One Shot: Little Death Trip

The hormones made me do it… 🤷🏽 Aggressive, hungry smut. NSFW, no doubt. I've been wanting to write wild iggy smut, and I've been listening to Raw Power a lot this week, so here we are. ❤️❤️❤️

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"Yes… Scratch me again, babe…" Iggy's breathing is as wild as the look in his eyes. "Mmmmm… Harder…" He seethes with lust as he thrusts deeper in me.

Each of my nails rakes additional rows of marks on his strong back. Again and again. With the savage way way he's fucking me, and how far gone he's made me, I barely register what I'm doing. I only care about the timing of the next stroke inside and his deep moans at every fresh break in his skin.

"Yes, love… Keep at it… I can take it…" A hum sounds in the back of his throat before he latches his mouth to my neck and nips and sucks hard enough to make me yelp.

I clutch him tightly and my nails dig into his back while he continues to feast on my neck. I tilt my hips upward and arch my back until my breasts are firmly pressed against his chest. I can't get enough of him even though, thanks to his size, he has so much to give.

We're both hungry for each other, both rejecting caresses for stinging slaps, protesting soft kisses and welcoming the way we're devouring the taste of wine that lingers in our mouths and licking away the light, salty crust of sweat on our skin. We're making the bed springs cry for mercy.

Maybe it's a full moon, maybe it's the monotony of another quiet night at home, but it's like we've been possessed. Our bodies have flooded with need and devilish adrenaline. Our familiar roles in bed are a thing of the past. Right now, it's kill and be killed. Pushing each other's nuclear buttons. Carnal combat. A soul-bound contract to set the night on fire together.

We're both panting and guzzling the air. We both know the end is near. A drop of his sweat hits my eye. He's at risk of slipping out of my wetness with his reckless thrusting. It's magical. Black magic. Our darkest desires have surfaced tonight.

When I come, the shockwave of pleasure leaves me a trembling mess. Iggy is equally spent, after a throat-shredding scream and a violent stuttering of his hips. We don't speak. We don't wrap each other in a tender embrace. But we're still blissfully bound to each other. The glimpse of our shadow selves is a whole other level of closeness.

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. 

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.”