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 lousy kebab at this little dump called Shawarma King on Vesterbrogade in Copenhagen, and that’s when I first spot her. Man, the place reeks of grease and overdone lamb, and those harsh fluorescent lights? They make everyone look like zombies. I’m just there to kill some time after a brutal day hauling boxes at the warehouse near the harbor. My back’s killing me, my hands feel like freaking sandpaper, and I probably stink of sweat and cardboard. Honestly, I don’t give a crap. All I want is to eat this junk, scroll through my phone, and maybe grab a cheap Tuborg from the Netto across the street before dragging my sorry ass back to my tiny, crappy flat in Nørrebro.

She’s sitting a couple of tables away, by herself, poking at some falafel wrap or whatever. She doesn’t look like she fits in here, not one bit. Most people at Shawarma King are either wasted kids stumbling in after a night of partying or tired folks like me, immigrants just grabbing a quick bite. But her? She’s got this sharp, polished look about her. Dark hair tied back real tight, a black leather jacket that probably costs more than my rent, and these boots that clicked loud on the tile when she walked in. I’m guessing she’s in her late 30s, maybe early 40s. Hard to say for sure. I catch myself staring, and damn, I don’t look away quick enough. Her eyes, dark, kinda annoyed-looking, lock onto mine for a split second before she goes back to her food. I just shrug it off, take another bite of my kebab, and figure that’s the end of it.

Oh, by the way, I’m Jonas. Twenty-nine, pretty average, I guess. Not fat, not skinny, just… meh, I’m there. Been in Denmark for about six years now, came over from Poland for work after my uncle got me hooked up with this warehouse gig. I’m not exactly living the high life, you know? Most days, I’m either lifting heavy crap or drinking enough to forget I’m lifting heavy crap. Don’t have many friends here, just a couple of guys from work I grab beers with now and then at Bodegaen on Kapelvej. Dating? Ha, don’t even get me started. Last girl I was with ditched me after three months, said I was “going nowhere.” She’s probably right, but screw her anyway.

So yeah, I’m just sitting there, minding my own damn business, when this woman, let’s call her Signe since I didn’t know her name yet, gets up to toss her trash. She walks by my table, and I swear I catch a whiff of leather and maybe a hint of cigarette smoke on her. Not perfume or anything sweet, just… sharp, you know? I don’t know why, but it sticks with me. She’s tall, taller than most women I’ve been around, and she moves like she’s got somewhere to be, all business, even though she’s just throwing out a greasy wrapper. I don’t say a word, just sneak a glance at her out of the corner of my eye while pretending to mess with my phone.

She doesn’t go straight back to her table, though. Instead, she stops at the counter, says something to the guy there, probably Mehmet, he’s always working the late shift, and he hands her a can of soda. She pops it open, takes a sip, and then, out of nowhere, turns her head and looks right at me again. This time, I don’t flinch. I just stare back, chewing my food slower than I need to. She doesn’t smile or anything, just tilts her head a bit, like she’s trying to figure me out. I got no clue what’s going through her head, but I’m sitting there thinking she’s either gonna tell me to piss off or… hell, I don’t know, something else. My brain’s not exactly firing on all cylinders at 9 PM on a freaking Tuesday.

“You always stare at people like that?” she says, her voice low but sharp, cutting right through the hum of the crappy radio playing some old Danish pop song in the background. Her Danish is spot-on, no accent, so I’m guessing she’s a local. I swallow my bite, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and just shrug. “Only when they’re worth lookin’ at.” Yeah, I know, stupid line. I’m not smooth, never have been, but I’m not gonna sit there acting all shy either. She raises an eyebrow, and I think I catch the corner of her mouth twitch, but it’s not a smile. More like she’s trying to decide if I’m a total idiot or just got some guts.

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just takes another sip of her soda, then walks over to my table. Doesn’t even ask if she can sit, just pulls out the chair across from me and plops down like she owns the damn place. “I’m waiting for someone,” she says, like that explains why she’s parked herself here with me. “You’re not gonna be weird, are you?” I snort. “Define weird.” She doesn’t answer, just gives me another look, her eyes narrowing a little. Up close, I notice she’s got a small scar on her left cheek, barely there unless you’re really looking. Her hands are rough too, not like mine, but like she uses them for something. No rings, no fancy nail polish, just short nails and a couple of old cuts. I don’t know why I pick up on stuff like that, but I do.

“I’m Jonas,” I say, figuring I might as well throw that out there. “Signe,” she shoots back, short and sharp, like she doesn’t really care if I know her name or not. “You from around here?” “Nørrebro. You?” “Vesterbro. Born and raised.” She says it with a kind of pride, like growing up in this rough part of Copenhagen makes her tougher than most. And maybe it does. I’ve been around Vesterbro enough to know it’s got its dark corners, drug deals on Istedgade, hookers near Central Station, bars like Mesteren & Lærlingen where you keep your mouth shut and don’t ask questions. It’s not just hipster cafes and overpriced bikes, not by a long shot. After that, we don’t talk much, at least not right away.

So, I’m done with my kebab, and she’s just sitting there sipping her soda, sneaking these little glances at me every few seconds. Like she’s trying to size me up or something. Honestly, I don’t even have a story to figure out, but I’m not about to spill that to her. Nah, instead I just toss out a question to keep things from getting too quiet. “Who’re you waiting on?” I ask, casual as hell. She doesn’t even look at me this time, just mutters, “An old friend. Supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. Probably bailed.” I snort. “Sounds like a real jerk.” That gets a laugh outta her, this quick, sharp little bark that makes me crack a grin even though I didn’t mean to. “Yeah, he is,” she says. “But I owe him one, so here I am, stuck waiting.” I don’t pry into what she owes him for. Not my business, and frankly, I don’t care enough to ask.

Still, sitting there across from her, I start feeling this weird… vibe, I guess? Not nerves or anything, I’m way too wiped for that, just this odd tension floating between us. I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s ‘cause she’s nothing like the people I usually kick it with. Or maybe it’s how she seems to not give a damn about anything, me included, yet she’s still here at my table. Hell if I know. All I do know is now I’m wondering what *her* deal is, and why she’s even bothering to chat with some random like me.

It’s getting late, pushing 10 p.m., and Shawarma King is pretty much clearing out. Mehmet’s over there wiping the counter, throwing us these not-so-subtle looks like he’s ready to kick us out and lock up. I’m about to say I gotta bounce, catch the last bus back to Nørrebro, when her phone buzzes on the table. She grabs it, scans the screen, and mumbles something under her breath, pretty sure it’s a curse. “Fucking typical,” she says louder, stuffing the phone into her jacket. “He’s not showing.” I don’t say anything at first, just watch her slump back in the chair, arms crossed, looking straight-up annoyed. Then, outta the blue, she fixes me with that sharp stare again and goes, “You got plans tonight?” I blink. Wasn’t expecting that. My brain’s lagging, but my mouth isn’t. “Nah, not really. Why?” She doesn’t answer right off, just keeps staring like she’s turning something over in her head. My heart’s beating a little faster now, not ‘cause I’m scared or whatever, just ‘cause I got this gut feeling that whatever’s coming next ain’t gonna be my usual boring-ass night. I don’t know what she’s gonna say, but I’m already halfway ready to roll with it, whatever it is.

I’m just sitting there, waiting for her to say something, my fingers tapping on the sticky table. She’s still got that intense look, like she’s seeing right through me or something. I don’t even think I’ve got layers to peel back, but damn, she’s making me feel like I do. Finally, she leans in a little, elbows on the table, and says, “Wanna get outta here? I’ve got a bottle of crappy vodka at my place. It’s just two streets over on Saxogade.” I don’t overthink it. “Yeah, sure. Better than going home to stare at my ceiling.” She gives a quick nod, like that’s all she needed to hear, and stands up, zipping up her leather jacket. I grab my hoodie off the chair, toss a couple crumpled kroner on the table for Mehmet even though I already paid, and follow her out into the chilly night air.

Vesterbrogade’s still got a bit of life to it, even this late on a Tuesday. Some drunks are staggering out of bars, a few bikes zip past, and there’s this faint bass thumping from some club down by Enghave Plads. The air’s thick with exhaust and the smell of fried food, and I can still taste that greasy kebab on my tongue as we walk. Signe doesn’t say much, just keeps her hands shoved in her pockets, boots clicking on the sidewalk. I’m cool with the silence, though. I’m used to it. My brain’s already spinning, wondering what the hell I’m doing trailing after some girl I just met. I’m not dumb, I know this could be sketchy as hell. Could be a setup, or maybe she’s just bored and I’m the closest thing to entertainment. But hey, I don’t got much to lose, so screw it. I keep up with her, noticing how she walks with her shoulders all squared, like she’s ready to push through anyone dumb enough to get in her way.

Her building on Saxogade is one of those old, beat-up brick places you see everywhere in Vesterbro. Peeling paint on the windows, front door looking like it’s taken a few kicks in its day. She punches a code into the keypad, and the lock buzzes loud as we head in. The stairwell reeks of damp concrete and stale cigarette smoke, and the light flickers as we trudge up to the third floor. Her apartment’s at the end of the hall, and when she unlocks the door, I get hit with this whiff of stale air and… burnt toast, maybe? It’s not a total mess, but it’s not clean either, just lived-in, kinda cluttered. There’s a small couch with a blanket thrown over it, a coffee table piled with empty beer cans and a half-full ashtray, and a tiny kitchenette off to the side with dishes stacked in the sink. “Sit wherever,” she says, shrugging off her jacket and tossing it on a chair. I plop down on the couch, the springs groaning under me, while she digs through a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of vodka, some cheap, off-brand crap with the label half torn off. She doesn’t mess with glasses, just twists the cap off, takes a swig straight from the bottle, and hands it over. I take a pull, and damn, it burns going down, tastes like straight-up rubbing alcohol. I wince but don’t say nothing. Not gonna complain.

I hand the bottle back to her, and she plops down right next to me, closer than I figured she would. Her knee bumps against mine, just a light touch, but I feel it. We sit there quiet for a bit, passing the vodka back and forth like it’s no big deal. I can feel the buzz sneaking up on me, loosening my shoulders, making my head a little fuzzy. I catch her looking at me again, same intense stare as before, but now there’s something extra in it. I don’t know, maybe hunger, maybe just curiosity. Hell, I’m not gonna overthink it. My brain’s already half-gone from the booze, and the warmth of her leg pressed against mine is starting to mess with me. It’s been months since I’ve been with anyone, and yeah, I’m thinking about it now, even if I don’t wanna say it out loud.

“You don’t talk much, do ya?” she says outta nowhere, her voice slicing through the silence. She’s got the bottle in her hands, just rolling it back and forth, not drinking. I lean back against the couch, trying to act all chill even though my heart’s picking up speed again. “Only when I got somethin’ worth sayin’,” I shoot back. “You don’t seem like a big talker yourself.” She smirks, just a tiny one, and sets the bottle down on the table. Then, without a word, she scoots closer. Her hand lands on my thigh, not soft or playful, nah, it’s firm, like she’s testing the waters. I freeze for a second, breath catching, but I don’t move. Just stare at her. Her face is close now, real close. I can smell the vodka on her breath, see her eyes flick down to my lips. I don’t know who leans in first, me or her, but next thing I know, we’re kissing. It’s hard, messy, no slow buildup or any of that crap. Her lips are rough, chapped, and she tastes like cheap liquor and cigs. It ain’t pretty, but it’s real, and I’m all in.

My hands find her waist, pulling her closer, and she don’t fight it. She’s half on top of me now, her weight pushing me back into the couch. I can feel the heat of her through her shirt. Her hands are on my chest, then sliding up to grab the back of my neck, fingers digging in just enough to make me grunt. We’re sloppy as hell, teeth clashing a little, but neither of us gives a damn. It’s like we’re both just letting go of whatever baggage we’ve been hauling around, even if it’s just for a minute. I tug at the hem of her shirt, kinda fumbling, and she pulls back just long enough to yank it over her head and chuck it somewhere on the floor. She’s got a plain black bra on, nothing special, and her skin’s pale with a few freckles sprinkled across her shoulders. There’s a small tattoo on her collarbone, some jagged line I don’t bother asking about. My hands are on her now, sliding over her sides, feeling the slight roughness of her skin, maybe old scars, maybe just life. She don’t flinch, just leans back in, kissing me harder, her hands messing with the zipper of my hoodie. “Fuckin’ thing,” she mutters when it gets stuck halfway, and I let out a short, rough laugh before helping her get it off.

My shirt’s next, and then it’s skin on skin, her chest pressed against mine as she straddles my lap. I can feel her hips grinding down, slow at first, then harder, and I’m already getting worked up, my dick straining against my jeans. She notices, smirks again, and reaches down to palm me through the fabric. She ain’t gentle about it either. I groan, louder than I meant to, and she makes this low, throaty sound that’s not quite a laugh. “Been a while, huh?” she teases, her voice rough, but I don’t say shit. Just grab her hips and pull her down harder against me. She don’t stop me, just keeps moving, her hands working at my belt now, fumbling with the buckle ‘til it finally gives. I’m breathing heavy, and so is she, her chest rising and falling fast as she shoves my jeans down just enough to get her hand inside my boxers. Her fingers wrap around me, tight and sure, and I hiss at the contact, head tipping back against the couch. She don’t play around, stroking me slow but firm, her thumb brushing over the tip where I’m already leaking a little. “Shit,” I mumble, half to myself, and she don’t say a word, just watches my face like she’s getting a kick outta seeing me lose it a bit.

I ain’t about to let her have all the control, though. I slide my hand down the front of her jeans, past the waistband of her underwear. She’s hot and wet already, and my fingers slip easy against her, finding her clit and rubbing in rough circles. She gasps, her grip on me tightening for a split second, and I grin, liking that I got a reaction outta her. We’re both a damn mess now, panting and groping, clothes half-on, half-off. I can smell her, sharp and musky, mixed with the stale air of the apartment and the lingering burn of vodka. I push her jeans down a bit more, trying to get better access, and she lifts her hips to help, kicking them off one leg so they’re just dangling off the other. Her underwear’s plain too, dark gray and kinda worn, but I don’t care. I’m too focused on getting my fingers deeper, sliding two inside her while my thumb keeps working her clit. She moans, low and raw, her head dropping to my shoulder as she rocks against my hand.

I’m about to say something, maybe ask if she’s got a condom or if she wants to move to the bedroom, but she’s quicker. She pulls back and shoves my boxers down further. My dick springs free, hard and aching, and she looks at it for a second before meeting my eyes. There’s no question in her look, just pure intent, and I nod, barely thinking straight at this point.

So, she moves, kinda hovering over me, one hand steadying things as she starts to ease herself down. That first bit? Damn, it’s tight, almost too much, and I’m clenching my jaw, hands clamped on her hips as she goes lower, real slow, like she’s testing the waters. Her breathing catches, and I can feel a little shake in her, like she’s getting used to it. Look, I know we don’t got a condom on, and yeah, that’s stupid as shit, but right now? I’m too far in my head to give a damn. She doesn’t seem to either, just keeps going, taking me in deeper until I’m all the way there. It’s raw, intense, a bit awkward at first with how we’re angled on this damn couch, but then she starts moving her hips, rolling them, and holy shit, it feels good. Too good, man. I’m grunting with every shift, trying not to lose it already, my fingers digging into her skin while she rides me, hands on my shoulders to keep steady. Her bra’s still on, tits bouncing just a little with each move, and I’m dying to get it off, see more, but my brain’s too scrambled to do anything about it. We’re getting loud now, the couch creaking like it’s gonna snap, our breaths all ragged and messy. Sweat’s starting to build, her thighs sticking to mine, and the heat of her is driving me fuckin’ nuts. I push up to meet her, harder than I planned, and she gasps, nails scratching at my shoulders. It stings a bit, but screw it, I don’t care, just keep going, chasing that edge that’s coming way too fast. She’s tight, hot, wet, and every damn move is pushing me closer, but I’m not ready for this to end. Not even close.

I’m losing track of time, just caught in the rhythm, the way Signe’s hips grind down, the slick heat of her squeezing around me. My hands are still locked on her hips, probably gonna leave marks, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care. She’s got this look, eyes half-shut, mouth open just enough that I hear every sharp little breath. I thrust up again, hard, and the couch groans like it’s about to break. Don’t give a shit. My head’s spinning, the vodka still buzzing through me, mixing with this raw, wild feeling of it all. “Fuck, slow down,” I mumble, ‘cause I’m way too close already, and I’m not tryna look like a damn fool. Does she listen? Nah, she just smirks a little, nails digging into me again as she speeds up instead. Goddamn. I grit my teeth, trying to hold on, sliding a hand down between us to rub at her clit, figuring if I’m gonna lose it, might as well bring her along. Her breath hitches, a low moan slipping out, and I feel her tighten, thighs trembling just a bit. That’s it, I think, keep going, and I keep working my thumb, messy and rough, while I push up into her. She’s loud now, not holding back, letting out these sharp gasps and muttered curses, and it’s shoving me right to the brink. I can tell she’s close, her movements all jerky, less in control, and then she’s clenching hard around me, her whole body locking up as she comes. Her head drops to my neck, hot breath on my skin, and she mumbles something, maybe a “fuck” or my name, hell if I know, hell if I care. It’s too much, the way she’s gripping me, that wet heat, and I can’t hold it anymore. I thrust up one last time, hard, and let go, coming inside her with a grunt that’s way louder than I meant. It’s intense, almost hurts, waves hitting me as I empty out, hands still tight on her hips like I’m scared she’ll vanish if I let up.

We’re both panting now, sweaty, sticky as hell, her weight still on me as we come down from it. I can feel the mess between us, the mix of her and me, warm and slick on my thighs, and for a second, the no-condom thing hits me. Shit. Too late to worry now, huh? She doesn’t seem bothered, just shifts a little, still straddling me, chest heaving while she catches her breath. I don’t say a word, just lean my head back on the couch, staring up at the cracked-ass ceiling of her shitty apartment on Saxogade. I’m still inside her, softening now, and the whole thing feels… weird, like I just stepped into someone else’s messed-up life for a hot minute. Eventually, she moves, lifting off me with a small grunt, and I feel that wet slide as I slip out. She doesn’t look at me right away, just swings her legs off the couch and sits beside me, grabbing her underwear from where it’s tangled at her ankle and pulling it back on. There’s cum on her inner thigh, mine, and she wipes at it with the edge of her shirt like it’s nothing before yanking her jeans up. I tug my boxers and jeans back on too, fumbling with the zipper, feeling the ache in my back from this stupid couch angle. The air in here feels thick now, stale, reeking of us, but I’m not gonna say shit about it. Don’t got the energy for that.

“You got a smoke?” I ask, voice all rough, mostly just to cut through the weird quiet. She nods, reaching over to the coffee table, digging under a pile of junk mail to grab a beat-up pack of Kings. She pulls out two, hands me one, lights hers with some cheap Bic lighter, then passes it over. I light mine, take a drag, and let the harsh tobacco burn down my throat. It’s a shitty cigarette, tastes like absolute garbage, but it gives me something to do with my hands, something to think about besides the fact I just fucked a stranger raw in her living room.

She’s not much for talking, just sits there puffing on her cigarette, staring at the wall like we’re just kicking back after grabbing a drink or whatever. I sneak a look at her, noticing how her hair’s all messed up now, sticking to her sweaty neck, and those faint red marks on her shoulders where I must’ve gripped too tight. I don’t feel guilty or anything, honestly don’t feel much at all, just wiped out and sorta hollow. The vodka buzz is fading fast, and that damn ache in my back from the warehouse shift is sneaking back in. I peek at my phone, damn, it’s past midnight already. Last bus to Nørrebro’s probably gone by now. “Gotta bounce,” I mumble, getting up and grinding my cigarette into the ashtray on the table. My legs wobble a bit, feelin’ like jelly for a second, but I shake it off, snatch my hoodie off the floor, and pull it on. She doesn’t say much, just gives a little nod and takes another drag. “Alright,” she says, her voice flat, like she couldn’t care less either way. No “catch ya later” or “hit me up”, none of that crap. I don’t expect it, don’t want it anyway. I zip up my hoodie, stuff my hands in my pockets, and head for the door. She doesn’t bother getting up to walk me out, just stays sprawled on the couch, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling like I’m already a ghost.

The stairwell’s still damp and the lights are flickering as I make my way down. When I push through the front door onto Saxogade, the cold air smacks me right in the face. Vesterbrogade’s pretty quiet at this hour, just a few late-night wanderers and the faint buzz of a scooter somewhere far off. I start trudging toward Central Station, figuring I’ll snag a night bus or maybe just walk the whole way if I gotta. My boots scrape against the pavement, and I can still sorta feel her on me, y’know, the stickiness between my legs, the slight sting of her nails on my skin. I try not to dwell on it, don’t really wanna think too hard. Just keep moving, hands shoved deep in my pockets, the taste of cheap vodka and even cheaper smokes still lingering on my tongue.

A little ways down the street, I pass one of those 24-hour kiosks, the kind that overcharges for soda and sells pastries that taste like cardboard. The guy behind the counter, some old dude with a beard down to his chest, is glued to his phone, doesn’t even glance up as I walk by. I stop for a minute, fish a couple coins outta my pocket, and grab a can of Faxe Kondi ‘cause my throat’s dry as hell. The can feels ice-cold in my hand, and I pop it open right there on the sidewalk, taking a big swig. A bit spills down my chin, but I just wipe it off with my sleeve, don’t really care. Then I keep going, the city lights all blurry in the distance, thinking I’ll probably never see Signe again, and honestly, I’m cool with that.

I’m almost at the station when I spot this stray dog sniffing around a trash bin, some scruffy little thing with half an ear torn off. It looks up at me, eyes catching the streetlight, then just turns and trots off down an alley like I’m not even worth a bark. Fair enough, I guess. I take another sip of the Faxe Kondi, step over a puddle of god-knows-what, and mutter “fuckin’ Tuesday” under my breath before getting swallowed up by the late-night mess of Copenhagen.