravenous misery without harm. 

That first thrust was as indescribable as the first hit of a new chemical experience, only the high of fucking was waiting for him every time, never a taunting mistress or a seductive slave master. It wasn't hard to finally kick the drugs when life could still offer him something as sublime as this. 

He smiled as he beheld the ecstatic contortions of her face and the tensing and contracting of her body that was gradually becoming involuntary. 

He dared not give in to the yawning void of pleasure until she beat him there. 

She was close… So close… He relaxed when he knew she was past the point of no return, enjoying every new stage of ecstasy while greedily anticipating the next, and then lifting off in a velvety explosion of the senses.

He'd won her over, and he was ready for his reward. He savored the mind-rattling stutters of his completion and cradled her with the weight of his body on top of hers.

Whether on the stage or between the sheets, he only wanted to bring people to the autonomic state of flow that had kept him going for decades. He'd always give more than anyone else would give. He'd never see her again, but she'd never forget him and how he'd set her free. 

Ficlet: Lazy Sunday

Here's a little something inspired by this pic. One day I hope to find a better version... 🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽

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He'd already kicked off his shoes, and next was the jacket he'd put over his bare torso. He'd been just clothed enough to get into the store.

He approached with the large brown paper bag, and she knew he'd only kept his red sweat pants on for her, for now. She admired the deep etching of his muscles and the undeniable, indelible imprint of his bulge. His hair was still damp from the shower and swept back, giving him the appearance of an Olympic swimmer after practice.

She lounged on the couch in her skimpy silk kimono, like Cleopatra willing her lover to indulge in her company. He gazed with anticipation at her shapely caramel thighs, and he flushed when he thought about the other delights of her body that were barely covered at the moment.

"You did your part, and I did mine." She gestured dramatically at the pizza that had been delivered.

He pulled two bottles of their favorite white wine out of the bag. She'd left the corkscrew on top of the pizza box, and he made quick work of the two bottles that were still cool from the store's refrigerator.

He handed a bottle to her. "Cheers to a lazy Sunday," he said, clinking his bottle against hers.

After placing the bottle on the coffee table, he put the first of the stack of Blockbuster movies in the VCR and then ambled back to the couch, where she was now sitting up. He joined her and draped an arm around her shoulder. They kissed briefly before settling in for the afternoon.

Spotlight Serenade

I saw that Iggy pic above and felt compelled to write an AU set in the 1920s. I will probably take an eternity to update, but here you go. No smut right now, but there will be eventually.

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Chapter 1

Ophelia Samuels adjusted the scarf over her finger waves, tied her kimono around her curvy brown body, and staggered to the living room for the telephone ringing mercilessly on the credenza.

She wasn't sure if she should take the phone off the hook and just go back to sleep, or if she should find out what Emil wanted. She knew it was him; as her manager, he was the only one who might have a need to call her on a Wednesday night. At least Emil hadn't chosen to call earlier, when she and Richard, her guest for the evening, were getting to know each other in the biblical sense.

"Oh, good. There you are!" Emil practically shouted when Ophelia picked up the phone.

What was he screaming for? She sighed, resigning to hear him out for a few minutes at least. "What is it, Emil?" She stifled a yawn.

"It's about Wendell."

"What's he gone and done now?" Ophelia's head began to throb with the beginning of a hangover. Wendell, the drummer for her band, was nothing but trouble.

Emil sighed. "Got himself killed."

"Killed?"

"Yeah, Fee. Lost a knife fight after a craps game on 125th."

"Damn." He was a problem, but the audiences loved him, a trim, 6'2 chestnut-hued man who might have stolen the show if he hadn't been situated at the back of the stage. Ophelia had vowed to never fall for a band member and successfully kept her distance from Wendell, but he was exactly her type. "Well, we have to find a replacement fast, Emil. A good one." Reality was setting in about what the loss of Wendell would mean for Ophelia and the band.

"The residency, I know."

"Friday, Emil. Two days away!"

"You'll have someone, I promise. I'll ask the band to put their thinking caps on. For now, why don't you get some more beauty sleep? And have mercy on that poor man you left with?"

Ophelia contemplated Richard, who was still snoring in the bedroom. Not a dud entirely, but disappointing nevertheless. "That's one thing at least that you don't have to worry about, Emil."

Jim Orton turned up the hot water and prepared to finish quickly. His muscles ached, and he couldn't tolerate a repeat of last night's cold shower. The other tenants on the floor of the boarding house seemed to keep earlier hours and had run through most of the hot water. It was every man for himself, as far as the bathroom was concerned. Jim kept reminding himself that it was only temporary.

He groaned with pleasure when the water hit his back. He was glad to feel the tension slowly melt away. So many bottles and crates. So many back alleys and storm cellars and clubs and speakeasies that were unassuming from the outside. His father was right, the black clubs in Harlem were a lucrative proposition. After arriving in New York on Tuesday, Jim had spent the day and night selling all the gin he had and securing orders, careful to avoid promising more than Neil would be bringing. After some time at a cheap, late-night Chinese restaurant near his lodgings, contemplating the tide of money coming in, he was ready for bed. He'd leave it to Neil to worry about the finer points of assembling a satellite business in this city.

The Ortons ran a successful family bootlegging operation in Philadelphia, and Jim's father, Frank, was eager to become established in the Big Apple. The Ryans still largely catered to white clientele in New York, and while there were lots of small-time black bootleggers, the organized groups were more interested in running numbers in Harlem. So Frank Orton decided to try his family's luck uptown.

Frank had made agreements with old acquaintances, black and white, who ran the nightclubs, and sent Jim north in a rickety truck of precious, illegal cargo. The family's hopes were pinned on Jim until his brother Neil arrived to share the load. Neil was the brain, and Jim was the brawn, but Jim was holding his own all alone. He was a short man, but strong. Nothing scared Jim after the war, and he peppered most conversations with his intense, intimidating stare. Although he was usually the last person to put anyone at ease, he could be witty when relaxed, and in a pinch his crooked smile and large blue eyes had charmed more than a few unsuspecting women before.

After showering and brushing his teeth, he climbed into bed. It was generous to call the lumpy cot a bed, but it was better than sleeping in the truck. He turned on his radio, always hoping to hear jazz, but never finding much of it. The vibrant music was still considered a scourge to the public at large.

His father thought the large radio was an exorbitant purchase and a waste of space on the truck, but Jim insisted on bringing the device to New York. He couldn't be without some kind of music in the bleak boarding house. He enjoyed the freedom of his job, and he relished being a tough guy when needed, but music was his first love.

He'd do anything for his family, but he was slowly realizing that he wanted more. Hearing jazz in the New York clubs was as exciting as it was disheartening. As long as he was bootlegging, Jim would be an outsider of this loud, creative world, one who merely furnished the spirits that kept it turning happily.

He admired the hedonism of the atmosphere, the dancing, the women who had dared to drastically shorten the hemlines of their dresses. But if the doorkeepers didn't deny him entry after seeing his humble work clothes, which happened more often than not, he'd feel out of place and need to drown his discomfort in a series of watered-down drinks while the bands played raucously and the siren singers shimmied and wailed.

His impoverished look was more off-putting to the clientele than the color of his skin, which he found interesting. He knew he'd fit in better once he and Neil were established and he could splurge on a wardrobe that was suitable for New York nightlife. But it was sobering for him to realize that a black man wouldn't fare as well in a white club, proper dress or not.

Jim dozed off after fantasizing about playing in one of the Harlem bands and keeping company with a pair of bubbly brown-skinned flappers.

@ledbythreads @firethatgrewsolow @girlofthemoon75 @m-faithfull @tangerine-page @ledzeppelinsbonzo @sacramentogirl23 @callmethehunter @rogerdaltreysautomatacollection @sweet-lady-jane @rcrollings @periwinklegarden @tremble-and-shake @fuck-yeah-squeeze-my-lemon @thegeekylibrarian @dopeyjoe @theresthatcatagain @zosociologist @slashscowboyboots

OK... WIP time. Iggy is a phone sex operator while he's between record label deals. This is where all my writing energy has been going lately. ☺️

This part is no smut, just dialog.

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“Mmmm… You sound real hot!” he proclaims. “So, now that we’ve gotten the preliminaries out of the way, are you ready to play with me?”

“Yes!” Toni responds quickly. “But there’s one thing I need to know…”

“What’s that, doll?”

“Well, ah, this is going to sound stupid, but are you…, uh… Well… My friend chatted with you, and she thinks you’re...”

“That crazy guy from The Stooges who liked to stage dive and pull his cock out all the time? Guilty.” He murmurs the last word and lust surges through Toni’s body. 

“Really?”

“Really.” It's another word that wafts slowly from his lips like the smolder of a fresh fire. It’s underscored by a deep, breathy purr, like a big, grizzled lion has been awakened from its slumber with a desperate need to feed.

“A friend suggested that this would be a great way for me to earn money and have a little fun. The music isn't progressing as smoothly as I'd hoped, so I thought, why the fuck not, you know?"

“Oh, my goodness! It's a pleasure to talk to you. I'm a big fan.” Toni is freaking out, but she’s also silently thanking her friend for telling her about the hotline and this very special operator. She’s standing in her bedroom while she talks, but with this news, she has to lie down on the bed. 

"I don't tell people unless they ask, and I'd  rather be making music, but I couldn't resist when they offered to set me up at home. I mean, you're a fan, can you see moi, sitting in some small, fucking cubicle like a good little employee, to make some extra bread?" He laughs, and Toni does, too. 

One Shot: Fashionably Late

Some romantic smut that I've been tinkering with for a while. It's time to let it go. 🤷🏽‍♀️ Thanks again, @ledbythreads , for the reality check. 😁❤️

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"Seduce. Scarlet…" The words are drawled in his mannish rumble and punctuated with a chuckle. "What a lipstick name."

He puts the black tube back on the dresser and catches her eyes in the large, wood-framed mirror. She stops playing with her curls, turns, and eyes him with a smolder while pursing her lips in a kiss. "Is it working as advertised?"

She hugs his neck while his arms circle her waist. He admires how they fit together--both the same height, her curves a soft landing place for his lean musculature. Made for each other.

"It's working, but you know you don't really need it to get my motor going…" His face lights up with a soft smile as he kisses her with a whisper of his lips. He deepens his kiss and starts to peel the spaghetti straps from her shoulders.

She breaks away. "Jim. We're going to be late!" She shakes her head and adjusts her dress. "But we can continue when we get back."

He flops backward onto the navy bedspread and crawls his hands up his torso until he laces them behind his head. His eyes never break from hers, and his lips curl into an irresistible smirk. "Fashionably late. No one's gonna care, Grace…" He draws circles on her thigh with a foot when she comes closer, then nudges her legs apart.

"You're hopeless." She gives his foot a loving squeeze. "Oh… My lipstick." She turns to grab a tissue. "Let me help you get it off."

"The lipstick, or him?" In a flash he's sitting up and glancing down at his crotch. "I don't mind your help with either." He shrugs and smirks again. "Hey… On second thought..." He takes his tight Blondie T-shirt off, and then his glasses, tossing both toward the head of the bed. "Get the lipstick, Grace." He runs his fingers through his shaggy, dark hair and then lies back down, crosswise on the bed. "Put it on me. Maybe I need more of that Seduce Scarlet to get my way with you." He smiles his most powerful smile, the one that always foreshadows mischief.

Grace sighs and turns to grab the makeup. It's a game. Jim is fully capable of applying lipstick himself, as he did for the one TV appearance when he'd swiped this very tube from her purse. At that recording, he'd somehow gotten the host to help unbutton his shirt. She chuckles at the memory. Jim can wear anyone down to get what he wants, and he's done it to her once more, right now.

"Earth to Grace… Are you thinking about me?"

His baritone sing-song raises her temperature a few notches. Her heart races when she turns around and finds his pants off now. He trails his hands over his chest, his abdomen, and below his unruly bush to his cock, which he massages slowly.

People would be surprised to know how relatively mild-mannered Jim is off the stage, but when a hint of Iggy shows up in the bedroom, Grace's base instincts are summoned, too. She watches him in concentration, eyes closed, breathing relaxed, with a ghost of a smile on his lips. She knows all hope of them leaving on time is lost. Not that she minds, in the end.

She hitches up her sundress and straddles him, forgetting everything but her need to quench the throbbing at her core.

She shows him the lipstick and then puts it on his night stand. "What's this, Grace?"

"I decided you're right," she purrs, inches from his face. "Let's be fashionably late." She rises and pulls her dress over her head. "I'll fix your face afterward, if you still want me to."

"Mmmmm… Great idea…" He rubs his hands up and down her thighs and eyes the rest of her naked skin.

She glides her hands down his torso, and then both sides of the V that is deeply etched into his taut body. She lightly grasps his cock, and her breath catches at his size once more, just like their first time together. Thunderous lust rolls in her belly. As much as she wants to feast on his manhood straight away, she instead grasps his face and parts his lips with her tongue. His tongue greets hers in a welcoming open move.

Moments later he pauses to feast on the sight of her: the ripeness of her breasts, her soft tummy and irresistibly full hips and thighs, all draped in velvety brown skin. He licks his lips slowly, then feathers his hands on her back before they come to rest on her ass.

She shivers with delight. He growls softly as the kiss resumes. Then he starts undulating beneath her. She matches his pace with her hips, while he tangles his hands in her hair. They savor each other until it's simply not enough.

"Jim… I need you now…"

"Thought you'd never ask, Grace." His low, breathy murmur and the feel of all of him gliding into her wetness is almost enough to make her climax.

She folds down to the warmth of his finely sculpted chest and arms. They settle into a familiar, excruciatingly slow rhythm. The party is a distant memory.

She kisses him again, and he moans into her mouth. He holds her head in place for more decadent kisses while she continues to pin him to the bed with wave after wave of rolling hips. Her belly flutters and distant rumbles of orgasm begin.

"Jim…" She exhales and grips his shoulders tighter.

"Grace… Fuck… His jaw tenses while his eyelids flutter and the rest of his body goes rigid. "Fuck…" The word escapes from his lips like steam.

He opens his eyes again. "Let me take you there," he says as he grasps her arms and pleads gently with his wide-eyed blue gaze.

“Thought you’d never ask, Jim.” She smiles, dismounts, and rolls onto her back.

“You’re exquisite, my love,” he rasps before he enters her again. He cups one of her breasts softly and his other hand grips the bed.

Grace admires the contrast of the gentle caress and the strength he displays in the arm that’s propping him up. She repositions herself to take him as deeply as possible. “It's so good, baby…” Her voice trails as her breathing comes shallow. Her face is screwed up in concentration as she retreats into herself to savor the slow, sure thrusts and the feeling of critical wildfire arousal. Each clash of his hips against hers nudges her past the point of no return.

Her moans become loud, throaty, ragged utterances. He silences her with an invasive kiss, culminating with his tongue thrusting in and out of her mouth in the same way that his cock is working over her core. She sucks gently at his tongue. This small action is her only mooring to reality as he edges her closer to climax. “Oh, Jim, you’re so good to me,” she wails as he breaks away to suckle on one of her nipples.

"I always know what you need, Grace… You deserve my best, and more." His gaze into her eyes is unwavering until he squeezes them shut and inhales sharply. He's as lost to desire as she is.

As much as they both want to explode, neither of them speeds along the pace they've negotiated. Once again they stare into each other's eyes and savor the heat of their bodies and the duet of their breathing.

They both tense at almost the same time, while pleasure sizzles and combusts between them. Jim may feel like a lone wolf rebel outside of their apartment, but his bond with Grace never feels stronger than when they celebrate each other in this way.

He pulls out but doesn't leave Grace's embrace. Their energy is still too intertwined, too comforting.

"I could stay like this forever, but I'm sure the management will call, if they haven't already…" He sighs and rolls over to grab the lipstick.

He holds the tube up with one hand and beckons her with the other after she puts her dress back on. "You first." He cups her chin and she parts her lips to make his application easy.

"Beautiful. And real fucking seductive." He admires his work and wrestles with himself to avoid kissing her again.

She blows him a kiss, retrieves his shirt, and pulls it over his head. He reaches for his glasses, and finally his jeans and shoes.

"Ready for the finishing touch, Jim?"

"Mmm hmm. Go for it, doll."

She holds his face steady and adds the color to his lips. She smiles and smooths his hair a bit.

"All right, let's go." She grabs her purse and he puts a hand on her back to usher her out of the bedroom.

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The rest of my stories are here.

Another fic. Not good times... It's a 100% fiction, imagined scenario during Iggy's dark period of 74/75. Warning for drug references.

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He grimaced when the combined odors of cigarettes, old vomit, and his own sweat assaulted his senses. He groaned and remembered where he was. The hallway. He imagined the carpet hadn't been clean since the day it was laid. 

He checked the watch she gave him for his birthday, laboring to focus his eyes. The watch, and the cheetah leather jacket on his back, which he'd been badgered into not selling, were his only prized possessions in the world. 

He wasn't surprised to see that he'd only been unconscious for a few hours. There wasn't a needle in his arm, only because she yanked it out and threw it in the trash when she caught him in the bathroom. Again. He remembered her raised voice, but not the gist of what had been said. But he guessed it wasn't pretty, and he guessed it wouldn't have been hard for her to push him out the door when he could barely walk. 

He banged his head against her apartment door repeatedly, because standing and knocking was asking too much in that moment. He called her name but couldn't muster a lot of volume, thanks to the rawness in his throat. Then he remembered screaming her name, and crying, until he finally passed out. She didn't have the heart to call the cops on him, and that was the best parting gift she could've given. 

He scooted his prone body so he could kick his heels against the door while he called for her. He knew no one would come to stop him, because all her neighbors were afraid of him and his unpredictable demeanor. He imagined they hoped he'd die on the floor, or, at best, that he'd give up and slink away, sad dog style. 

She was a light sleeper, so he was optimistic. He kept up the noise, in case she'd bestow some pity on him and let him back in. But he ultimately realized she wasn't coming. He'd burned through his final chance with her. 

He had nowhere to go in that moment. He'd try to go to sleep. He hoped he wouldn't be up for the rest of the night, trapped in the hell of his thoughts. Either way, he needed to be gone before she left for work. He couldn't face her again. 

He'd find a place to clean up. He needed to look good--as good as he could in his current condition. It worked with Bebe the other year, and he hoped some starry-eyed girl or boy would fall for it again. His myth and his image had to be his best currency, now that no record label would touch him. The only other commodity was his body. He hoped he hadn't fallen that low. Only time would tell. 

Here's another ficlet, untitled. This is inspired by Iggy's performance of I Wanna Be Your Dog that was captured on the Kiss My Blood concert video, taken at the Olympia Paris in 1991. I've taken minor liberties. No smut, but there is nudity. ❤️❤️❤️

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His guitar swung from its strap like a drunken metronome and banged against his shirtless body. Bruises would become all shades of ugly on his skin tomorrow, but the pain didn't really register. He had endured countless self-inflicted injuries on the stage, and each whack of the guitar was, at best, like a meddling gnat. Nothing to worry about. 

On nights like this, he could only feel the rush of the art flowing through his blood and the energy of the adoring fans as the deafening, fast-paced wall of sound from his band grew to fever pitch. That energy from the fans was golden, sensual, and sticky sweet, fine honey that seeped into his skin and felt like each of his cells was getting the blow job of all blow jobs. All the thrills of his former friend H, without the track marks, glassy eyes, and forced servitude. 

He danced wildly. He felt united with the audience, but he needed to get more intimate, more vulnerable, more indelible in the memories they were forming. Instinct and artistry fought inside of him and ultimately melded to an alloy of sex and mercurial magic that was impossible to look away from.

His hands meandered down his torso to the top of his pants. He unbuttoned and unzipped the jeans and pushed them down his hips. It felt right to him. But, then again, few things ever felt wrong to him, really. 

His serpentine cock swayed with his movement. He seduced with the improbably gentle menace of a cobra hypnotizing its victims before a strike.

That strike came when he started to play his guitar again, as he screamed into the mic. What was more arresting, his primal artistry, or knowing he was nude behind his guitar, was up to the eyes and ears of the beholder. But that would have to be parsed out later, after the high of the concert had worn off.

The crowd had elevated to a higher level of frenzy and had little room to entertain thoughts unrelated to the small tornado of a man onstage. He had ushered them inside of his fever dream of unbounded being, and they couldn't get enough of it. 

Writing Master List

Here's my collection of Iggy stories and other writing about the dude, most recent first.

One Shot: Splendor in the Grass

Ficlet: The Passenger

One Shot: Body Language

Sleeping Iggy drabble

One Shot: Tête à Tête

Ficlet: Lazy Sunday

With Iggy at the beach during the covid pandemic

There was only one bed (AKA Real Cool Time)

Ficlet: Demon Iggy AU

One Shot: Hotline Connection

One Shot: Little Death Trip

One Shot: Fashionably Late

Untitled: low point in the mid 70s

Untitled: visualizing Iggy at the 90s Olympia Paris concert

Camera Eye

Ficlet: Bad Timing

Ficlet: Raw Power

One Shot: Weekend Chores

Iggy through the years (Halloween writing)

One Shot: Weekend Chores

This is the first Iggy one shot that I wrote. It's NSFW, smutty. PS, Iggy is called by his real name, Jim, in the story. ❤️❤️❤️

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It’s Saturday morning, cleaning time for you. Jim has just wiped the lenses of his wire-frame glasses. He reaches for the weekend newspaper, crosses his legs, and prepares to read.

Both of you are in your usual places for the start of the weekend. You like to wear something provocative to put on a show for him while you clean, and today it’s black cat ears and a studded pet collar, along with your favorite black lace bra and a black thong. He has helped complete your outfit, inserting the plug that leaves a black cat tail hanging suggestively from the entrance to your ass.

He has left behind many of the darkest bits of Iggy Pop from earlier in the decade and is now in what he jokingly refers to as his “normal man” phase, but it's in appearance only, because the uncontrollable, sexy wild man is just below the surface at all times. He's wearing a tennis sweater and jeans, feet bare, as always. His hair is back to its natural darker color, slicked into his best Brylcreem professional man imitation. The short haircut accentuates his angular, masculine face, and the shine of his large, childlike blue eyes is not thwarted by the oversized glasses.

The oddness of the scene turns you on every weekend--Jim, in the role of a fiercely middle-class man savoring every second of mundane activity on a weekend morning, and you, vamping seductively in costume and character. You know it turns him on, too--there have been Saturdays when he’s had to have you and you didn’t get to finish your cleaning--but he always plays nonchalant at first. It’s unnerving how he can turn off his normal chaos cartoon character personality for this indifferent mask of respectability. You know he has considered taking acting classes, and you're confident he'd ace that kind of work.

You make sure to have your back to him as much as possible, as part of the show. You water the ferns and African violets first, then you vacuum the beige carpet in the living room. It doesn’t take much time in the modest Berlin apartment that the two of you share.

When you’re directly in front of him, vacuuming near the coffee table, he rests the newspaper in his lap, palms your ass with one hand, and grabs his coffee with the other for a sip. The way he kneads you causes you to flash back to the feel of his hands on your ass earlier, when he slicked your asshole down with lube and, with the caress of a sinfully teasing finger, prepared you for the plug, if not for his slow, light-handed thrusting with the toy. His unexpected motions caused your hips to buck some more, after you were already on your back, flushed and wet from his expert tongue moments earlier in your pussy. You were close to coming again while he played with your smaller opening, but he said you'd have to wait.

You inhale sharply, enjoying the sexy memory and the feel of Jim’s warm hand on your ass right now.

“I believe there’s more to do, dollface, isn’t there?” He chides you gently with the low rumble of his unmistakably Midwestern accent. He spanks you swiftly. You turn to look at him for a moment and see a momentary flash of mischief in his eyes accompanying his shy smile. “Off you go,” he says. Then, it’s back to the newspaper.

You finish vacuuming and put the appliance back in the bedroom closet. You make a detour to the bathroom for cleaning supplies and then begin wiping all the glass down in the living room. First it’s the television, then the end tables and the coffee table. Jim hums Frank Sinatra tunes the whole time, and it excites you to feel like you’re in some twisted Norman Rockwell painting of the 1950s. But the year is 1977, and your game is certainly not beyond the pale in a place like Berlin.

Jim has finished his coffee and takes the mug to the kitchen. While he’s gone, you turn your cleaning attention to the large window at the side of the sofa. You can’t help but start humming Sinatra.

“You missed a spot,” Jim says of your window cleaning. You turn and see him peering at you from the kitchen. You know by the way he licks his lips that he is ramping up the game. You resume your work, and your lips swell furiously between your thighs in anticipation.

“Show me where you mean?” You call out once you’re facing the window again, playing along.

“One moment, sweetheart,” he calls back in a singsong tone.

You hear his brisk shuffle on the carpet. Once you see his reflection in the window you know that playtime is over. You can’t help but grin when you see his nude body: the lean lines and pops of muscles on his lithe frame, punctuated by the arresting sight of his thick cock. You’re surprised he kept his clothes on for that long. You feel flushed, but you get back to the task at hand, struggling to stay in character at this point.

His reflection makes a beeline for you.

He presses your body into the window with his. You gasp at the feel of the glass against your skin; it’s winter, and you imagine the window feels every bit as cold as it does outside.“Right here,” he says matter-of-factly, pointing to a random spot on the glass, pressing in closer on you. You are now soaked at your core, feeling his lips a hair’s width from your ear and his virile, low voice employed.

“Thank you for pointing that out, dear.” You can’t help phrasing your response this way, as you feel his hardness against you. He knows exactly what you mean.

He wages a silken assault on your neck with his soft kisses. He hums while he does it, and the vibrations and the undeniable masculinity of his tone edge you closer to the point of no return.

He turns you around, taking in the view of your body, gliding his large hands over you in a way he knows is never enough. He tosses his glasses on the sofa and gives you one of his provocative, model-perfect stares before he starts to remove your clothes.

He told you that a few years earlier, someone called him a degenerate with the body of a water polo player. You can see some after-effects of his strung-out, desperate years in his face, but now, during his tenuous recovery, he seems more settled and grounded than the man he's described to you. The man before you is calm, confident, and knowing, and has been head over heels for you, in his own understated way, for the past year.

He smiles. He's ready to devour you. He backs you against the window. He pins you to the spot. Your body rears and arches against the glass as his love bites at your neck and his fingering of your core send you to a place of wantonness. You gasp when his thumb hits your clit, easily gliding over the slick area. He grasps your neck softly with his other hand and kisses you deeply while his contact with your bud becomes more firm.

You tremble against the glass, and moans escape your mouth around his tongue. His dangerous bouts with asthma may have made him small, but he’s certainly as strong as larger men. He grips your neck a little tighter when he knows your climax is near. You’re shaking so much that you’re almost worried about the strength of the glass behind you.

“There’s my girl,” he growls and leers with his perfect smile. His eyes are wide and piercing on you; it’s one of the wild, defiant looks you’ve seen on his face in photos from the earlier concerts.

“Come for me… Come for me…” He chants in a husky whisper. Your sense of being expands at an alarming rate, while you tighten exquisitely at your core.

“Come for me…”

Your body feels like it’s going to burst.

“Come for me...”

You wail and keen. You can’t get enough air. You can’t get enough of the paralyzing euphoria that you’re in.

“Come for me…” You’re trapped in a divine loop of tension that ratchets higher, higher, higher. It feels wrong to call this extreme pleasure misery, but your nerves are going raw from the throbbing at your core, from his grip on you, his cold stare, the cold, hard glass, the thought of enterprising Germans going out into the sunny morning on the street below for the newspaper or a warm breakfast.

It’s too much. You explode inside. You tremble. You howl. Seconds later, your legs are doused with the warm rain of your completion.

You can’t stop shaking, can’t stop your rapid breaths. Jim cups your face with his hands and kisses you as tenderly as he did when the two of you woke up earlier. He gives you his shy smile and embraces you tightly. “That was beautiful,” he murmurs. “You’re beautiful.” His compliment makes you higher than you already are from his ministrations.

He tugs a bit at your cat tail and leers at you again. “Come on, pussy… cat… There’s more of that for you in the bedroom.”

Raw Power

Wrote a little something about Iggy wowing a crowd.

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The crowd was into the show, but he was still restless...you could see it in his eyes, the wild blue yonder of a man with nothing to lose and a mind bursting with ideas. This young man, shaman, a madman, was hell-bent on infamy. His taut, shirtless body practically vibrated with an acute need to take the fans higher, or deeper into the garage-y grooves, or past the edge of sanity. It really didn't matter to him, what they felt, as long as they felt something. Love, lust, hate… Something strong, something that he could unleash in them with glee, something that leapt from body to sweaty body in the cramped venue like a virus of heightened sensation.

He wanted to get under their skin. He wanted them to get at his skin and the array of muscles just beneath the surface, his hair, his ass, clad only in a skimpy pair of briefs that announced he had been to Soho. He took a leap and gave himself to them. He always gave everything he had, always more than any other artist would dare to dream of giving.

Not knowing what else to do when the singer became a human missile launched in their direction, the people complied. They held him aloft and passed him around a bit with a mixture of cradling and groping, before enabling him to make his way back to the stage, drunk off of their incredulous worship and the cocktail of illicit goodies trying to make nice in his system.

His appreciation went out to them in the form of a savage, bloodcurdling scream. They roared back. Their energy had mingled with his, and everyone present was attuned to the primal vibes that ricocheted off their bodies and the walls, then back to him and his band.

He had incited an orgy of violent emotion, which was exactly what he had set out to do. He was satisfied. It was better than quenching a jones or dipping in the well of a willing groupie or two. He had seized a slice of immortality with a hell of a show that no one could deny or forget.