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 sitting there, halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito at a little corner table in Café de la Gare, just off Rue de la Libération in Saint-Étienne, France, when I catch Julien staring at me from the counter. Not just a quick peek, nah, it’s this intense, unblinking stare, like he’s got some dumbass comment locked and loaded. Look, Saint-Étienne isn’t Paris, okay? It’s this rough, grimy industrial town, full of old factory bricks fading away and tight streets that reek of diesel and broken dreams. And Café de la Gare? Man, it’s one of those depressing joints by the train station, with paint peeling off the walls and coffee that tastes like burnt mistakes. I’m there most afternoons after my shift at the Carrefour warehouse, just killing time before I drag my sorry ass back to my tiny apartment on Rue des Martyrs de Vingré.

Anyway, Julien, he’s this scrawny guy, probably mid-thirties, rocking a patchy beard and a beat-up leather jacket that’s seen better days. He does random odd jobs, hangs around the bar crowd, and always looks like he’s plotting something shady. I’ve known him since we were stupid teens sneaking cigs behind Lycée Étienne Mimard. Back then, we’d just talk trash about everyone and everything, but we never really got tight or anything. Just two faces you recognize in a small town, y’know? So there I am, burrito grease all over my fingers, scrolling through dumb memes on my phone, when Julien finally struts over. He’s got this smirk, like he’s already cracking up at whatever nonsense he’s about to spew.

Oh, I’m Élodie, by the way. Thirty-two, boring as hell, stuck in a job that sucks the life outta me, and my body’s starting to remind me of every late-night kebab I’ve scarfed down. I’m not pretty like those magazine girls, and honestly, I don’t care. My hair’s a messy brown bob, usually thrown back ‘cause I can’t be bothered to deal with it, and I’m in the same old faded hoodie I’ve had forever. Julien just plops down across from me, no invite needed, his chair scraping loud as hell against the tiled floor. “Yo, Élodie, you look bored as fuck,” he says, straight-up, no filter. His voice is all rough, probably from chain-smoking cheap cigs outside Le Chat Noir, that dump of a bar on Place Jean Jaurès.

“Yeah, no kidding, I am,” I snap back, wiping my hands on a wadded-up napkin. “What’s your excuse for looking like you just crawled outta bed?” He lets out this short, sharp laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Just finished a gig unloading crates at the old steelworks. Place stinks of rust, and my back’s screaming. Figured I’d grab a beer and see what kinda mess I can stir up.” His eyes scan me, not creepy, just like he’s checking if I’m down for whatever he’s thinking. I’m not dumb, alright? I know Julien’s deal. He’s the guy who always knows where the party’s at, who’s got a connect for cheap booze or worse, and who probably hasn’t had a real girlfriend since his mom stopped making his sandwiches. But he’s got this vibe, y’know? Like he’s always one dumb idea away from something fun.

“Mess, huh?” I say, raising an eyebrow. I take a sip of my lukewarm coffee, mostly just to keep my hands busy. “What, you dragging me to some shady basement rave again? ‘Cause last time, I almost got puked on by that wasted moron from Firminy.” “Nah, nah, nothing like that,” he says, waving it off. “I was thinking of hitting up Chez Marco, y’know, that little Italian spot on Rue Bergson? They’ve got cheap pitchers on Thursdays, and I heard some people are swinging by later. Nothing major, just a few drinks, maybe a laugh or two. You down?”

I hesitate for a sec. Chez Marco isn’t fancy or nothing, it’s a cramped pizzeria with sticky tables and a jukebox that’s been busted since I was a kid. But it’s a local hangout, the kinda place where you can chill in a corner and not feel like you gotta fake being someone else. I’ve been there tons, usually with coworkers after a brutal shift, pounding beers and griping about the bosses. Thing is, I’ve got no plans tonight, and the idea of going back to my place to watch reruns of some trashy reality show sounds even worse than usual. Plus, Julien’s got this knack for making even lame stuff sound like an adventure, even if it’s just sipping crappy wine and talking smack.

“Dunno,” I say, playing it cool. “Who’s gonna be there? I’m not in the mood for a bunch of loud idiots I don’t know.” “Just some people,” he shrugs, scratching at his beard. “You know Mathilde, right? She works at that boulangerie on Rue du Onze Novembre. She’ll probably show up. Maybe her brother too, uh, what’s his name… Rémi? And a couple others. Nothing fancy, just hanging out.” Mathilde, yeah, I know her. Couple years younger than me, got this loud-ass laugh that cuts through any room, and she’s always got flour on her apron even when she’s not working. She’s fine, I guess, talks a lot but not in an annoying way. Rémi, her brother, I’ve only met a few times. Quiet dude, kinda built, works as a mechanic or something. I don’t really have an opinion on him, but familiar faces make it feel less like a crapshoot.

Still, I’m not sure why Julien’s even pushing this. He’s not the type to just randomly invite folks out for no reason. There’s always some angle with him, even if it’s just being bored or needing someone to split a tab. “Alright, fine,” I say after a beat, tossing my empty coffee cup into the bin nearby. “But if it’s lame, I’m out. And you’re buying the first round, ‘cause I’m broke ‘til payday.” “Deal,” he grins, standing up and zipping his jacket. “Meet me there around eight. Don’t be late, or I’ll drink your share.” I roll my eyes but don’t argue. As he heads out, throwing a lazy wave to the barista, I just sit there for a minute, staring at the crumbs on my plate.

I don’t even know why I said yes to this. Honestly, I think I was just fed up with the same old crap, you know? Load boxes at the warehouse, drag myself home, scarf down some junk, crash, and do it all over again. Julien, for all his nonsense, at least shakes things up a bit. And, okay, if I’m being straight with you, there was this look he gave me earlier, like he was sizing me up or something, that got me kinda curious. Not in some mushy, lovey-dovey way, hell no. It’s more like… I don’t know, like there’s a chance something could happen, even if I’ve got no clue what that “something” is yet.

I glanced at my phone to check the time. Just past five. I’ve got a couple hours to kill, so I figured I’d head home, wash off the warehouse stink, maybe put on a decent shirt. Not because I’m trying to look good for anyone, no way. I just don’t wanna reek of sweat and cardboard all night, you know? My place isn’t far, just a quick ten-minute walk down Rue de la République, past that old cinema that’s been boarded up forever. Saint-Étienne’s got this weird vibe, like it’s half falling apart but still holding on to what it used to be. I’ve been here my whole damn life, so I’m used to the gray, the closed-up shops, the graffiti scrawled on the underpass by Parc de l’Europe, and how everybody’s always in everyone else’s business. It’s home, I guess, even though I grumble about it nonstop.

When I finally got to my apartment, a third-floor walk-up with a stellar view of a trashy alley, I was already starting to doubt myself. What if this whole thing at Chez Marco turns out to be a total disaster? What if Julien’s got some weird plan up his sleeve, like dragging me into one of his dumb ideas? I tried to shake it off while I rinsed off in my tiny bathroom, the water pressure as pathetic as ever, barely a dribble. I threw on some jeans and a plain black tee, nothing fancy, and grabbed my beat-up denim jacket. Right as I was locking the door, my phone buzzed with a text from Julien: “Dont flake. Got a surprise.” Oh, great. A surprise. With him, that could be anything from free drinks to some random guy hawking fake sneakers. I sighed, stuffed my phone in my pocket, and stepped out into the cool evening air.

The streets were pretty dead, just a handful of folks rushing home from work or picking up smokes at the tabac on the corner. I walked past the same old storefronts I always do, spotting the neon sign for Chez Marco flickering up ahead. Whatever’s waiting for me there, I’ve got a hunch it’s not gonna be just another dull night. And honestly, that’s enough to keep me going, even if I’ve got no idea what I’m walking into.

That neon sign at Chez Marco was buzzing softly as I pushed through the heavy glass door. The smell of greasy, cheap pizza and stale beer hit me right in the face. The place was half-empty, just a few regulars slouched over their drinks at the bar and a couple of dudes tossing darts in the corner. The tables were as sticky and beat-up as ever, all scratched and wobbly, with those red vinyl chairs that squeak every time you shift. I spotted Julien near the back, sprawled in a booth with a pitcher of some gross-looking, piss-colored lager already half gone. Mathilde was there too, her loud laugh cutting through the quiet chatter as she waved me over. Rémi was sitting across from her, nursing a glass and looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. Didn’t see anyone else I knew, which was fine by me.

“Yo, Élodie, took you long enough,” Julien called out, scooting over to make space in the booth. He had that same smirk on, but his eyes were already a bit glassy from drinking. I shrugged, tossed my jacket over the back of the chair, and slid in next to him. His thigh bumped against mine under the table, not on purpose, just ‘cause the booth’s so damn cramped, but yeah, I noticed it. “Got held up by, uh, important stuff,” I mumbled, lying through my teeth as I grabbed a plastic cup from the stack and poured myself some of that awful beer. It tasted like watered-down regret, but hey, at least it was cold.

Mathilde was already going off about some customer at the boulangerie who lost it over a burnt baguette, her hands waving all over the place while she talked. I nodded along, not really paying attention, while Julien kept sneaking glances at me. Not super obvious or anything, but enough that I caught on. My stomach did a little flip, not nerves, I don’t think. More like… I don’t know, anticipation or something? I’m not gonna overthink it. Just kept sipping my drink, waiting to see where the night would take us.

We sat there shooting the breeze for a while, the pitcher disappearing pretty quick. Rémi barely said a word, just grunted every now and then, while Mathilde did most of the talking. Julien was quieter than usual, though, throwing out a sarcastic comment here and there but mostly just… watching. Around nine, Mathilde said she had an early shift and dragged Rémi out with her, leaving just me and Julien in the booth. The bar had emptied out even more, just the bartender wiping down the counter and some old guy muttering to himself over a glass of pastis. The jukebox in the corner was still busted, sitting there silent, and all you could hear was the faint clink of glasses and the hum of the fridge behind the bar.

“So, what’s this surprise you texted about?” I asked, turning to Julien. My voice came out kinda flat, but I was buzzed enough not to give a crap. He grinned, leaning in a bit, his elbow brushing mine on the table. “Patience, Élodie. Ain’t gonna ruin it just yet,” he said, his breath warm and smelling like beer and probably the cigarette he smoked outside. “But I was thinking we could get outta here soon. Got somewhere else in mind.”

I raised an eyebrow, finishing off my cup. “Where? ‘Cause if it’s some shady alley deal, I’m out.” He let out a low, rough laugh.

Nah, it’s nothing fancy or anything. Just my spot. It’s not far, right over on Rue Voltaire, past that old butcher shop that’s been boarded up for ages. I’ve got some half-decent whiskey there, way better than this garbage. He tipped his head toward the empty pitcher on the table. Unless, y’know, you’re worried about being alone with me or whatever. I let out a little scoff, rolling my eyes like, really? Scared? Of you? Come on now. I just don’t wanna waste my night if you’re gonna crash on me after half a glass. Fair point, he said, getting up and snagging his jacket off the chair. Alright, let’s go then. See if you can hang. I paused for like, a split second, then grabbed my stuff and followed him out into the chilly night. The streets were empty, just a random car cruising by on Rue Bergson and the faint clatter of a train off in the distance at the station. We walked together, not saying much, just the sound of gravel crunching under our feet and those dim streetlights glowing above us. His place wasn’t a long trek, maybe ten minutes or so, up a tight little staircase in one of those rundown apartment blocks near Place Carnot. The hallway reeked of damp mildew and old fryer grease, and his door jammed a bit when he pushed it open. Inside, man, it was a disaster, empty beer cans scattered on the coffee table, a couch with a torn-up armrest, and this sad, flickering bare bulb hanging overhead. Not like I gave a damn. I’ve seen way worse. He kicked his boots off by the door, and I tossed my jacket over a chair, taking a quick look around while he dug through a cupboard for that whiskey. Don’t get your hopes up, he mumbled, pulling out a half-empty bottle of some cheap-ass brand and two random glasses that didn’t even match. This ain’t the Hôtel de Crillon or some shit. Didn’t think it would be, I fired back, plopping down on the edge of the couch. He poured us each a shot, handed me mine, then dropped down next to me, a little closer than he had to. Our knees knocked together, and this time, it didn’t seem like an accident. I slammed the whiskey back in one gulp, the burn hitting me hard, and set the glass down on the table. He was staring at me again, same damn look he had back at the café, like he was waiting for me to either step up or bail. Alright, screw it, I muttered under my breath, turning to face him. What’s your deal, Julien? You’ve been staring holes through me all night. You got something to say or what? He didn’t even blink, just smirked a little wider, setting his glass down real slow. Thought it was pretty clear. I’m down for this, if you are. No games, no strings attached. Just… seeing what happens. I looked at him for a moment, my heart picking up a bit. Not ‘cause I was nervous or any of that nonsense, but ‘cause the vibe between us felt heavier, like we’d just stepped over some kinda line. I wasn’t thinking about feelings or crap like that, I just wanted to feel something besides the usual boredom. Fine, I said, keeping my voice even. But don’t make it weird, okay? Before I could second-guess myself, he leaned in, his hand sliding to the back of my neck, pulling me close. His lips hit mine, rough and eager, tasting like whiskey and cigarette smoke. It wasn’t some polished, smooth thing, just raw and kinda messy, his stubble scraping against my chin. My hands landed on his chest, grabbing at his shirt as I kissed him back, just as hard, keeping up with him. His other hand moved to my hip, tugging me closer on the couch, my thigh pressing against his. I could feel the heat coming off him, the way his breath caught when I bit his lower lip, not holding back. Fuck, Élodie, he growled low against my mouth, voice all rough and uneven. He yanked at the bottom of my tee, pulling it up and over my head in one fast move, chucking it somewhere on the floor. Didn’t care where it landed. My skin prickled in the cool air, my basic black bra nothing to write home about, but the way his eyes dragged over me, you’d think it was. His hands were on me then, rough but not sloppy, one cupping my breast through the fabric, his thumb brushing over the nipple ‘til it stiffened. I hissed, arching a bit, and he grinned, unhooking the clasp at the back with one hand like it was second nature. I pushed at his jacket, getting it off his shoulders, then tugged his shirt up, revealing the lean, wiry frame underneath, a couple old scars and tattoos I didn’t bother asking about. My fingers dug into his shoulders as he leaned down, mouth on my neck, sucking hard enough I knew it’d leave a mark. Didn’t care one bit. His hand slid lower, messing with the button of my jeans, finally popping it open after muttering a curse or two. I lifted my hips, helping him shove the denim down just past my thighs, my cheap cotton underwear already damp. He groaned when he noticed, his fingers brushing over the wet spot, pressing just enough to make me twitch. Damn, you’re ready for this, he said, voice all gritty, almost a growl. He hooked his fingers under the waistband, yanking them down with my jeans in one go, leaving me bare from the waist down on his crappy couch. I didn’t feel exposed or anything, just… desperate, I guess. I kicked the clothes off my ankles, spreading my legs a little as he stared, his eyes dark. My pussy was already slick, the faint musky smell mixing with the stale air in the room. No embarrassment, just pure want. He shifted, dropping to his knees on the floor between my thighs, hands gripping my hips to pull me closer to the edge of the couch. Gonna taste you, he mumbled, not asking, just saying it like it was a done deal. His breath was hot against my inner thigh, then closer, his tongue dragging slow and wet over my folds, no messing around, just going for it. I gasped, head tipping back against the couch, my fingers tangling in his messy hair. It wasn’t soft or careful, his tongue was all over the place, lapping at my clit, then dipping lower, the scratch of his beard rough against my skin.

My hips jerked up, desperate for more, and he let out this deep groan right against me, the vibration making my whole body shake. His hand slid up, fingers spreading me wider for his mouth, while the other dug into my thigh so hard I knew it’d leave a mark. I was breathing heavy, heat rushing through me fast, my legs trembling as he sucked on my clit, not letting up for a second. “Fuck, Julien, don’t stop,” I hissed, my voice cracking a bit. Didn’t even care how needy I sounded, honestly. He didn’t stop, just kept at it, tongue flicking and circling, messy but nonstop. I could feel it building, that tight coil in me getting ready to snap, but then, bam, he pulled back outta nowhere, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He stood up with this wild-ass grin, voice all rough as he said, “Not yet.” His hands were shaky as he unzipped his jeans. I could see the bulge in his boxers, hard as hell, and my mouth went dry just looking. He shoved the jeans down just enough, pulling himself out, thick, flushed, the tip already wet with precum. No condom, no nothing, just straight-up intent. Stupid of me, probably, but I was too far gone to give a shit right then.

He grabbed my hips, yanking me to the edge of the couch, lining up as I spread my legs wider, one hooked over the armrest. He pushed in slow at first, just the tip, stretching me out, and I bit my lip at the burn, not pain, just that full, tight feeling, you know? “Fuck, you’re tight,” he grunted, sliding in deeper, hands gripping my waist like a vice. I let out a low, raw moan, my nails digging into his arms as he started moving, just shallow thrusts at first, testing the waters. It wasn’t smooth or anything, kinda awkward honestly, his hips jerked too fast sometimes, but it didn’t matter. It felt real, messy, like we couldn’t wait. Sweat was beading on his forehead, his breaths coming in sharp little pants as he sped up, fucking into me harder, the couch creaking like it might break. I wrapped my other leg around his waist, pulling him deeper, my back arching off the cushions. Every thrust hit just right, rough and unpolished, my pussy clenching around him, wet as hell. The sounds were loud, skin slapping, my gasps, his quiet curses bouncing around the tiny room.

His hand slipped down between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing these sloppy circles that made my whole body jolt. I was close again, right on the edge, my head spinning with how raw it all felt. Couldn’t tell how much longer I’d last. My breaths were all over the place, chest heaving, as Julien kept going, thrusting hard while his thumb worked me over with that desperate, uneven pressure. I could feel every damn inch of him, the way he dragged inside me, thick and relentless, stretching me with every push. My pussy was soaked, the wet sounds of us fucking echoing off the bare walls of his shitty-ass apartment. Didn’t care how loud we were, nobody was around to hear, and even if they were, screw ‘em. My hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging in, leaving little marks I knew he’d notice later. He didn’t even flinch, just groaned low in his throat, hips snapping harder, faster, like he was chasing something he couldn’t quite grab.

“Shit, Élodie, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he rasped, voice rough as hell, face buried in the crook of my neck. His stubble scraped my skin raw, and I could smell him, cheap whiskey and sweat, sharp and real. I tilted my hips up, meeting his thrusts, my body jerking every time he bottomed out. Wasn’t pretty or in sync or any of that, just two people slamming together, all need and no grace. My clit throbbed under his thumb, the pressure building again, hot and tight in my core, until I just couldn’t hold it. I came with this choked gasp, my whole body locking up, pussy squeezing hard around him as heat ripped through me. My legs shook like crazy, one still over the armrest, the other tight around his waist, and I didn’t even try to quiet the broken sounds coming outta me. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just kept fucking me through it, his rhythm getting all shaky as my walls pulsed around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he muttered, teeth grazing my shoulder, his hand sliding from between us to grip my hip again, hard enough I knew I’d see marks tomorrow. I was oversensitive now, every thrust sharp and almost too much, but I didn’t push him off. I wanted him to finish, wanted to feel it, even if my body was starting to ache from the weird angle on this stupid couch. His breathing got rougher, little grunts with every push, and I could tell he was close, could feel him twitching inside me. “Gonna come,” he warned, barely getting it out before he pulled out, quick and messy. His hand wrapped around himself, stroking once, twice, before he came with a low curse, hot spurts hitting my stomach and lower, some dripping down near my pussy. It was sticky, warm, the faint musky smell mixing with the sweat on my skin. He was panting hard, forehead pressed to mine for a sec, hand still on himself, squeezing out the last of it. Then he leaned back, wiping his hand on his shirt like it was no big deal, looking down at the mess on me with this half-smirk, half-dazed look. “Damn,” was all he said, voice all hoarse, as he flopped back onto the couch next to me, jeans still bunched around his thighs.

I didn’t move right away, just lay there sprawled out, legs still open, feeling the cool air on my damp skin and the sticky mess drying on my stomach. My heart was still pounding, body buzzing with the aftershocks, but I didn’t feel some big emotional thing or whatever. It was just… done. Raw and messy and over, you know? I sat up after a minute, wincing a bit as my muscles bitched at me, and grabbed my underwear off the floor, using the edge to wipe myself off as best I could.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a fairy tale moment, but I wasn’t gonna just sit there all night with his mess on me, you know? “You good?” he muttered, not even glancing my way, just yanking his jeans back up with this quick, jerky zip. Didn’t sound like he cared much, more like he was just making sure I wasn’t about to lose it or something. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I shot back, my voice kinda flat while I wrestled my bra back on, fumbling with the stupid clasp for a second before it clicked. My shirt was half under the coffee table, go figure, so I grabbed it, gave it a quick shake, and pulled it over my head. Jeans were a whole other hassle, all stiff and twisted from being shoved down so fast before, but I got ‘em on, not giving a crap if I looked like a hot mess. Julien just watched me for a beat, then reached for the whiskey bottle on the table, pouring himself another shot without even a nod my way. Classic Julien, right? “So, that’s the big surprise, huh?” I said, getting to my feet and snatching my jacket off the chair. My legs felt a bit shaky, but I played it cool, zipping up like it was nothing. I wasn’t planning to hang around, and he didn’t seem to expect me to either. This wasn’t that kind of deal, and we both got that, no question. He let out a little snort, sipping his whiskey, the glass clinking against his teeth kinda loud. “Pretty much. Worth it, though, yeah?” I just shrugged, not about to give him the win with a real answer. “See ya around, Julien. Don’t be an asshole and text me at 3 a.m. or some dumb shit like that.” My voice came out sharper than I meant, drier, but whatever, I didn’t care. I headed for the door, not bothering to look back as I stepped into that grimy hallway, the mildew stink hitting me hard again as I pulled the door shut with a loud-ass click.

The stairwell was dead quiet, just the faint buzz of a streetlight outside humming through a cracked window. My sneakers echoed on the concrete steps as I made my way down, and the cool night air smacked me right in the face the second I pushed out onto Rue Voltaire. Saint-Étienne was a ghost town this late, nothing but a stray cat creeping near a dumpster and the far-off grumble of a late train rolling through Gare de Châteaucreux. I shoved my hands deep in my jacket pockets, feeling that dull ache in my thighs, a little soreness down there too, as I started walking toward Rue des Martyrs de Vingré. It wasn’t a long trek, maybe fifteen minutes if I cut through the alley by the old butcher shop, but I wasn’t rushing or anything. My phone buzzed once in my pocket, probably Julien, or maybe just some random spam crap, but I didn’t bother checking. Didn’t feel like dealing with whatever it was right then. The streets looked the same as always, all gray and beat-up, the graffiti under the overpass near Place Carnot still a messy scrawl I couldn’t even read, just like last time I walked by. I could still kinda feel Julien’s hands on my hips, the rough scratch of his beard, but I didn’t let myself overthink it. It was just a thing, happened and done, no big deal, no hidden meaning or whatever. I’d probably run into him again at Café de la Gare or Chez Marco, and we’d act like it was nothing, or maybe he’d smirk and say some stupid shit. Eh, whatever. Life just keeps rolling on in this worn-out town, same as ever.

I stopped at the corner by my building, digging around for my keys, when I noticed this crumpled flyer stuck to a lamppost about some local band playing at Le Chat Noir next weekend. I stared at it for a second, not really reading it, just kinda spacing out. Then I shook it off, turned away, unlocked my door, and dragged myself up the stairs to my apartment, the hallway light flickering like it always friggin’ does. Didn’t even bother flipping on the lights when I got inside, just kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling while some neighbor’s TV mumbled through the thin walls. My phone buzzed again from my jacket on the floor, but I ignored it, rolling over to face the wall instead. Guess I’d deal with whatever it is tomorrow, or maybe not at all. Doesn’t really matter either way, does it?