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 was up to my elbows in this nasty clogged sink at my uncle’s butcher shop on Rue de la Paix in Charleroi, Belgium, when I first caught sight of her. Man, the place reeked of raw meat and bleach, and my hands were all slimy with grease from wrestling with this stupid pipe that kept getting backed up with blood and fat. It was a crappy Thursday afternoon, you know, the kind where the gray sky just weighs on you like a soggy blanket. I was muttering curses under my breath, half-assing the fix because, let’s be real, I’m no plumber. Then the bell over the door jangled. I glanced up, wiping sweat off my forehead with the back of my arm, and there she was, Sabine. I’d seen her around town a ton of times but never really chatted. She wasn’t some stunning beauty or anything, okay? Don’t get the wrong idea. Sabine was just… regular. Short, with a messy brown ponytail and this beat-up puffy jacket that’d clearly seen better days. Her eyes looked tired, like she’d been up all night fighting with someone, but her mouth had this stubborn set to it, like she didn’t take crap from anybody. I kinda knew her from the neighborhood, she works at the Carrefour on Avenue de l’Europe, always at the checkout, clicking those fake nails on the scanner. I’d grabbed beer and chips from her a few times, mumbled a quick “merci,” and got outta there. Never gave it much thought ‘til that moment.

“Eh, Thierry, you got any of those cheap sausages left?” she asked, leaning on the counter like she ran the joint. Her voice was rough, kinda gravelly, like she smoked too much, which, honestly, she probably did. I could smell the stale cigarette stink on her jacket even from where I was crouched by the sink. I stood up, wiping my hands on my already filthy apron. “Yeah, I think so. Hang on a sec. This damn sink’s been screwing me over all day.” I didn’t mean to sound so annoyed, but I was pissed. My uncle’s had me working part-time here ever since I got laid off from the steelworks on the edge of town, and I hate every friggin’ minute of it. Smelling like raw pork all day ain’t exactly my dream job, you know?

She smirked a bit, watching me try to scrub the grime off my fingers. “Looks like you’re in a full-on battle down there.” “Yeah, well, the battle’s kicking my ass,” I snapped back, grabbing a rag that wasn’t much cleaner than my hands. I trudged over to the cooler behind the counter and yanked out a string of those discount sausages she wanted. They’re the kind nobody buys unless they’re flat broke, greasy as hell, probably half filler. “How many you need?” “Gimme six. Gotta feed the jerk at home,” she said, rolling her eyes. I figured she meant her boyfriend or husband or whoever. Didn’t ask. Didn’t really care. I wrapped the sausages in some butcher paper, scribbled the price on it with a marker, and slid it across the counter. “Five euro,” I said, leaning on my elbows. Up close, I noticed her eyeliner was all smudged, like she’d been rubbing her eyes too hard. She dug into her jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled bill and some loose change, counting it out real slow, like she wasn’t sure she had enough. I just stood there, not saying a word, watching her fumble with the coins.

“Damn it, I’m short fifty cents,” she muttered, looking up at me with this mix of irritation and embarrassment. “You gonna make me trek back to the store for it?” I shrugged. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Just don’t tell my uncle. He’ll chew me out.” Truth is, I didn’t give a crap about the fifty cents, but I acted like I was doing her some huge favor. Honestly, I was bored out of my mind, and talking to her was the most interesting thing that’d happened all day. She snorted, stuffing the sausages into her reusable Carrefour bag. “Thanks, big shot. I owe you one.” Then she just stood there, not leaving, like she had something else on her mind but couldn’t get it out. I raised an eyebrow, waiting. The shop was dead silent, except for the hum of the cooler and the odd car rumbling by on Rue de la Paix. Charleroi ain’t exactly a happening place, you know? It’s just this grimy little post-industrial hole, full of abandoned factories and bars where old guys drink pastis ‘til they keel over. This street, right by the Sambre River, always smells like wet concrete and cigarette butts. It’s home, I guess, but it sure as hell ain’t pretty.

“So, uh,” she started, scratching the back of her neck, “do you ever get outta this dump? Like, for fun or anything?” I blinked. Was she… hitting on me? Nah, probably not. Just making small talk, right? “Not really. I work here, sometimes grab a drink at Le Tonneau on Rue de Dampremy. That’s pretty much it. You?” She shrugged, staring out the smudged window at the dreary street. “Same deal. Though I’ve got a kid now, so it’s mostly just sitting at home watching dumb shows. Sometimes I sneak out for a smoke and a beer when the little terror’s asleep.” She laughed, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. More like she was mocking how messed up her life felt. I nodded, not really knowing what to say. I’m no good with personal stuff, never have been. But something about how she said it, like she was desperate for a break, kinda stuck with me. Without even thinking, I leaned a bit closer over the counter. “Yeah, well, if you ever need a break from the kid and the jerk, Le Tonneau’s got cheap pints on Wednesdays. Just throwing it out there.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine, and for a split second, I thought I saw something, curiosity, maybe, or just straight-up desperation. She didn’t smile, but her mouth kinda twitched, like she was thinking it over. “Maybe I will. You working tomorrow night?” “Nah, I’m off. Might swing by there after closing up here, though.” I said it all casual, like it was no big deal, but I was already wondering if she’d actually show up.

Man, I don’t even get why I gave a damn. Sabine wasn’t my kinda girl, or maybe I don’t even have a type to begin with. Usually, I just end up with whoever’s around when I’ve had one too many. Like last time, some girl from Marcinelle at a house party, couldn’t even tell you her name the next morning. But Sabine? I don’t know, something about her got under my skin. Maybe it’s just ‘cause I’m stuck in this damn butcher shop all day, reeking of raw meat and death, and she was… well, a distraction from the same old crap. “Alright. Maybe I’ll see ya,” she said, taking a step back toward the door. She gave me this quick little nod, like we’d agreed on something, and just like that, she was out. The bell above the door jangled as she left. I stood there like a dumbass, staring at the empty doorway, wondering what the hell I was even doing. Inviting her for a drink? Really? She’s probably got a whole mess of drama waiting at home, and I don’t need that kinda bullshit in my life. Still, I couldn’t stop picturing her showing up at Le Tonneau, maybe with that same worn-out look in her eyes, maybe just looking for a way to unwind.

I dragged myself back to the sink, muttering curses as I wrestled with the stupid pipe again. The rest of the day crawled by, painfully slow. A couple of old dudes came in for steak, some lady grabbed a whole chicken, nothing exciting. Boring as hell. All the while, I kept sneaking glances at the clock above the counter, just waiting to lock up and get out. Charleroi’s got nothing going for it, let’s be real, but Le Tonneau’s… it’s okay, I guess. It’s this grimy little dive bar squeezed between a laundromat and a boarded-up pawn shop. The floors are sticky, the jukebox only spits out terrible 80s tunes, but it’s familiar. I’ve wasted way too many nights there, chugging Stella Artois ‘til my face goes numb, shooting the shit with whoever’s around. It ain’t fancy, but it’s my spot. And now I couldn’t help but wonder if Sabine would actually show up, or if I’d just made a complete fool of myself for no reason.

By the time I shut down the shop at six, the sky was already dark, and a light drizzle was coming down. I locked the door, shoved my hands deep into my jacket pockets, and started walking down Rue de la Paix toward home. I’ve got this tiny, cramped apartment above a kebab joint on Rue de Montigny, just a few blocks away. The plan was simple: shower off the butcher stink, grab a bite, then head to Le Tonneau. I kept telling myself I wasn’t going just ‘cause of her, that I’d go anyway, but yeah, I knew I was full of it. Something about that little chat we had stuck with me, like a nagging thought I couldn’t shake. I didn’t even know what I was hoping for, or if I was hoping for anything at all. But as I trudged through the damp streets, past the boarded-up shops and the graffiti scrawled on the walls, I couldn’t stop wondering what’d happen if she actually showed.

Got home, peeled off my gross, stinking clothes, and stood under the shower ‘til the hot water gave out, which didn’t take long in my crappy place. Downstairs, the kebab shop was blasting some Turkish pop music through the floorboards, and the smell of grilled meat and onions just seeped into everything. I threw on a sorta-clean hoodie and jeans, wolfed down a leftover sandwich from yesterday, and checked my phone. No messages. Not that I thought there’d be any. Shoved it in my pocket and stepped back out into the damp Charleroi night, the drizzle sticking to my face as I walked the few blocks to Le Tonneau on Rue de Dampremy. The bar was the same as ever, dim yellow lights, the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke, and a handful of regulars hunched over their pints like they’d been glued there since noon. The jukebox was blaring some awful Johnny Hallyday song, and Marc, the bartender with a gut like a damn beach ball, gave me a nod as I walked in. I ordered a Stella, slumped into a sticky chair at a table near the back, and tried to play it cool, like I wasn’t checking the door every five seconds. Told myself I didn’t care if Sabine showed or not, but my leg kept bouncing under the table like I was some nervous kid.

Halfway through my second beer, the door creaked open, and there she was. Looked pretty much the same as earlier, messy ponytail, puffy jacket, that tired look practically carved into her face. She spotted me right away, gave a small jerk of her chin as a hello, and walked over without a second thought. My stomach did this weird little flip, but I kept it chill, taking a swig of my beer as she slid into the chair across from me. “Thought you might not show,” I said, keeping my tone flat, like it didn’t matter one way or the other. She just shrugged, unzipping her jacket and tossing it over the back of the chair. Underneath, she had on a faded black tank top, her collarbone jutting out sharp under her skin. “Kid’s with my mom for the night. Figured I’d get out before I completely lose my damn mind,” she said, her voice rough, like she’d smoked a pack on the way over. She waved Marc over, ordered a cheap vodka soda, then turned back to me. “So, this your big idea of a good time? Hanging out in this dump?”

I snorted. “Yeah, pretty much. Ain’t a whole lot else to do in Charleroi unless you’re into stealing bikes or getting trashed in the park by the Sambre.” I leaned back in my chair, watching her. Up close, I could see the faint lines around her eyes, the chipped polish on her fake nails. She wasn’t trying to impress anybody, and honestly, I kinda dug that. No fake crap, just real. She let out a short, bitter laugh and took a big gulp of her drink when it showed up. “Yeah, well, I ain’t exactly living the dream either. Between the kid and the asshole at home, I’m just trying to catch my breath for five friggin’ minutes.” She looked at me then, her eyes narrowing a bit, like she was trying to figure me out.

“Got nobody waiting up for you?” she asked, kinda out of nowhere. “Nah,” I said, fiddling with my beer bottle, spinning it on the sticky table. “Just me and my crap apartment. I’m good with it, though.” I didn’t bother mentioning the random hookups or how I haven’t had a real thing with anyone since I was twenty. Didn’t feel like it mattered. We just sat there for a bit, knocking back drinks, chatting about dumb stuff, stupid customers at Carrefour, that time some drunk idiot pissed all over the butcher shop door, how the city’s been going to hell since the factories closed. Nothing heavy, nothing special. Just two people stuck in this dreary-ass town, passing the time. But as the drinks kept coming, we started leaning in closer across the table. I could smell the vodka on her breath, mixed with this cheap perfume, like fake flowers and a hint of sweat. I was buzzing hard by then, and I caught myself staring at how her tank top hugged her chest, not huge or anything, but enough to notice. Snapped my eyes away quick, though. Pretty sure she saw me anyway.

“Fuck it,” she blurted suddenly, slamming her empty glass down with a thud. “Wanna get outta here? I’m not ready to go home, and I’m done with this dump.” Her eyes had this spark, like she was challenging me to say no. I didn’t even stop to think. “Yeah, sure. Where we headed?” My place wasn’t far, but I didn’t wanna seem too pushy or make it weird. Didn’t wanna mess this up. She just shrugged, getting up and grabbing her jacket. “Anywhere. Just not here.” We stumbled outside into the night, a light drizzle turning into actual rain that soaked through my hoodie in no time. We walked down Rue de Dampremy, past all the shuttered shops and flickering streetlights, not saying much. My heart was thumping a bit, but I shoved my hands in my pockets, playing it cool like this was nothing.

We ended up cutting through this sketchy alley off Rue de la Montagne, the kind that always reeks of piss and trash. I don’t even know who made the first move, but next thing I know, we’re up against the brick wall, her jacket all bunched up in my hands. Her mouth slammed into mine, rough and messy, tasting like vodka and cigarettes. I didn’t care one bit. My hands slipped under her jacket, grabbing at her hips through her tank top, feeling the heat of her skin even through the cloth. She kissed back just as hard, her teeth scraping my lip, fingers digging into my shoulders. It wasn’t pretty or romantic or any of that movie bullshit. It was sloppy, hungry, like we both needed to forget something for a while. I could feel the wet brick against my back, rain dripping down my neck, her breath hot and ragged on my face. “Fuck, Thierry,” she muttered, pulling back just enough to look at me, her eyes dark and kinda wild. Her ponytail was a mess, half falling out, strands sticking to her damp face. I didn’t say a word, just pulled her closer, my hand sliding under her shirt to touch the bare skin of her lower back, slick from the rain. She let out this little sound, not a moan or anything dramatic, just a sharp breath, and pressed herself against me harder.

I flipped us around, pinning her to the wall now, my knee pushing between her legs as I fumbled with the button on her jeans. My fingers were cold and shaky from the rain, and I muttered a curse when it took me too damn long. She didn’t laugh or help, just stared at me with this intense look, breathing fast. Finally got it undone, shoved the denim down just enough to slide my hand in, feeling the heat through her underwear, nothing fancy, just plain cotton. She was already wet, and I rubbed over the fabric, rough and clumsy, not trying to be all gentle or whatever. She hissed, head tilting back against the brick, one hand grabbing my wrist like she wasn’t sure if she wanted me to stop or keep going. I leaned in, mouth on her neck, tasting the salty skin mixed with rain, biting a little too hard ‘cause my head wasn’t exactly clear. My other hand was on her chest, squeezing through her shirt and bra, feeling her nipple hard under my thumb. She squirmed against me, hips pushing into my hand, and I shoved the underwear aside, slipping two fingers inside her without any warning. She was tight, hot, slick as hell, and she let out this low grunt, nails digging into my arm. I moved my fingers fast, not really knowing what I was doing, just going by instinct and how she reacted, her breath catching every time I curled them a bit.

Her hand started fumbling with my jeans, yanking at the zipper with the same awkward rush I’d had. I was already hard, had been since we started kissing, and when she got her hand around me through my boxers, I groaned into her neck, hips jerking forward without me even meaning to. She stroked me rough, no smoothness to it, her grip tight and kinda uneven, but damn, it felt good anyway. I could smell her now, not just the rain or the nasty alley stink, but her, raw and musky, mixing with the dampness of our clothes. My jeans were halfway down my ass, cold air hitting my skin, but I didn’t give a crap. I pulled my fingers out of her, slick and sticky, and wiped them on my hoodie without even thinking, then grabbed her thigh, hitching her leg up around my waist. I was about to shove my boxers down, no condom, no nothing, just straight-up dumb impulse, when I felt her tense up a little, her hand stopping on me. Her eyes flicked to mine, breathing heavy, rain dripping off her chin.

I wasn’t sure if she’d stop me or egg me on, and I didn’t bother asking. Just pinned her against that grimy wall, my dick throbbing in her hand, waiting to see what the hell she’d do next. My heart was pounding like crazy, rain sticking my hair to my face, and I just stood there, staring at Sabine, waiting for some kind of sign. Her grip on me was tight, keeping me right on the edge, but she’d stopped moving her hand. Her eyes were locked on mine, intense as hell, like she was figuring something out in her head, and I couldn’t read her at all. The alley reeked of piss and soggy garbage, the rough brick behind her scraping my knuckles where I braced myself. The cold was creeping into my half-bare ass, too, making me shiver a bit. For a moment, I thought she might shove me away, tell me to get lost, head back to Le Tonneau or wherever, but then her lips curled into this little half-smirk. “Fuck it, just do it,” she mumbled under her breath. Didn’t need to hear that twice.

I yanked my boxers down just far enough, my dick springing free, hard and desperate, the chilly air hitting it for a split second before I pressed up against her. It was a bit of a mess, fumbling around, her jeans and underwear were still halfway down, bunched around her thighs. She shifted a little, lifting one leg to give me some room, and I grabbed under her ass, hoisting her up higher against the wall. She wasn’t heavy, but my arms were already tired from hauling meat all day at the shop, so they were shaking a bit. I could feel the brick through my hoodie where her back was pressed against it, and I figured it had to be rough on her skin, but she didn’t complain, not a word. I pushed into her, no condom, no real prep beyond a quick touch earlier, just raw and needy. She was tight, wet, gripping me hard, and I let out a grunt as I went all the way in, my hips slamming into hers a little harder than I planned. She gasped, sharp, like it hurt, her nails digging into my shoulders through my hoodie, but she didn’t say stop. Her legs clamped tighter around my waist, heels pressing into my lower back, and I started moving, hard, fast thrusts, ‘cause I didn’t have the patience for slow.

The angle sucked, honestly. My boots kept slipping on the wet concrete, but I didn’t give a shit. It felt too damn good, the heat of her around me, the way her breath caught every time I pushed in. Her head tilted back against the wall, eyes half-shut, mouth open as she panted. Rain was sliding down her neck, mixing with the sweat there, and I leaned in, sucking at the skin just under her jaw, tasting the salt and dampness. My teeth scraped a bit, probably left a mark, but she just groaned low, her hand sliding up to grab the back of my neck. My thrusts were all over the place, messy as hell, just pure need driving me, no rhythm or finesse. I could feel her tightening around me, could hear the wet sounds of us over the rain and the faint noise of traffic from Rue de la Montagne. It wasn’t pretty, no movie bullshit, just two people fucking in a nasty alley, clothes half-on, rain soaking us through.

“Harder,” she rasped out, her voice rough, almost drowned out by the sounds around us. Didn’t even think, just did it, slamming into her with everything I had, my hands gripping her ass so tight I probably left marks. Her breath came in quick, sharp bursts, her body jerking with each thrust, and I felt her start to shake, her thighs squeezing me. Couldn’t tell if she was close or just uncomfortable, but I kept going, chasing my own release. My balls were tight, pressure building fast, and I knew I wasn’t gonna hold out much longer. Didn’t warn her, didn’t ask if I should pull out, stupid as hell, I know, but my head wasn’t exactly calling the shots right then. She came first, I think, her whole body locking up, a choked noise tearing out of her as she clenched around me so hard it almost hurt. Her nails scratched down my neck, stinging even through my hoodie, and that pushed me over. I groaned, deep and rough, and came inside her, hips jerking unevenly as I let go, a few last desperate thrusts to ride it out. Could feel the heat, the mess of it mixing with her, slick between us.

My legs were damn near giving out by the end, barely holding us up. I pressed my forehead against her shoulder, panting like I’d sprinted a mile. We stayed like that for, I dunno, ten seconds maybe, both of us trying to catch our breath, rain still dripping down my back and pooling in my hoodie collar. Then she moved, unwrapping her legs from around me, and I pulled out, a sticky trail of cum and her wetness stretching between us before it snapped, dripping onto the concrete. I set her down, hands lingering on her hips for a second before I stepped back, pulling my boxers and jeans up. My dick was still half-hard, sensitive as hell, and I winced zipping up, the fabric rubbing wrong. She fixed her jeans too, wincing a bit as she buttoned them, her face all flushed and sweaty even with the cold. Neither of us said a word at first, just stood there in that shitty alley, the weight of what we’d done hitting us, no fluffy afterthoughts or whatever. “Fuck, that was dumb,” she muttered after a bit, wiping her face with her jacket sleeve.

Her voice didn’t have any heat in it, just this flat, matter-of-fact tone, like she was reading off a grocery list or something. She crouched down a bit, fishing a beat-up pack of cigarettes from her pocket, and lit one with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. The smoke drifted up into the damp, heavy air, curling lazily, and she didn’t even glance my way to offer me a drag. Just took a long, slow pull and stared at the wall like it might spill some big secret. “Yeah, probably,” I muttered, jamming my hands into my pockets, the damp fabric clinging to my skin like a second layer. My legs felt like they might give out, all wobbly, and I could still smell her on me, sharp and musky, mixing with the alley’s nasty stench of garbage and piss. I didn’t have anything else to say. Didn’t really feel like I needed to, you know? It’s not like we were gonna sit here and spill our guts about feelings or some crap like that. That’s not how this goes.

She took another drag, deep and deliberate, then flicked the half-smoked cigarette into a puddle nearby. Watched it sizzle out with this blank look. “I gotta head back. Mom’s only got the kid ‘til midnight,” she said, not even looking at me, just zipping up her jacket real quick and starting to walk toward the end of the alley. Her boots splashed in the shallow, murky water pooling on the ground. I stood there for a second, watching her go, her shoulders all hunched up as she disappeared around the corner onto Rue de la Montagne. Didn’t call after her. What’s the point, right? I slumped back against the rough brick wall, feeling this dull ache in my arms and the raw, chafing burn where my jeans rubbed against me, still sensitive down there. The rain just kept coming, steady and cold, soaking right through my hoodie ‘til I couldn’t tell where the wet stopped and I started.

Thought about swinging by Le Tonneau for another beer, just to kill time, but nah, that felt kinda pointless now. My buzz was long gone, replaced by this weird, hollow thing in my chest I didn’t wanna mess with. So I just started walking the other way, heading toward my crappy little apartment on Rue de Montigny. A block out, the greasy smell of the kebab shop hit me hard, clinging to the air. Halfway there, I stopped at that little tabac on the corner, the one with the flickering neon sign that’s been busted since I was a damn kid. Dug out the last few euros in my pocket and grabbed a pack of cheap smokes. Lit one up right there under the awning, taking a drag so deep it burned my throat raw. Some old guy in a flat cap shuffled by, grumbling about the weather, and I just nodded like I cared. Then I kept going, smoke trailing behind me, ‘til I got to my building.

Didn’t think about Sabine, or the alley, or what the hell any of it even meant. Not worth the brain space. Just hauled myself up the creaky-ass stairs, unlocked my door, and kicked off my soggy boots by the radiator. There was a half-empty can of Stella sitting on the counter from last night, just staring at me. Grabbed it, popped the tab even though I knew it’d be flat as hell, and took a swig anyway while I looked out the grimy window at the empty street below. Some mangy stray cat was digging through a tipped-over bin across the way, its wet fur all slick and pathetic from the rain. Watched it for a minute, just… I dunno, zoning out. Then I turned away, tossed the can into the sink with a little clink, and that was that.