This erotic short story was written for SnakkOmSex. If you would like to read Norwegian language stories click here.
For more English language stories click here.

So, I’m halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito I grabbed from the Spar on Prins Hendrikstraat, and it hits me, shit, I left my wallet at home. Classic me, always messing up the dumbest stuff. I’m in Alkmaar, this little Dutch town just north of Amsterdam. People here act like the cheese market is the coolest thing ever, but come on, it’s just a bunch of tourists snapping pics with giant wheels of Gouda. I’ve been here my whole life, stuck in a tiny apartment above a bike repair shop on Laat. That’s the main street where everyone pretends they’ve got important stuff to do, but really, they’re just sipping overpriced coffee and wasting time.

Anyway, fast forward to later that night, I’m at this sketchy little bar called De Boom, right by Waagplein square. Place is a total dive, sticky floors, flickering neon lights, the works. I’m broke as hell, trying to figure out how to snag a beer without a dime on me. That’s when I bump into Jeroen and Sanne. Me and Jeroen go way back, like, stealing candy from the Albert Heijn on Gedempte Nieuwesloot as kids and thinking we were total badasses. He’s a big dude now, broad shoulders, works at some warehouse out by the industrial zone. Always smells a bit like motor oil, no matter what. Sanne, his girlfriend, I met a couple years ago at some house party in Oudorp. She’s got this sharp, take-no-crap attitude, short blonde hair, and always rocks these tight jeans that, well, you can’t help but notice her legs, even if you’re trying not to stare. They’ve been together forever, like high school sweethearts or something, but they’re not all lovey-dovey. More like they’ve just gotten used to dealing with each other’s nonsense and stuck it out.

So, I’m at De Boom, leaning on the bar, trying to sweet-talk the bartender, this old dude named Kees who looks like he’s been pouring flat pilsner since the freaking 80s. I’m begging him to let me owe him for a drink, but yeah, no dice. Then Jeroen spots me from across the room, waves me over with this stupid grin on his face. He’s got a half-empty Heineken, and Sanne’s nursing some cheap white wine, looking bored out of her mind. “Yo, Daan, you look like a broke idiot tonight,” he says, laughing way too loud. I just shrug, admit I forgot my wallet like a dumbass, and he shakes his head, tosses me a few euros. “Don’t blow it all on hookers,” he cracks, and Sanne rolls her eyes but smirks a little.

We’re parked at this wobbly table near the back, under a busted light that keeps buzzing like it’s gonna give out any second. The bar’s pretty empty, just a handful of regulars sipping their drinks and some old guy playing darts like he’s got a personal grudge against the board. Smells like stale beer and old cigarette smoke in here, even though smoking’s been banned inside for ages. Guess the walls just sucked it all up over the years. Through the smudged window, I can see the canal along Verdronkenoord, all dark and quiet, reflecting the streetlights. It’s a Tuesday, so the town’s dead, most folks are probably holed up in their flats, watching crappy reality TV or whatever.

We start chatting, nothing serious. Jeroen’s griping about his boss at the warehouse, some jerk named Pieter who’s always on his case about overtime. Sanne’s mostly quiet, scrolling on her phone, but she pipes up to call Jeroen a lazy bastard, which gets a laugh out of him. He flips her off, and I’m just happy to have a beer in my hand, even if it’s warm and tastes like absolute piss. Honestly, I’m not doing so hot right now. Lost my job at the Vomar supermarket a month back ‘cause I kept showing up late, and I’ve been scraping by with random gigs, fixing bikes, helping my uncle move furniture, that kind of thing. I’m 29, still living like some broke college kid, and yeah, I know I need to get my act together, but… eh, whatever.

After a bit, Sanne looks up from her phone, kinda squints at me. “You still single, Daan?” she asks, totally out of the blue. I snort, take a swig of my beer. “Yeah, so what? Not like I’ve got girls lining up.” She just nods, doesn’t say much, but there’s this weird little look in her eye, like she’s got something on her mind I can’t quite read. Jeroen notices it too, glances at her, then at me, and I swear he’s got this half-smile, like he’s in on something I’m not. I don’t dig into it, though. Not my thing to overthink stuff like that.

We order another round, Jeroen’s paying, thank God, and the convo gets even dumber. We’re laughing about the time we got trashed at the kermis, that local fair on Kanaalkade, and I ended up puking all over the bumper cars. Sanne actually cracks up for real this time, calls me a walking disaster, and hell, I can’t even argue with that. But I notice she’s sitting a bit closer to Jeroen now, her knee pressed against his under the table. Every now and then, she looks at me in this way that’s… I dunno, not exactly flirty, but like she’s checking me out or something. Makes me a little uneasy, if I’m being real. I’m not blind, Sanne’s attractive in that raw, no-filter kind of way, not some fake Instagram chick, just a girl who knows she doesn’t have to try too hard. And Jeroen, he’s just Jeroen, loud and rough, but he’s got this vibe that makes you notice him.

It’s getting late, probably pushing midnight, and the bar’s emptying out even more. Kees hollers something about last call, and I’m thinking I should probably head home, crash on my lumpy-ass couch, maybe watch some random porn clip before passing out. But then Jeroen leans back in his chair, stretches, and goes, “Hey, why don’t you swing by our place for a bit? Got some decent weed, way better than this crappy beer.” Sanne nods, real casual, like it’s no big thing, but there’s that quick little look between them again, quiet, like they’ve got some kinda plan they’re not saying out loud. I hesitate for a second, my place is just a ten-minute stumble from here, down Laat and past the Stedelijk Museum, but honestly, I’m not exactly thrilled to go sit alone in my depressing apartment.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, shrugging like I couldn’t care less. “Just don’t expect me to shell out for the weed, alright?” Jeroen lets out a loud laugh, smacking my shoulder a little harder than necessary. “Don’t worry, bro, we’ve got you covered.” Sanne gets up, snatching her old, beat-up leather jacket that’s definitely seen better days. I catch a quick glimpse of her shirt inching up, showing just a sliver of skin above her jeans. I look away real fast, don’t wanna be that guy, you know, but my dumb brain’s already saving the image for later. Lame, I get it, but hey, I’m a dude, and it’s been a while since… well, anything. We head outside, and the cold night air hits like a slap after being stuck in that stuffy bar for hours. The streets are dead quiet, just the faint buzz of a scooter somewhere far off and the random clatter of a shop shutting down for the night. We’re strolling down Verdronkenoord, passing the old weigh house, the Waag, all lit up but totally empty this late. Their place isn’t too far, just a little row house tucked on a side street off Bierkade. One of those narrow brick setups with bikes chained up out front and curtains that don’t even match. I’ve been over a few times before, usually for quick hangouts or to catch an Ajax game on TV. Inside, it’s always a mess, kinda smells like burnt toast or something, but it’s got this lived-in, cozy vibe, you know?

While we’re walking, Jeroen’s tossing out the dumbest jokes, cracking himself up, and Sanne’s just… quiet, hands shoved in her pockets. But there’s this weird vibe building, like the air’s getting heavier or some crap like that. I can’t quite figure it out, and I’m probably just making shit up in my head, but every time I sneak a glance at them, I catch these little looks they’re giving each other. Makes me wonder what the hell I’m even walking into here. I’m not exactly nervous, more like… curious, I guess. Maybe a bit on edge. You know that feeling when something’s coming, but you’ve got no clue what it is? Yeah, that’s me right now. We finally get to their street, and Jeroen’s fumbling with the keys at the door, cursing under his breath like an idiot. Sanne rolls her eyes, shoves past him, and unlocks it herself. She turns to me with this tiny, sharp smirk. “Come on, Daan, don’t just stand there looking like a moron.” I follow them in, squeezing through a cramped hallway cluttered with shoes and random junk. I’m already thinking this night might not be as dull as I expected, but hell if I know what’s actually gonna go down. That’s the part that’s got me kinda hooked.

Their place smells like stale coffee grounds and something skunky, probably the weed Jeroen’s been hyping up. The living room’s a total disaster, couch sagging in the middle like it’s given up on life, a couple empty Amstel cans sitting on the coffee table, and a TV with a busted remote propped on some cheap IKEA stand. There’s a poster on the wall, some 90s band, Nirvana, I think, curling at the edges like it’s been there forever. I kick off my sneakers by the door, feeling the cold tile through my socks, and just flop onto the couch while Jeroen starts digging through a drawer for his stash. Sanne heads to the kitchen, mumbling something about grabbing drinks, and I hear the fridge door slam shut a little too hard. I’m slouched there, staring at some weird stain on the carpet, looks like spilled wine or something, when Jeroen finally pulls out a small baggie and a grinder. “Told ya, man, way better than that garbage at De Boom,” he says, grinning like he’s just won the lottery while he starts rolling a joint on the table. His hands are all rough and calloused from warehouse work, and he’s got this intense focus, like he’s assembling a freaking rocket or something. I just nod, not really giving a crap about the weed as much as I’m wondering why I feel so damn wired. It’s not just the late hour or the beer buzz wearing off. It’s… something else, like the room’s too small with all three of us crammed in here.

Sanne comes back with three cans of Grolsch, cold enough that they’re already sweating with condensation. She hands me one, her fingers brushing mine for like half a second, and I swear it’s on purpose, but her face doesn’t show a damn thing. She perches on the arm of the couch, right next to Jeroen, her thigh pressed up against his shoulder, and cracks open her own can with a quick snap. “So, Daan,” she says, taking a sip, “you really just sit on your ass all day now that you’ve got no job?” Classic Sanne, straight to the point, no filter. I can’t help but laugh, even if it stings a bit. “Yeah, pretty much,” I say, popping my can open with a little hiss. “Fix a bike now and then, help my uncle haul some junk. Not exactly killing it, you know.” Jeroen snorts, lighting the joint with a cheap Bic lighter, the flame flickering as he takes a long drag. He passes it to Sanne, who inhales real slow, her lips closing around the tip in a way that’s… hard not to notice. She catches me staring as she blows out a thin stream of smoke, curling up into the air, but instead of chewing me out, she just holds the joint out to me, eyes locked on mine. “Your turn, creep,” she says, but there’s a playful edge to it, not pissed or anything. I grab it, fingers fumbling a bit, and take a hit too fast, coughing like a total idiot. Jeroen busts out laughing, slapping his knee. “Damn, man, you’re hopeless.” I flip him off, passing the joint back, and we keep going like that for a while, the room getting all hazy, my head starting to float a little.

That tension I was feeling earlier? It’s not gone. If anything, it’s worse, like this low buzz under my skin that won’t quit. I’m way too aware of Sanne’s bare foot dangling near Jeroen’s arm, the way her jeans fit when she shifts a little. And Jeroen’s just sitting there, all chill, like he doesn’t see the same stuff I’m seeing. Or maybe he does. Hell, I can’t tell. We’re maybe halfway through the joint when Sanne stretches out, her shirt riding up again, showing that same little strip of pale skin above her waistband.

Alright, so this time, I don’t look away quick enough, and she catches me staring. She smirks, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees like she’s got me figured out. “Got a staring problem, Daan?” she says, her voice kinda low, almost teasing. My face burns up, and I mutter some lame excuse like, “Nah, just zoned out,” but c’mon, it’s total crap, and everyone in the room knows it. Jeroen lets out a chuckle, takes another drag, and then, outta nowhere, he just goes, “She’s got a nice ass, huh? Can’t really blame ya for looking.” I damn near choke on my beer, spluttering, “What the hell, man?” I’m half-laughing, half-shocked, not even sure if he’s messing with me. But he just shrugs, like it’s no big deal, like it’s the most normal thing to say. And Sanne? She doesn’t even blink. Instead, she gets up, turns around real slow, almost like she’s putting on a show, and glances back at me over her shoulder. “Well? He ain’t wrong,” she says, and there’s this edge in her voice, like she’s daring me to say something. My brain’s a mess, trying to figure out if this is some weird prank or what, but, uh, my body’s already reacting, half-hard in my jeans, and I ain’t exactly thinking clear. “Uh, yeah, sure,” I mumble, sounding like a complete idiot, and Jeroen laughs again, louder this time. He stubs out the joint in this old, chipped ashtray, leans back, and pats the couch next to him. “C’mon, Sanne, sit down. Stop messing with the poor guy.” She rolls her eyes but does it anyway, plopping down between us, closer to me than I figured she’d be. Her knee bumps mine, and she doesn’t pull back. I can smell her now, not some fancy perfume or nothing, just clean skin with a faint whiff of weed smoke. It’s getting to me more than I wanna let on.

We’re just sitting there for a bit, sipping our beers, the TV off, nothing but the low hum of cars outside on Bierkade. Then Sanne shifts, turning toward me, and before I can even process what’s happening, her hand’s on my thigh, way up high, fingers digging in just a tad. “You good with this?” she asks, straight to the point, no messing around, her blue eyes locked on mine like she’s reading me. My throat’s dry as hell, but I nod, probably way too fast. “Yeah, I’m good,” I croak out, sounding rough, and Jeroen just grunts, like he’s cool with it or something, I don’t even know what’s going on with him. Next thing I know, she’s leaning in, her lips smashing into mine, hard and kinda messy, tasting like beer and weed. It ain’t no Hollywood kiss, all perfect and smooth, her nose bumps into mine, and I’m pretty sure I’m kissing back way too sloppy, but screw it, I don’t care. My hand’s on her waist before I even think about it, slipping under her shirt, feeling how warm her skin is, and she’s pressing closer, her chest against mine through her thin top. I hear Jeroen shift next to us, and for a split second, I’m thinking he might deck me, but then I feel his hand on her back, rubbing slow, like he’s part of this, like he’s egging it on.

Sanne pulls back just enough to yank her shirt off, tossing it somewhere on the floor. Her bra’s nothing special, just plain black, but it’s tight, pushing her tits up, and yeah, I’m staring again like a dumbass. She laughs, this short, sharp sound, grabs my hand, and slaps it right on her chest, over the bra. “Don’t just gawk, dumbass,” she says, and I squeeze, probably too hard at first, feeling the softness under my fingers, the little bump of her nipple through the fabric. She lets out this small noise, not really a moan, more like a huff, and then she’s messing with the button on my jeans, her fingers quick and confident. My heart’s hammering so loud I’m pretty sure they can hear it. She gets the zipper down, and I lift my hips a bit, awkward as hell, so she can tug my jeans and boxers down just enough. My dick’s already rock hard, sticking up, and I’m suddenly feeling weird about it, not huge or anything, just average, uncut, a little precum already there. She doesn’t say a word about it, just wraps her hand around me, grip firm, stroking slow at first, and I let out this dumb grunt, my head falling back against the couch. It feels so damn good, too good, her palm kinda rough in the best way, and I’m trying not to buck up into her hand like some desperate kid. Jeroen’s still right there, watching, and I glance at him, half-bracing for him to look pissed, but he’s got this strange, intense look, like he’s into it. His hand’s on Sanne’s ass now, over her jeans, squeezing hard, and she’s leaning into him a bit, kissing his neck while she keeps working me with her hand. It’s messed up, totally surreal, but I’m way too far gone to overthink it.

I slide my hand down her stomach, fumbling with the button on her jeans, and she helps me out, popping it open, shoving them down her thighs along with her underwear, some mismatched gray cotton panties, nothing sexy, just normal. Her pussy’s right there, neat little patch of blonde hair, lips already shiny, and I don’t even ask, just slide my fingers between them, feeling how wet she is. She gasps, real quiet, and rocks against my hand, my middle finger slipping inside, tight and hot. I’m rubbing her clit with my thumb, probably clumsy as hell but trying, and she’s breathing harder, her hand on me speeding up. Jeroen’s undoing his own jeans now, pulling out his cock, thicker than mine, veiny, no condom or nothing, and I’m realizing this is really happening, all of it, no backing out now. We’re this messy tangle of hands and half-off clothes, the couch creaking under us, the air heavy with the smell of skin and sex, sharp and real. Sanne’s pushing me back, climbing over me, knees on either side of my hips, and I’m holding my breath as she lines herself up, the head of my dick brushing against her wetness. She sinks down slow, just the tip at first, and it’s tight, almost too tight, both of us wincing a little as she adjusts.

I’ve got my hands on her hips, trying my damnedest not to push up too hard, too fast. She’s got this intense look on her face, biting her lip as she lowers herself onto me, taking me in bit by bit until I’m all the way there, deep. It’s a mess, honestly, kinda awkward. Her weight’s uneven, my hands keep slipping on her sweaty skin, but damn, it feels so raw, so real. I’m already struggling not to lose it right then and there. Then she starts moving, slow at first, grinding down on me with her hips rolling in this jagged rhythm. It’s not choreographed or anything; she’s just doing what feels good for her. I’m hanging on for dear life, fingers digging into the soft skin of her hips, feeling the heat of her, tight around me with every little shift.

It’s not like some fake-ass porn scene, you know? No over-the-top moans or dramatic hair flips. It’s just the real, sloppy sound of skin slapping against skin, her breath catching every so often, and me letting out a grunt here and there when she tightens just right. Her tits are still in that black bra, bouncing a little with each move. I reach up, yank the straps down her shoulders, screw the clasp, I’m not messing with that. Her nipples are hard, kinda pinkish, and I pinch one, probably too hard ‘cause she hisses at me. But she doesn’t stop, just shoots me a quick glare before leaning down and biting my shoulder. It stings, sharp enough to make me flinch.

And Jeroen? He’s right fuckin’ there, jeans shoved down to his knees, stroking himself real slow, real deliberate while he watches us. I can see the tip of his dick glistening, and the way his knuckles tighten every time Sanne makes a little sound. It’s weird as hell having him so close, no lie, but it’s also… kinda hot, in some messed-up way I’m not gonna overthink right now. Then he leans in, grabs a handful of her hair, not gentle at all, more like he’s staking a claim, and pulls her head back, kissing her hard on the mouth while she’s still moving on top of me. Her rhythm stumbles for a sec, thrown off by his tongue, and I can’t help it, I thrust up into her, harder than I meant to. She gasps right into his kiss.

She pulls back from him, breathing heavy, and mutters, “Fuck, Daan, take it easy,” but there’s no real anger there, just a half-laugh as she steadies herself with a hand on my chest, her nails scratching through my shirt. I’m sweating buckets now, my shirt sticking to my back, the couch fabric rough against my bare ass where my jeans are all bunched up. The room’s hot as hell, stuffy with this musky, sharp smell, like unwashed skin and sex, mixed with the faint haze of weed smoke still lingering. Sanne’s thighs are trembling a bit, slick with sweat where they’re pressed against mine, and I can feel how wet she is, dripping down, making everything slippery as hell.

I slide a hand between us, rubbing her clit again, my thumb moving fast and messy. She groans, this low sound deep in her throat, and her movements get jerkier. “Yeah, like that,” she breathes out, barely even a whisper, and I keep going, feeling her tighten around me, her pussy pulsing in a way that’s got me gritting my teeth to hold back. Jeroen shifts closer, his knee bumping into mine. For a second, I figure he’s just gonna keep watching, but nah, he’s grabbing her ass, spreading her cheeks with one hand while the other’s still on himself. I catch his eye, and there’s this unspoken thing, like he’s checking if I’m good with whatever’s coming next. I just shrug, honestly, I’m too far gone to care, and he smirks, spits into his palm, and starts rubbing it over himself, getting slick.

Sanne glances back at him, gives a quick, sharp nod, and I catch on to what’s happening just as he’s lining up behind her. She slows down on me, almost stops, leaning forward so her chest is pressed against mine, her breath hot on my neck. “Just… go slow, alright?” she mutters to him, and I feel her tense up as he starts pushing in. It’s tight, fuckin’ tighter than before, ‘cause I can feel him through her, pressing against me from the other side, just that thin wall between us. She’s wincing, her face all scrunched up, and I’m holding still, not daring to move an inch while he works his way into her ass, little by little. There’s no real lube, just his spit, and it’s obviously not easy, her nails are digging into my shoulders, and she’s breathing fast, shallow, like she’s trying not to make a noise.

“You good?” I ask, my voice rough as hell. She just nods, lips tight, until finally Jeroen’s in, letting out this low, guttural sound as he holds himself there. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, and I can’t tell if it’s pain or pleasure or both for her, but she lets out a small, shaky laugh and says, “Move, assholes, don’t just sit there.” It’s clumsy as shit at first, the three of us trying to figure out some kinda rhythm. I thrust up slow, real careful, while Jeroen pulls back a bit, then pushes in again. Sanne’s caught right in the middle, rocking between us, her body shuddering with every damn move.

It ain’t smooth, definitely not pretty. There’s grunts, hissed curses, elbows bumping into each other, and my knee’s cramping from the weird-ass angle on this couch. But it’s intense, so fuckin’ raw, the kind of thing that sticks with you. Feeling her stretched around both of us, her pussy clenching hard every time Jeroen shifts, it’s a lot. I’m still rubbing her clit, my fingers all slippery with her wetness, and she’s starting to shake for real now, her breath coming in these short, desperate little gasps. “Fuck, I’m, ” she starts, doesn’t even finish, just cuts off with this sharp, ragged cry as she comes, her whole body locking up, squeezing me so tight I almost lose it right there.

I hold off, just barely, jaw clenched, hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks, probably. Jeroen’s not far behind, though. His thrusts get rougher, faster, and I can feel him through her, the pressure building up until he groans, deep and loud, and slams in one last time, his body jerking as he finishes.

So, he pulls out real quick after, breathing like he just ran a marathon, and flops back onto the couch with a low, “Shit.” I can feel the mess right away, all warm and sticky down there where he was, mixing with her wetness. I’m still inside her, barely holding on, right on the damn edge. Sanne’s leaning against me, trying to catch her breath, but she moves just a bit to look at me. Her eyes are half-closed, and she mumbles, “Go on, finish.” That’s all I need to hear. I thrust up a few more times, messy as hell, no control, just pure need, and then I’m done for. I’m coming too, spilling inside her, no condom, no second thoughts, just that hot, overwhelming rush, my dick twitching as I let go. It’s over in a flash, maybe too damn fast, and I’m left gasping, head spinning, with her weight still on me, all sticky and heavy.

She slides off after a second, wincing a little as she moves, and just drops down between us on the couch. She’s half-naked, pants gone, bra kinda hanging on, not even trying to cover up. There’s cum and sweat all over, her thighs, me, probably the freaking couch too. The air’s thick with that raw, kinda animal smell, you know? But none of us say a word about it. We just sit there for a bit, trying to breathe normal again, the quiet feeling so damn weird after all that chaos.

Jeroen’s the first to snap out of it. He tugs his jeans back up with a grunt, not even glancing at us, just muttering something about needing a smoke. Sanne reaches for her beer on the table, takes a long gulp even though it’s gotta be warm and gross by now, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I’m still half-dressed, dick soft and sticky as hell with everything, fumbling to pull my boxers and jeans up. Suddenly, I feel so damn awkward, like I don’t even know where to put my hands or what the hell to say. “Guess that happened,” I mumble, just to break the silence, you know? Sanne snorts, letting out this tired little laugh. “Yeah, no shit,” she says, and that’s it. No big heart-to-heart, no weird promises or regrets, just the three of us sitting there, all messy and wiped out.

Jeroen comes back from the kitchen with a cigarette already lit, even though I’m pretty sure they don’t smoke in here, and offers me one without saying a thing. I take it, light up, and we all just stare at the blank TV screen. The faint sound of late-night traffic on Bierkade drifts in through the cracked window. I’m thinking I should probably get outta here, head back to my crappy apartment on Laat before this gets any weirder, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I dig it out, squinting at the screen, some dumb spam text from my provider about data overage. Freakin’ typical. I let out a little chuckle, shake my head, and mutter, “Great, now I owe KPN fifty euros for watching too much porn.” Sanne glances over, raises an eyebrow, and just goes, “Better than paying for therapy after tonight,” before turning back to her beer like none of this even happened.