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 halfway through this godawful kebab at this little dump called Ali’s Grill on Storgata in Lillehammer, Norway, when I catch this chick staring at me from the counter. Not even trying to hide it, just full-on glaring like I owe her cash or something. I’m not exactly the type to turn heads, you know? Kinda skinny, shitty haircut, always rocking the same old faded hoodie. So I just figured she’s bored out of her mind. Lillehammer’s tiny, maybe 28,000 people if you’re being generous, and in the off-season, there’s jack shit to do unless you’re into cross-country skiing or faking interest in the ‘94 Olympics museum. Spoiler: I’m not. I’m just stuck here, picking up random jobs, trying to scrape together enough to get the hell out of this freezing dump.

Anyway, turns out her name’s Ingrid. Found that out later. Pretty standard Norwegian name, nothing special. She’s in her late 20s, I’d guess, with short blonde hair. Not some drop-dead gorgeous type you’d read about in a sappy romance novel, but she’s got this sharp vibe, like she can see right through any nonsense. She works at Ali’s sometimes, helping with orders when the owner’s too plastered to do anything, which is, uh, most nights. I’ve seen her around before, usually snapping at customers to hurry up and pay. But that night, she wasn’t on the clock. Just sitting there with a beer, watching me munch on this overcooked lamb like I’m putting on a damn show. I wipe some sauce off my chin with the back of my hand, real classy, I know, and give her a little nod, like, what’s your deal? She doesn’t even blink. Just smirks a bit and takes a sip of her Ringnes. I figured that’s that, but nope, she gets up, walks over, and plops down at my greasy little table without so much as a “mind if I sit?”

Up close, I notice her hoodie’s just as worn out as mine, and she’s got this small scar above her left eyebrow. Looks like she’s been in a fight or two. I don’t ask, though. Honestly, I don’t really care. “You’re always in here eating by yourself,” she says, her English a little accented but way better than mine, which ain’t saying much since I suck at it. Her tone’s not flirty or sweet or any of that crap, just straight-up, like she’s stating the obvious. “Yeah, well, I don’t exactly have a bunch of buddies lining up to hang out,” I mumble back, probably sounding like a moron with kebab in my mouth. “What’s it to you anyway?” She just shrugs, leans back in the chair, and crosses her arms. “Dunno. It’s just odd. Most people have someone to eat with. Even in this crappy little town.” I snort. Can’t argue there. Lillehammer’s got its cute side if you’re a tourist drooling over the old wooden houses or the view from Lysgårdsbakken ski jump, but for someone like me, half-local, I guess, it’s just a place to get by. Been here six months, hauling stuff at a warehouse near the Gudbrandsdalslågen river, and I still don’t know anyone I’d call a friend. Doesn’t help that my Norwegian is trash. I can order food and cuss, and that’s about it.

“I’m good on my own,” I say, though, let’s be real, I don’t mean it. Most days, I’m bored out of my freaking mind. Staring at grainy crap on my busted phone only kills so much time, you know? Ingrid doesn’t say anything for a bit, just sips her beer and stares out the smudged window at Storgata. It’s late, past 10 p.m., and the street’s dead except for a couple of drunks tripping out of Bar 1904 down the way. The neon sign for Ali’s keeps flickering, like it’s about to die, just like everything else around here. I finish my kebab, crumple up the wrapper, and chuck it on the table. I’m ready to drag myself back to my lousy rental near Kirkegata, probably scroll through some dumb app ‘til I crash. But then she pipes up again. “You know about the old cabins up by Nordseter?” I blink. Random as hell, but sure. “Uh, yeah, I’ve heard of ‘em. Never been up there, though. Why?” She leans forward a little, elbows on the table, and there’s this weird glint in her eyes, like she’s got something cooking, but I can’t figure it out. “Me and a friend, we’re heading up there tomorrow night. Got a spot for the weekend. Nothing fancy, just some shack with a wood stove and a couple of crappy mattresses. Thought you might wanna tag along.”

I just stare at her. Is this girl serious? I don’t even know her last name, and she’s asking me to come to some cabin in the middle of nowhere? Sounds like the setup for a horror flick, or at least a super awkward weekend. “Why me?” I ask, squinting at her. “You don’t even know if I’m some weirdo or not.” She lets out this short, sharp laugh. “Oh, I know you’re not. I’ve seen you around. You’re too boring to be trouble. Plus, my friend’s a big dude. He’d mess you up if you tried anything.” Not exactly reassuring, but I can’t help but crack a small grin. She’s not wrong. I’m not threatening at all. Five-foot-nine if I stand up straight, and I can barely haul a full keg without sounding like I’m dying. “Who’s this friend of yours?” I ask, mostly to see if she’ll dodge it. “Name’s Torvald. Works at the sawmill out by Fåberg. You’ll meet him if you come. He’s… kinda odd, but not in a bad way. Likes to drink. Likes other stuff too.” She says that last bit with a half-smile, like there’s some inside joke I’m not getting yet. I don’t press her on it. Don’t wanna seem too nosy, even though, yeah, I’m a little curious.

I lean back, scratching at the scruff on my jaw. A weekend away from Lillehammer sounds kinda nice, even if it’s with total strangers in some beat-up cabin. Nordseter’s only about 15 kilometers out, up in the hills, but it might as well be a different world compared to the same old crap in town.

I’d heard people rented those old cabins for next to nothing, usually for hiking or skiing, but sometimes just to get trashed somewhere nobody’s watching. I wasn’t sure what Ingrid and this Torvald dude were up to, honestly, but I figured I could handle whatever. Worst comes to worst, I’d just hitch a ride back early, ya know? So I asked, “What’s the catch?” ‘Cause there’s always something. She just finished her beer, slammed the bottle down a bit too hard, and said, “No catch. Just don’t be an asshole, and bring your own damn booze. We’re not a soup kitchen.” Fair enough, I guess. I didn’t have much going on anyway. My next warehouse shift wasn’t until Monday, and the thought of sitting in my icebox of an apartment all weekend sounded worse than taking a gamble on this. “Alright, fine,” I said, trying to play it cool. “I’m in. What time we meeting?” “Be at the Shell station on Strandpromenaden at 5 p.m. tomorrow. Don’t be late, or we’re gone without you.” She got up, zipped her hoodie, and gave me this quick look, like she was checking me out one last time, sizing me up or whatever. “And don’t dress like a moron. It’s cold as hell up there.” I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll figure it out.” She didn’t even say bye, just walked out into the dark, her boots crunching on the icy sidewalk. I sat there a sec, staring at her empty bottle. My gut was screaming this was either gonna be a total shitshow or… I dunno, something else. Couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was this weird feeling in my chest, like excitement mixed with a big ol’ dose of what-the-hell-am-I-doing. Ingrid wasn’t flirting, not really, but something about how she talked, the way she looked at me, made me think this wasn’t just about chopping wood and slugging cheap vodka.

I paid for my overpriced kebab, always is, and stepped out into the cold. The wind off Mjøsa lake slapped me in the face as I trudged down Storgata toward my place. Kept replaying the convo in my head, trying to figure out what I’d just signed up for. Torvald, whoever he was, sounded like a loose cannon. And Ingrid? Man, I had no clue what her deal was. But I was curious, way more than I wanted to admit. Maybe it’s just me being lonely, or maybe it was that little smirk she threw when she mentioned “other stuff.” Whatever. Didn’t matter. I was going. Got back to my apartment and started digging through my closet for a decent jacket and some gloves. Didn’t have much, but I’d make it work. Tomorrow was a total roll of the dice, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for whatever was waiting up at Nordseter. But lying in bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, I couldn’t shake the feeling I was stepping into something I’d remember for a long time.

Next day, I got to the Shell station on Strandpromenaden a few minutes early, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of my beat-up parka. The wind was brutal, slicing right off Mjøsa lake and cutting through me like a knife. I’d tossed a couple bottles of cheap Koskenkorva vodka in my backpack, figuring that’d keep me from looking like a complete mooch. The station was pretty dead, just a couple cars filling up and some old guy smoking by the door, ignoring the no-smoking sign like he couldn’t care less. I leaned against the wall by the air pump, trying not to stick out too much, though I probably did with my scuffed-up boots and mismatched gloves. Right at 5 p.m., this old Volvo station wagon pulls up, looking like it’s on its last legs, rust all over the fenders, one headlight barely working. Ingrid was in the passenger seat, and some huge guy, had to be Torvald, was driving. She rolled down the window, gave me a quick nod, and jerked her head toward the back. “Get in. We’re not waiting around.” I hopped in the backseat, tossed my bag on the floor. The car reeked of old cigarette smoke and something sour, like spilled beer soaked into the seats. Torvald didn’t even glance at me, just grunted a hello and pulled onto the road. Dude was massive, like she’d said, broad shoulders, thick neck, hands like freaking bear paws gripping the wheel. Hair buzzed short, scruffy beard that looked like he hadn’t touched it in weeks. Ingrid half-turned in her seat to look at me, her face hard to read. “Hope you’re ready to freeze your balls off,” she said with a little smirk. “Cabin’s got no heat ‘til we fire up the stove.” “Awesome,” I muttered, already kinda regretting this. But I kept my mouth shut after that. Didn’t wanna come off as a complainer right away.

The drive up to Nordseter took about 20 minutes, the road twisting through dark pine forests and past streams half-frozen over. Torvald had some old Norwegian rock blaring on the radio, think it was Kaizers Orchestra or something, I’m not sure, and didn’t say a damn word. Ingrid mostly stared out the window, pointing out random crap now and then, like a trailhead or some spot where she’d seen a moose once. I just sat there, feeling a bit out of place but also weirdly curious about what the hell I’d gotten myself into. The cabin was exactly as shitty as she’d made it sound. This squat little shack off a dirt track, surrounded by snow-covered trees, not a neighbor in sight. Inside, it was bare as hell: small main room with a rusty wood stove, a couple sagging mattresses with thin, ratty blankets, and a tiny kitchen corner with a sink that probably didn’t even work. Smelled like damp wood and straight-up mildew. Torvald got right to hauling firewood from a pile outside, while Ingrid told me to unpack my stuff and “don’t just stand there looking like a dumbass.” So I dropped my bag on one of the mattresses, figuring I’d claim it before anyone else did.

So, we kicked off the evening messing around with the stove, trying to get it fired up, and popped open some beers, Ringnes for them, and some crappy local pilsner for me that tasted like watered-down regret. Torvald started yapping after a bit, mostly about random nonsense like the time he got his snowmobile stuck in a snowbank up by Sjusjøen. His English was kinda butchered compared to Ingrid’s, but I caught the drift. Dude’s got this loud, obnoxious laugh that just boomed through the tiny cabin every time he cracked himself up, which was, like, every other sentence. Ingrid, though, she just kept rolling her eyes at him, but you could tell they were close. Not in a lovey-dovey way, more like they’ve been around each other forever and can say whatever the hell they want without caring.

After a couple of drinks, things started to feel different, ya know? The cabin was finally getting cozy, the stove crackling away, and we were all plopped down on the floor near it, passing around one of my vodka bottles. I was starting to feel that nice little buzz, not hammered or anything, just loose enough to stop overthinking every stupid thing. Ingrid was sitting cross-legged right next to me, closer than I figured she’d be, her knee brushing against mine every so often. I couldn’t tell if she meant to do it or if it was just ‘cause the space was so damn tight, but yeah, I noticed. Torvald, meanwhile, was sprawled out on the other side, taking up way too much room with his huge-ass frame, going on about some bar fight he got into in Hamar. Honestly, I wasn’t even listening. My eyes kept wandering over to Ingrid, her hoodie unzipped just a bit, showing the edge of this old, faded tank top underneath, and the way her fingers curled around the vodka bottle when she took a sip.

Then, outta nowhere, she caught me staring. Didn’t look away either. That smirk of hers came back, sharper this time, like she could read my damn mind. “What?” she said, her voice low, kinda daring me. “You got something to say?” I just shrugged, trying to act all cool even though my heart was pounding way harder than it had any right to. “Nah. Just… didn’t expect you to be this close.” She let out this short, rough laugh and leaned in a bit more, her shoulder pressing against mine now. “Yeah? That a problem?” Torvald glanced over, grinning like he knew something I didn’t, but he kept his mouth shut. Just took another swig of vodka and watched. I had no clue what the hell was going on, but the air felt… heavier, ya know? Like there was this weird tension I couldn’t shake. The buzz wasn’t helping either, made me dumber, or maybe bolder, or whatever.

“Not a problem,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “Just didn’t see it coming.” Ingrid didn’t say anything for a beat, just held my stare. Then, without any warning, she reached over, grabbed the front of my jacket, and yanked me toward her. Her lips smashed into mine, hard and messy, tasting like vodka and a faint hint of that menthol gum she’d been chewing earlier. I froze for like half a second, my brain totally short-circuiting, before I kissed her back, my hands fumbling to her waist. It wasn’t smooth or sexy or any of that crap, just raw and sloppy, teeth bumping a little, her breath hot against me. I could feel the heat of her through her hoodie, the way she pressed into me like she didn’t care about being all proper or whatever. Torvald let out this low chuckle, still watching us, but I barely even noticed.

My hands slipped under her hoodie, finding the warm skin of her lower back, a little sweaty from being so close to the stove. She made this small noise, not a moan or anything over-the-top, just a quick huff through her nose, and pushed herself closer, swinging a leg over to straddle my lap right there on the floor. Her weight pinned me down, not heavy but solid, and I could feel the roughness of her jeans against mine. My dick was already half-hard, pressing against my zipper, and I knew she could feel it too ‘cause she shifted her hips just enough to grind against me, slow but on purpose. “Fuck,” I mumbled against her mouth, not even meaning to say it out loud. She pulled back a tiny bit to look at me, her eyes sharp and kinda wild, blonde hair sticking to her forehead from the heat in the room. Her hands gripped my shoulders tight, and up close, I could smell her, salt, skin, and a faint whiff of cheap shampoo.

“Take this off,” she said, tugging at my jacket, her voice rough but not loud. I shrugged it off fast, clumsy as hell, one arm getting stuck for a second before I yanked it free. She didn’t wait around, just pulled her own hoodie over her head in one quick move, leaving her in that tank top, no bra underneath. Her tits weren’t big, just small and perky, nipples hard and showing through the thin fabric. I stared a second too long, and she snorted, grabbing my hand and shoving it under the hem of her shirt. Her skin was hot, a little damp, and I slid my palm up ‘til I felt the curve of her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple. She bit her lip, not some fake porn-star move, just a quick little flinch, and rocked her hips against me again. I was fully hard now, no hiding it, and my jeans felt way too damn tight.

I fumbled with her waistband, trying to get a grip on her jeans, but my hands were shaky, all over the place. She didn’t help, just kept grinding, her breath coming faster now, short and sharp little gasps. Finally, I got the button undone, zipper down, and pushed my hand inside, past the elastic of her underwear. She was already wet, slick against my fingers, and I rubbed at her clit, not totally sure if I was doing it right but going off how her thighs tensed around me. Her pussy felt warm, soft, the hair there short and rough against my palm. “Harder,” she muttered, barely a whisper, her face close to mine again.

I pushed down harder, moving in rough circles, and she let out this low, throaty noise, her head tilting back just a bit. My other hand stayed on her chest, gripping through her tank top, while my heart pounded so loud I could hear it in my ears. Torvald was still around, off to the side somewhere, but I didn’t give a damn. Didn’t even glance his way. All I could think about was her, how her body shifted under me, the heat between us growing fast, almost too fast. Then she reached down, fumbling with my jeans, popping the button and tugging the zipper with these quick, shaky pulls. Her hand slipped inside, over my boxers, grabbing me through the fabric. I couldn’t hold back a groan; the pressure was already damn near too much. She squeezed, not soft, not by a long shot, and gave me this sharp little smirk, like she knew exactly how bad I was aching for this.

Then she shoved the waistband of my boxers down, just enough to wrap her hand around me, skin on skin. My dick jerked in her grip, already leaking a bit, making her fingers slick as she started stroking, slow, but with this firm grip that had me reeling. I was breathing heavy now, trying not to lose it right there on the spot, while my hand kept working between her legs, rubbing faster. Her jeans were only pushed down to her hips, barely giving me room to move, but I didn’t care. I wanted more, wanted to yank them off completely, wanted to feel her for real. She leaned in, kissing me hard, nipping at my bottom lip while her hand kept going, and I knew I wasn’t gonna last if she didn’t ease up. I pulled my hand out from her jeans, slick with her wetness, and grabbed at the waistband, trying to shove them down more. Ingrid caught on quick, lifting her hips just enough for me to drag the denim and her underwear past her knees. She kicked them off the rest of the way, kinda clumsy, one leg getting stuck for a second before she got free.

There she was, bare in the dim light of the cabin, a tidy patch of blonde hair above, her lips swollen and shiny. I couldn’t look away, mouth dry as hell, my dick throbbing in her hand as she kept stroking, not letting up for even a second. “Condom?” I managed to grunt out, my brain barely functioning but knowing I should at least ask. I didn’t have one on me, didn’t think I’d end up here, obviously, but maybe she did. She shook her head, sharp and fast. “I’m on the pill. You clean?” I nodded, probably too quick, but it was true. Last time I’d been with anyone was months back, and I’d gotten checked since. “Yeah. You?” “Ja, I’m good,” she said, her accent thicker now, voice all rough and raw. She didn’t waste time with more chit-chat, just shifted forward, straddling me tighter, lining herself up. I felt the tip of me brush against her, hot and wet, and I groaned again, hands gripping her hips hard, probably hard enough to leave marks. She didn’t even flinch, just lowered herself down, slow at first, taking me in bit by bit. She was tight, almost too tight, squeezing around me as she sank down all the way, her breath catching a little.

I could feel every damn inch of her, warm and slick, no barrier, just pure, raw heat. “Fuck,” I muttered, my head tipping back against the wall behind me. My hands slid to her ass, grabbing at the flesh there, feeling the muscle tense as she started moving. Not slow, not playing around, just straight to it, rolling her hips hard, riding me like she couldn’t wait another second. Her tank top was still on, bunched up around her waist now, and her tits bounced a little with each thrust, nipples still poking through the fabric. I wanted to get my mouth on them, taste her skin, but I couldn’t move much, stuck under her weight and the way she was fucking me. She leaned forward, hands on my chest, nails digging in through my shirt as she sped up. Her face was close, breath hot and ragged, a faint sweat shining on her forehead. I could smell her again, that mix of skin and salt, now heavier with the raw scent of sex, just hitting me full-on.

My own shirt was sticking to me, damp under my arms, and I was panting like I’d just sprinted up a damn mountain. I thrust up to meet her, clumsy at first, totally out of sync, but then we got it together, my cock driving deeper each time. The wet sound of us, skin slapping against skin, filled the tiny cabin, louder than the crackle from the stove. Torvald was still there, I could see him outta the corner of my eye, sitting a few feet off, sipping vodka like this was no big deal. He wasn’t staring, not really, just watching all casual with a smirk on his face. Didn’t say a word, didn’t move to join or nothing, just let it play out. I didn’t know if that made it weirder or what, but I was too far gone to give a shit, too caught up in how Ingrid’s body clenched around me, how her thighs shook a little every time I hit just right.

I slid one hand between us, finding her clit again, rubbing hard with my thumb while she kept riding me. Her eyes flicked shut for a second, a low grunt slipping out, and she ground down even harder, chasing it. “Ja, der,” she muttered, half in Norwegian, half under her breath, and I took that as keep going, circling rough and fast. Her movements got sloppy, less controlled, hips jerking as she got close. I could feel it building in me too, this tight, urgent pressure, knowing I wasn’t gonna hold out much longer with her moving like this. She came first, out of nowhere, sharp and sudden, a choked sound tearing from her throat as her whole body locked up. She squeezed me so hard I damn near lost it right then, wetter now, dripping down my cock and onto my jeans still bunched at my thighs.

I kept working her clit, dragging it out, ya know, until she pushed my hand away, all twitchy and oversensitive. Her chest was heaving, catching her breath, though she didn’t fully stop moving. Her eyes flicked open after a bit, kinda glassy but sharp, staring at me like she was egging me on to wrap this up. Didn’t take much on my end. Just a couple more thrusts, with her still rocking on top of me, and I was done for. I let out a groan, way too loud, probably, when I came inside her, hot and sloppy, my hips jerking hard a few times. No pulling out, no chance to even think about it, just raw instinct taking over, unloading as deep as I could. She didn’t budge, just took it, slowing her movements, drawing out every last drop ‘til I was completely spent, my dick twitching inside her, raw and oversensitive now. We stayed like that for a moment, both of us panting, her still on my lap, my hands just kinda resting on her hips, loose. I could feel the mess of us leaking out a bit, warm and sticky, down my shaft and probably dripping onto the damn floor. My jeans were wrecked, I didn’t even need to check to know that, but honestly, I couldn’t care less. She didn’t seem to either, ‘cause she just shifted back a little, letting me slip out with this wet sorta sound. No chit-chat, no long stares, nothing. She just reached down, grabbed her underwear off the floor, yanked ‘em on quick, then her jeans, like it was no big deal.

I fumbled with my own pants, stuffing myself back in, the zipper catching a bit ‘cause of the mess. Then Torvald finally piped up, letting out this low whistle. “Damn, you two don’t mess around,” he said, voice all thick with a laugh, taking another swig of vodka. Ingrid shot him a look, half pissed, half whatever, and muttered something in Norwegian I couldn’t make out. I didn’t say a word, just wiped my hand on my shirt, feeling kinda stupid now that the rush was fading. My legs felt wobbly when I shifted to sit better, leaning back against the wall, and the cabin felt hotter than hell, the air heavy with… well, everything that just went down. Ingrid grabbed a beer from the stash by the stove, popped it open, and took a long gulp, not even glancing my way. Not ignoring me exactly, just… done, I guess. I wasn’t sure what I thought would happen, but it sure as hell wasn’t this, her acting like we’d just played a quick round of cards or some crap.

I snagged a beer for myself, mostly just to have something to do with my hands, and cracked it open with the edge of my lighter. The cold liquid hit the spot, cutting through the dryness in my throat, but it didn’t do much for the weird, empty buzz in my head. We sat there for a while, the three of us, mostly quiet, sipping our drinks. Torvald started yapping again after a bit, telling some dumb story about a guy at the sawmill near Fåberg who almost chopped his hand off last week. Ingrid nodded along, throwing in a snarky comment or two, while I just listened, not really adding anything. My brain was half somewhere else, replaying the last twenty minutes or so, but I didn’t let myself get stuck on it. Didn’t wanna come off like some clingy moron, even if part of me was still wrapping my head around the fact I’d just banged her right there on the floor with Torvald watching.

The night dragged on, more drinking, more random bullshit talk, until the stove started dying down and the cold crept back into the cabin. We couldn’t be bothered to stoke it again, so we just grabbed some blankets and picked our spots on the crappy mattresses. Ingrid claimed one near the wall, Torvald sprawled out by the door, and I stayed where I was, too buzzed and wiped out to move much. No “goodnights,” no awkward glances, just the howl of the wind outside and Torvald’s snoring kicking in almost right away. I lay there, staring at the cracked wooden ceiling, the blanket barely keeping the chill off me. My jeans were still damp in places, uncomfortable as hell, but I didn’t care enough to change. Back in Lillehammer, down the road, my phone was probably still sitting on the counter in my dumpy apartment near Kirkegata, battery long dead. I wondered for like half a second if I’d even tell anyone about this weird-ass weekend, then figured nah, probably not. What’s even the point?

Just as I was starting to drift off, I heard Ingrid mutter from her spot, voice all low and half-asleep, “Don’t eat all the damn bread tomorrow, alright?” I snorted, didn’t bother answering, and just shut my eyes, thinking that was as good a way as any to end the night.