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 up to my elbows in a mess of greasy engine bits at my cousin’s garage, way out on the edge of Västerås, Sweden, when the day just flips on me in a way I never saw coming. It’s Thursday afternoon, late September, and it’s sticky as hell, humid like summer forgot to leave. I’ve been wrestling with this beat-to-shit Volvo 850 for hours, sweat rolling down my back, oil smeared all over my arms. The garage, basically a rundown shed off Industrivägen, reeks of motor oil and old, stale coffee. The radio’s blaring some godawful Swedish pop I can’t stand, but I’m too lazy to turn it off. Look, I’m no mechanic, alright? I’m just here ‘cause I owe my cousin Lars a favor after he covered my ass on a bar tab last month at Kvarteret, that sketchy spot by the train station. So yeah, I’m grumbling to myself, cursing at this stupid bolt that won’t budge, when I hear gravel crunching outside. I figure it’s Lars back from his lunch run to ICA Maxi, probably with some lukewarm korv med bröd, but nope, it ain’t him. I wipe my hands on a rag, step out of the garage bay, and there’s this girl, Frida, leaning on a rusty old Saab by the fence. I remember her from way back, like high school at Rudbeckianska Gymnasiet, though we barely ever spoke. She was quiet, always in oversized hoodies, doodling in notebooks during breaks by that brick wall in the courtyard. But now? She’s standing there in tight jeans and a short jacket, hair dyed this crazy bright red, looking like she’s got somewhere to be. She’s got an unlit cigarette hanging from her lips, staring right at me like she’s figuring me out or something.

“Yo, Sven,” she says, super casual, like we’re old pals or whatever. My name’s actually spelled with a ‘w,’ but I don’t bother correcting her. Most people around here don’t care about little stuff like that. “Lars around?”

“Nah, he’s out grabbing food or something,” I tell her, squinting into the weak sunlight. “What’s going on? You got car trouble or what?”

She smirks, flicks the unlit cigarette to the ground, and just shrugs. “Not really. Heard you guys were messing with some old beaters, so I thought I’d stop by. Got nothing else going on.” Okay, that’s weird as hell, right? Västerås isn’t exactly the place for random visits, especially not at some grimy garage down a dead-end road in the industrial zone. This ain’t Stockholm, people don’t just “drop in” unless they’re after something. But I don’t call her out on it. I just nod, wipe my hands on my already-dirty jeans, and point toward the garage. “Well, I’m just screwing around with this crap Volvo. Wanna wait for Lars inside or something?”

She doesn’t answer right off. Instead, she walks over, boots crunching on the gravel, and peeks into the garage bay. I catch this sharp smell as she passes by, like cheap perfume mixed with cigarette smoke. I’m not gonna lie, I sneak a quick glance, those jeans are tight, man, but I shake it off fast. I’m not some weirdo, and anyway, I’m covered in grease and probably stink like an oil can. “Damn, you actually know what you’re doing?” she asks, nodding at the engine I’ve got half ripped apart on the workbench. There’s a little bite in her tone, like she’s testing me or something.

I snort. “Hardly. I’m just doing whatever Lars tells me. Half the time, I’m pretty sure I’m just making it worse.” She lets out a short, sharp laugh and leans against the workbench, arms crossed. Up close, I notice a small tattoo peeking out from under her jacket sleeve, some odd geometric design on her wrist. I don’t ask about it, we’re not tight like that. Honestly, I don’t even get why she’s here. But there’s this vibe about her, all casual but with some weird tension, like she’s waiting for something to go down. I feel it too, though I can’t quite figure out why. Maybe it’s just ‘cause I’ve been stuck in this garage all day, bored out of my mind, or maybe it’s how her eyes keep darting over me, not flirty or anything, just… curious, I guess.

“So, what, you just chill at garages now?” I ask, trying to break the quiet. I grab a wrench off the bench, mostly to keep my hands busy, and start messing with a random bolt I don’t even need to touch.

“Nah,” she says, picking at a loose thread on her jacket. “I’ve been working night shifts at the old paper mill. Sucks big time, but it pays the bills. Just got off a few hours ago, couldn’t sleep, so I started walking around. Saw Lars’ truck out front on my way by.” Okay, that makes a bit more sense. The paper mill, over by Mälaren, isn’t too far, maybe a twenty-minute walk if you take the back roads by Bäckby. Still, it’s kinda odd she’d end up here of all places. I don’t say that, though. I just grunt like I get it and go back to pretending I’m working. The radio’s still playing absolute trash, and I’m tempted to shut it off, but I don’t wanna look like I’m trying too hard to chat or whatever.

Then, out of nowhere, she hits me with, “You still with that girl? What’s her name, Klara or something?” I damn near drop the wrench. Klara and I split up like six months ago after a huge blowout outside Pitcher’s, that bar on Stora Gatan. Pretty sure half the town knows about it, small place like this, word gets around. I don’t feel like getting into it, so I just shrug. “Nah, that’s over. Been on my own for a while now.”

She nods, like she figured as much, and there’s this little pause. Not exactly awkward, but… heavy, you know? Like there’s something floating between us, something neither of us is spitting out. I glance over at her, and she’s staring at the engine parts on the bench, but I swear I see her lips twitch, like she’s holding back a smirk or something.

Man, my stomach does this weird twist, not like some cute butterfly nonsense, just this raw, dumb gut feeling like this convo ain’t as random as it seems. I’m still trying to figure out what to even say when I hear gravel crunching outside. I glance up, thinking it’s gotta be Lars, but nah, it’s not. It’s friggin’ Niklas, this guy I go way back with. We used to sling kebabs together at that spot on Vasagatan a few years ago. He’s a big dude, loud as all hell, always rocking these beat-up leather jackets that look like they’re one rip away from trash. He’s got a beer can in his hand, already popped open, naturally, and he’s grinning like he just hit the jackpot. “Sven, you lazy bastard, still here?” he yells, so damn loud I bet half the block heard him. He stomps over, doesn’t even clock Frida at first, and claps me on the shoulder so hard I flinch. “Lars said you’d be done with that Volvo by now. What, you just screwing around in here or what?” “Screw off, Niklas,” I shoot back, pushing him off, but I can’t help but crack a laugh. He’s a total jerk, but the kind you just… deal with, you know?

Then he spots Frida, and his whole face shifts, like a dog eyeing a steak. “Well, damn, who’s this?” he says, straight-up checking her out, not even pretending to be slick about it. I roll my eyes, but Frida doesn’t seem to care. She just raises an eyebrow, gives him this look like she’s already over his crap, and goes, “Frida. And you’re… loud.” Niklas lets out this big, stupid laugh and takes a gulp of his beer. “Hell yeah, I am. You hanging around? We could use some company while Sven here pretends to do jack.” I’m about to tell him to shut it, but Frida jumps in before I can. “Maybe. Depends if you’ve got anything better than that nasty beer you’re drinking.” There’s this weird pause, nobody says a word, and then Niklas grins even bigger, like she just threw down a gauntlet. That odd tension hits me again, harder this time, like the air in the garage got heavy or something. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m starting to think this ain’t just about fixing cars or passing the time anymore.

Frida’s glancing between me and Niklas, and Niklas is staring at her like he’s already cooking up plans. Me? I’m just standing there, wrench still in my grip, wondering how the hell my boring-ass day turned into… whatever this is. I clear my throat, trying to cut through whatever’s building up here. “Lars should be back any minute. You guys wanna wait, or…?” Frida doesn’t answer right off. She just looks at me, then at Niklas, and I swear there’s something in her eyes I can’t figure out. Niklas, being the dumbass he is, just chuckles and goes, “Screw waiting. Let’s find something to do.” And right then, I knew stuff was about to get weird. I’m still holding this stupid wrench, feeling like a total idiot just standing there while Niklas grins like a moron and Frida’s got this expression I can’t pin down. The garage feels smaller somehow, like the walls are squeezing in with the stink of oil, metal, and Niklas’ cheap beer breath. I chuck the wrench onto the workbench just to do something, wipe my hands on my jeans again even though it’s pointless. My palms are sweaty, and it sure as hell ain’t from the humidity.

“Something to do, huh?” Frida says, her voice kinda low, almost like she’s muttering to herself. She’s still leaning on the workbench, one hip jutted out, looking at Niklas now, but her eyes flick to me for a split second. I catch it, and my stomach does that dumb flip again. I got no clue what she’s thinking, but I’m starting to get an idea, and it’s got my heart pounding way harder than it should. Niklas, of course, doesn’t pick up on any of the subtle stuff. He just laughs, loud as crap, and slams his beer can down on the Volvo’s hood, not giving a damn it’s gonna leave a mark. “Hell yeah, girl. I got plenty of ideas. Sven here’s boring as hell, but I bet we can spice things up.” I roll my eyes. “Screw you, man. I’m the one stuck working while you’re just messing around.” But I’m not really mad. There’s this strange vibe buzzing between us three, and I ain’t dumb enough to pretend I don’t feel it.

I glance at Frida, trying to figure out if she’s just playing along or if she’s actually into whatever Niklas is throwing out there. Her face doesn’t give much away, but she’s biting her lower lip just a tiny bit, and that’s enough to make me second-guess everything. She pushes off the workbench, takes a couple steps closer to me, and I catch that sharp perfume again, cutting right through the garage stink. “You’re not that boring,” she says, not flirty or anything, just straight-up, like it’s a fact. Then she turns to Niklas. “And you’re not as funny as you think, but I’m not bouncing yet.” Niklas grins even wider, if that’s even possible, and steps closer too, so now we’re all in this tight little huddle by the Volvo. The radio’s still playing some garbage, some old Kent track I’ve heard a thousand times, and I can hear the faint hum of traffic from Industrivägen outside. But in here, it’s like the rest of Västerås doesn’t even exist. Just us, and this heavy, weird vibe that’s got my skin prickling.

“Alright, screw it,” Niklas says, and he’s got this glint in his eye like he’s about to pull something dumb. He reaches out, grabs Frida’s wrist, not hard, just messing around, and tugs her a bit closer to him. “Let’s see if you’re all talk.” I figure she’s gonna yank her hand back or tell him to piss off, but she doesn’t.

So, she just stares at him, then flicks her eyes over to me, and I swear, it’s like time just drags to a crawl. My throat’s so damn dry I can barely swallow, and I’m stuck wondering if I should say something or just let this whole thing play out, whatever it is. Then, out of nowhere, she smirks, yanks her wrist free, and steps right up to Niklas, close, real close, like her chest is basically grazing that beat-up leather jacket of his. “You first, tough guy,” she says, and there’s this sharp edge to her voice that, I’m not gonna lie, gets me half hard right there in my jeans. Niklas doesn’t even hesitate. He grabs her by the hips, pulls her tight against him, and just lays into her with this hard, sloppy kiss, right in the middle of the stupid garage. It’s not some cute movie moment, it’s messy as hell, all teeth and tongue, and I can hear the wet smack of it over the crappy radio in the corner. I’m just standing there, kinda frozen for a second, watching them go at it like they don’t give a damn I’m right here. My heart’s thumping so loud I can feel it, and yeah, I’m getting harder, which is embarrassing as fuck, but I can’t peel my eyes away.

Frida’s got her hands on Niklas’ shoulders, digging into that cheap-ass leather, and he’s sliding a hand down to grab her ass through those tight jeans she’s wearing. Then she pulls back from the kiss, turns her head to look at me, and I swear her eyes look darker, heavier, than they did a minute ago. “You just gonna stand there and watch, Sven?” she says, and it’s not like she’s making fun of me, it’s more like a dare, like she’s pushing me to do something. I don’t even think. I just step forward, close the distance, and grab the back of her neck, pulling her into a kiss. Her lips are warm, a little rough and chapped, and she tastes like cigarettes mixed with something sweet, maybe gum or some candy, I don’t know. It’s not soft or careful; my teeth knock against hers, and I’m probably kissing too hard, but she doesn’t back off. She’s just as rough, her tongue shoving into my mouth, and I can feel Niklas still pressed up against her other side, his hands gripping her hips. It’s awkward as all hell, the three of us crammed together like this, but it’s also hot in a way I didn’t see coming. I’m noticing everything, her hair brushing my cheek, the heat coming off her, the way Niklas is breathing all heavy like he’s already losing his shit.

My hands start moving on their own, one sliding to her waist, the other sneaking under her jacket to touch the skin just above her jeans. She’s warm, kinda sweaty, and I can feel the edge of that tattoo on her lower back. Niklas mumbles something like, “Fuck yeah,” and then he’s tugging at her jacket, trying to get it off her. It gets caught on one arm, and we’re all fumbling like idiots for a second, letting out these little awkward laughs, but it doesn’t kill the vibe. The jacket drops to the concrete with a dull thud, and now she’s just in this thin tank top, bra straps peeking out, and I can see the shape of her nipples through the fabric. I’m rock hard at this point, no hiding it, and honestly, I don’t even care if they notice. Frida reaches down, grabs the bottom of my shirt, and starts pulling it up. I help her out, yanking it over my head, and I probably reek of grease and sweat, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her hands are on my chest, rough, nails scraping just a bit, and then she’s messing with my belt, undoing it with these quick, jerky movements. Niklas is behind her now, kissing at her neck, his hands sliding up under her tank top, pushing it up to her ribs. I catch a glimpse of the curve of her tits in that black bra, and I’m dying to get it off, but I’m too focused on her fingers fumbling with my zipper.

My jeans are halfway down my thighs when she gets her hand into my boxers, wrapping her fingers around my cock. I hiss through my teeth, her grip’s tight, almost too tight, and her palm’s kinda cold, but fuck, it feels good. She strokes me once, then twice, slow and on purpose, and I can’t stop the grunt that slips out. I look down, see her hand moving inside the fabric, and it’s messy, not smooth at all, but that just makes it hotter somehow. There’s already a bead of precum, and I know she feels it, ‘cause she smirks up at me, her face all flushed. Niklas has her tank top shoved up to her armpits now, and he’s got a hand inside her bra, groping her tit, pinching at her nipple. She lets out this quiet, sharp moan, and it hits me straight in the dick. I push her jeans down, wrestling with the tight denim, and she helps, kicking off one boot so we can get a leg free. Her underwear’s nothing special, just plain dark blue cotton, but there’s a damp spot right in the middle, and I can smell her, musky, real, cutting through the stale garage air. I rub her through the fabric, pressing my thumb against her clit, and she jerks against me, her hand tightening on my cock. “Fuck, don’t tease,” she mutters, her voice all rough and low, and I’m not about to argue. I shove her underwear down, just enough to get in there, and slide two fingers between her folds. She’s so damn wet, slick and hot, and I feel her pussy clench around my fingers as I push in. She gasps, her head tipping back against Niklas’ shoulder, and he’s grinning at me over her, like we’re pulling off some messed-up teamwork.

I’m about to pull my fingers out, line myself up to fuck her right there against the workbench, no condom, no nothing, just raw and dumb as hell, when I hear this faint crunch of gravel outside. My heart skips, just stops for a second, but I don’t pull away. Frida’s panting, her hand still on my cock, stroking me all uneven, and Niklas is whispering something filthy in her ear, his hand still on her tit.

Man, there’s no turning back now, whether it’s Lars or some other idiot showing up. I’ve got no clue what’s coming next, and honestly, I couldn’t care less right this second. I’m just standing here, my fingers still deep inside Frida, her heat and wetness all around them, while the gravel crunch outside gets louder. My heart’s pounding like crazy, but I’m not pulling out, not yet. Frida’s hand is still on me, jerking me off rough and messy, her thumb sliding over the tip, spreading precum down my shaft. Niklas is right behind her, one hand grabbing at her chest, the other stuffed down the back of her half-down jeans, probably messing around back there. I don’t know, and I don’t really care. She’s letting out these low moans, her breath catching every time I curl my fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes her hips jerk toward me. The garage door’s wide open, and I can see some shadow moving out there in the dim sunlight. Gotta be Lars, or maybe just some random dude lost on Industrivägen, but I’m too far gone to give a damn. My jeans are down around my knees, boxers barely pushed aside enough for my dick to be out, hard and pulsing in Frida’s grip. Her underwear’s tangled around one thigh, jeans half off the other leg, and her tank top and bra are shoved up, leaving her chest bare, pale skin all red from Niklas’ rough hands. She’s got these small, dark nipples, hard as anything, and I can’t stop staring while I’m working her with my fingers, my thumb pressing down on her clit. “Fuck, just do it already,” she mumbles, voice all rough and low, her eyes half-closed as she looks at me. I know exactly what she means, and I don’t even think twice. I pull my fingers out, all slick, wipe them quick on my thigh, and grab her hips. Niklas steps back just a bit to give me space, smirking like a total jackass, and I push her back against the workbench, her ass hitting the edge. Tools go crashing down, some wrench or whatever rolling off with a loud clank, but none of us care. I don’t have a condom, and I don’t even ask if she’s on anything. Dumb as hell, yeah, I know, but my head’s not running the show right now. I line myself up, the tip of my dick brushing against her, feeling how wet and ready she is. She’s staring at me, breathing heavy, and Niklas is just there, watching, one hand already fumbling with his belt, the metal jangling. I push in slow at first, just a little, and she’s so damn tight I almost lose it right then. Her heat grips me, all wet and hot, and I let out a groan, my hands digging into her hips hard enough to leave bruises. “Harder,” she growls, and I don’t hold back. I thrust in deep, all the way, and she gasps, her nails clawing at my shoulders. It’s not smooth or anything fancy, just messy and desperate, my hips slamming into hers, the workbench creaking under her. The sounds are obscene, wet and loud every time I pull back and push in again. Sweat’s dripping down my back, mixing with the grease already on me, and her smell is everywhere, raw and musky, cutting through the garage stench of oil and metal. Niklas isn’t just standing there anymore. He’s got himself out, stroking with one hand, the other reaching around to grab at Frida’s chest again, pinching her nipple so hard she yelps. “Fuck, man, let me have a go,” he says, voice all thick, but I’m not listening. I’m too caught up in how Frida’s tightening around me, her legs hooking around my waist, pulling me in deeper. I lean down, my mouth on her neck, tasting the salt and that sharp perfume, biting a little too hard. She doesn’t say a word against it, just moans louder, her hand slipping down between us to rub herself while I keep going. I’m close, way too damn close already, and I know I’m not gonna last long. I can feel it building, that tight heat, and I’m grunting with every thrust, trying to hold off just a bit. Frida’s getting louder too, her moans turning into these sharp little cries, her fingers speeding up on herself. Then Niklas shoves in closer, nudging me to the side so I almost slip out. “Move, asshole,” he mutters, and before I can snap back, he’s grabbing her face, turning her head toward him, and pushing himself against her lips. She doesn’t even hesitate. She opens up, takes him in, and I can hear the wet, sloppy sound of her on him while I’m still inside her. It’s messed up, seeing her lips stretched around him, spit dripping down her chin, her eyes watering a bit as he moves. But, damn, it’s hot too, in some weird way I can’t put into words, and it pushes me right to the brink. I’m slamming into her now, no control, just pure need, and I can feel her starting to flutter around me like she’s about to lose it. She does, a second later, her whole body going tense, letting out a muffled scream around Niklas as she shakes beneath me. She clamps down hard, pulsing, and that’s it for me. I pull out just in time, barely, and finish on her stomach, thick streaks splashing across her skin, some catching the edge of her tank top still bunched up. I’m panting, chest heaving, my dick twitching as the last of it drips out. Niklas isn’t far behind, he groans loud, pulls out of her mouth, and finishes on her chest, his mess mixing with mine, just a sticky disaster all over her. For a moment, we’re all just standing there, breathing hard, some crappy song still playing on the radio in the background. Frida’s leaning back on the workbench, legs still apart, looking like an absolute wreck, hair all over the place, face flushed, cum dripping down her stomach and chest.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing spit and God knows what else, and lets out this short, exhausted little laugh. “Well, fuck,” she mutters, her voice all rough and scratchy, and that’s all she’s got. No mushy stuff, no long stares, just that. I’m yanking my boxers and jeans back up, fumbling with the damn zipper ‘cause my hands are still shaking like hell. Niklas, though, he’s already zipping himself up, grinning like he just scored big time, but he doesn’t say a word. Frida slides off the workbench, wincing a bit as she tugs her underwear and jeans back on, not even bothering to wipe herself down or anything. Her tank top drops back into place, hiding most of the mess, but I can still see those damp spots on the fabric, plain as day. She snatches her jacket off the floor, gives it a quick shake like none of this even happened, and slips it on.

I’m standing there, mouth half-open, about to say something, hell, I don’t even know what, when I hear that gravel crunching again, louder now, followed by a car door slamming hard. That’s gotta be Lars, for real this time. I shoot a quick look toward the garage entrance, half expecting him to barge in and flip his lid, but Frida? She just shrugs, like she couldn’t give less of a damn. “Guess I’ll see ya around,” she says, cool as anything, already walking toward the door. Niklas lets out a snort, grabs his empty beer can off the hood of the Volvo, and trails after her, tossing a quick “Later, Sven” over his shoulder without even looking back.

So here I am, just standing there like an idiot, still trying to catch my breath. The garage reeks of sex and sweat and motor oil, all mixed up into this gross cloud. I glance down at the workbench, tools are scattered everywhere, a total mess, and I spot this smear on the edge where she was sitting. Probably cum or her wetness or whatever. I don’t bother cleaning it up. Nah, I just grab a rag, wipe my hands even though they’re still grimy as hell, and start picking up the tools like nothing went down.

Outside, I hear Lars’ voice, loud and pissed off, barking at Frida and Niklas about what the hell they’re doing here. I don’t even poke my head out to see what’s up. I just stay put, messing with this damn Volvo, tightening a bolt that’s already tight enough, while the radio flips to some dumb ad for a kebab joint on Vasagatan. And then, outta nowhere, I notice this stray sock, hers, I bet, half tucked under the workbench. It’s this bright green, stupid-looking thing, just sitting there like it’s laughing at me. I kick it away with my boot, grumbling, “Fucking Västerås,” under my breath before I dive back into the engine.