This erotic short story was written for SnakkOmSex. If you would like to read Norwegian language stories click here.
For more English language stories click here.

So, I’m sitting there, halfway through this godawful kebab at some little dive called Kebab Huset on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim, when I spot her. It’s one of those miserable late October nights, freezing cold, the kind of damp that just seeps into your bones no matter how many damn layers you’re wearing. I’d just dragged myself through a brutal shift at the warehouse by the docks, lugging crates of frozen fish ‘til my back felt like it might give out. Even after scrubbing my hands like crazy in the grimy bathroom sink at work, they still reeked of cod. Anyway, I’m at this sticky counter, sauce dripping all over my chin, when this girl walks in. She’s wrapped up in a puffy jacket and some scarf that looks like a drunk grandma threw it together. Didn’t know her name was Marit yet, getting ahead of myself here. She looked beat, like she’d just survived a hell of a day too, with messy blonde hair poking out from under a wool hat. Not like, drop-dead gorgeous or anything, just… regular, you know? A bit worn down, like most people you run into around here. She mumbles her order to the guy at the counter, barely glancing at him, then slumps into a seat by the window, staring out at the empty street. Maybe she’s waiting for something, or just totally zoned out. Hell if I know. I’m not some weirdo who gawks at strangers, alright, but I kept sneaking looks. Could’ve been the way she chewed her lip while messing with her phone, or how she kept rubbing her hands like she couldn’t shake the cold. Prinsens Gate at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday ain’t exactly popping, shops are all closed up, and the only folks around are wasted students tripping out of Studentersamfundet a few blocks away or old dudes nursing beers at Kroa. So yeah, she kinda stood out, even if she wasn’t trying to.

I finish up my kebab, wipe my hands on this flimsy napkin that’s basically falling apart, and start thinking about saying something. But like, what do you even say to some random person in a kebab joint without sounding like a complete moron? I’m not exactly Mr. Smooth over here, if that ain’t obvious. Oh, name’s Jonas, by the way. Thirty-two, a bit out of shape, got this scruffy beard I keep forgetting to deal with. Been in Trondheim my whole life, used to crash in Bakklandet ‘til the rents got ridiculous, now I’m stuck in a cramped flat near Lademoen. Work’s a drag, life’s… okay, I guess. Not winning any charm contests, though. Still, I figure, screw it, might as well try. Worst thing, she tells me to piss off, right? I grab my soda, shuffle over to her table, and just sorta hover there for a sec before muttering, “Hey, mind if I sit? Place is pretty dead.” Yeah, real creative, I know. She looks up, squints at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m some creep or what, then just shrugs. “Sure, whatever.” Her voice has this rough edge, like maybe she smokes too much or just hasn’t slept in a week. I sit down, already feeling like an idiot, racking my brain for something to say that doesn’t suck. “You from around here?” I blurt out, taking a sip of my soda to hide how awkward I am. She nods, barely even looking at me. “Yeah, over by Møllenberg. Just got off work.” I think she’s done talking, but then she tosses out, “I’m a cleaner at St. Olavs. Shitty hours.” I nod like I get it, even though hauling fish ain’t the same as scrubbing hospital floors. “I’m at the docks,” I say. “Also shitty hours. Smell like fish most days.” She cracks this tiny smirk, just a little break in her whole don’t-bother-me thing. “Better than disinfectant,” she fires back.

We just sit there for a bit, not really chatting, just kinda… there, you know? The dude behind the counter’s cleaning the grill, blasting some weird Turkish pop song that sounds like it was recorded on a tin can. Outside, a couple kids zoom by on bikes, shouting stuff I can’t make out through the window. Marit finishes her food, some wrap or whatever, and leans back in her chair, arms crossed. I notice her hands are kinda rough, nails all short and uneven, like she uses ‘em a lot. Not that I’m one to talk, mine aren’t exactly pretty either. “So, uh, you come here a lot?” I ask, and immediately wanna kick myself for how boring that sounds. She raises an eyebrow, like she’s figuring out if I’m even worth a reply. “Sometimes. It’s cheap. Close to the bus stop on Kongens Gate.” I nod, acting like I’ve got something else to say, but nah, my brain’s just blank. Then she actually looks at me, like properly for the first time, and goes, “You got a cigarette? I’m out.” Thing is, I don’t. Quit a year back after my doc chewed me out about my lungs, but I’m not about to admit that. “Nah, sorry. I can grab some, though. There’s a Narvesen down the street.” She tilts her head, like she didn’t expect me to offer, then shrugs again. “Yeah, alright. I’ll come with. Need to stretch my legs anyway.”

We step out of Kebab Huset, and the cold hits me like a damn punch to the face. Prinsens Gate is dead quiet, just the faint hum of a car somewhere and the random clink of a bike chain. The streetlights cast this ugly yellowish glow, making the wet cobblestones look all slick and grimy. Marit zips up her jacket, shoves her hands in her pockets, and starts walking toward the Narvesen near Kjøpmannsgata. I keep up, not too close, just sorta wondering if this is going anywhere or if I’m just wasting my damn time.

Honestly, it’s not like I had anything better going on. My place was dead empty, my friends were either crashed out or stuck on some late-night shift, and the most thrilling thing waiting for me was a sad, half-empty bag of chips and whatever garbage Netflix had to offer. So, at the Narvesen, I grabbed a pack of Prince cigarettes, overpriced as hell, like everything around here, and handed them over to her. She didn’t even wait, just tore into the pack right there on the sidewalk, sparked one up with this cheap little lighter, and took a deep drag. The smoke drifted up into the chilly air, and she squinted at me through it, eyes narrowing just a tad. “Thanks. Want one?” she asked. I shook my head. “Nah, I’m trying to quit. Or, I mean, I did quit. Don’t mess with me like that.” She smirked, a bit wider this time. “Alright, fair enough. So, what’s your story, Jonas? You always scoop up random girls at kebab joints or what?” I laughed, kinda thrown off. “Hell no, first time. I’m usually pretty crap at talking to anyone. Thought I’d roll the dice for once.” She blew out another puff of smoke, giving me this look, like she was sizing me up, not flirty, more like figuring out if I was full of it. “Well, you’re not awful so far. Could be worse, I guess.” I wasn’t sure if that was a real compliment or just her being nice, but hey, I’ll take it.

We just stood there for a bit, her smoking, me shifting around on my feet, the cold starting to creep through my jacket. I was about to say something stupid, like asking if she wanted to grab a beer at Den Gode Nabo down by the river, when she flicked her cigarette butt into the gutter and cut in. “My place isn’t far. Got some cheap vodka if you’re down. But don’t get any funny ideas, alright? I’m not promising shit.” My brain just kinda froze for a second. I wasn’t expecting that, not from her, not after like twenty minutes of awkward small talk. I probably looked like a total dumbass standing there, mouth half-open, but I managed a nod. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got nothing else going on tonight.” She shot me this look, like she could read my mind but wasn’t gonna say a word about it. Then she just turned and started walking toward Møllenberg, not even checking if I’d follow. Obviously, I did. My heart was pounding a little too hard, and I kept telling myself to calm the hell down, that this was probably just a drink, nothing more. But there was this weird vibe in the air, like maybe something could happen if I didn’t totally botch it.

Her boots clicked on the pavement as we moved through the narrow streets of Møllenberg, past those old wooden houses painted in faded yellows and reds. Most windows were dark, except for the odd flicker of a TV here and there. The cold was biting now, slicing right through my jacket, so I shoved my hands deep into my pockets to keep from freezing. Marit didn’t say much, just kept her head down against the wind, leading us down a side street off Nedre Møllenberg Gate. I could still smell the faint cigarette smoke on her as I trailed a step behind, mixed with that damp, earthy city smell after a day of drizzle. My boots scuffed along the uneven sidewalk, and I kept wondering what the heck I was even doing, following some girl I barely knew to her place for a drink I didn’t really want.

She stopped at this beat-up apartment building, the kind with peeling paint and a buzzer that probably hadn’t worked since forever. She dug a key out of her pocket, fumbled with the lock for a second, then shoved the door open with her shoulder. “Stairs suck,” she muttered, not even glancing back as she started up the creaky steps. I followed, the tight stairwell smelling like old wood and maybe stale coffee or something. Her place was on the third floor, behind a small door with a scratched-up nameplate that just read “M. Larsen.” She unlocked it, stepped in, and kicked off her boots by the door. I did the same, feeling kinda weird about my dumb mismatched socks as I stood there in her tiny entryway.

Her flat was small, kinda cramped, but it felt lived-in, you know? Like the kind of place someone has when they’re working too much for too little. There was a sagging couch against one wall, draped with a faded blanket, and a little TV sat on a stand that screamed IKEA from a decade ago. A couple of empty beer cans littered the coffee table, next to a half-dead potted plant. The air had this faint whiff of cigarette smoke and maybe burnt toast or something. She shrugged off her jacket, tossing it over a chair, and I noticed she had on a worn-out black hoodie over a plain t-shirt, looking smaller than I’d thought under all those layers. “Sit wherever,” she said, heading to a tiny kitchenette in the corner. I dropped onto the couch, the springs creaking under me, and tried not to stare while she dug through a cupboard for the vodka.

She came back with a bottle of Koskenkorva, cheap as dirt, the stuff you get when you’re broke, and two random glasses that didn’t match. She poured us each a shot, no ice, no nothing, and handed me one. “Skål,” she said, clinking her glass against mine before knocking hers back in one gulp. I followed suit, the burn hitting my throat like a punch, making me cough a bit. She smirked again, already pouring another round without asking if I was good for it. “Not much of a drinker, are ya?” she teased, not really mean about it. I just shrugged, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“I can handle it, you know. It’s just… been a minute.” We were sitting there, taking our time with the second shot, not saying much. The silence dragged on, but weirdly, it didn’t feel as uncomfortable as I thought it would. The vodka was doing its job, warming me up, dulling that stubborn chill still sitting in my bones. I stole a quick look at her, noticed her hoodie had slipped off one shoulder, showing just a bit of pale skin and the strap of a gray bra. I looked away fast, didn’t wanna be a creep, but my heart was already picking up speed. Pretty sure she caught me staring, though. Her eyes flicked to mine, sharp, like she knew exactly what was up. She didn’t call me out, just took another sip, her lips twitching like she thought it was funny. Then, outta nowhere, she goes, “You got a girlfriend or anything?” as she set her glass down. I shook my head, kinda thrown off. “Nah, not for a while. Work’s got me swamped, I guess.” She just nodded, like that was the most normal excuse ever, then leaned back on the couch, stretching her legs out so her knee bumped mine. Probably didn’t mean anything by it, but my dumb brain wouldn’t let it go, overanalyzing every little thing. “What about you?” I asked, trying to sound chill. She snorted. “Hell no. Last dude I dated was a total asshole. I’m done with that crap for now.” There was an edge to her voice, but she didn’t sound mad, just… done.

We kept drinking, the bottle getting lower, and I started feeling that fuzzy buzz creep into my head, the kind that makes you a little too brave. Somehow, she was closer now, her shoulder almost brushing mine. I could smell the vodka on her breath, mixed with a faint whiff of tobacco from earlier. My eyes kept wandering to her hands, resting on her thighs, those rough fingers tapping like she was restless or something. I’m not sure who made the first move, maybe me, maybe her, but next thing I know, I’m leaning in, and she’s not pulling back. Her lips were rough, kinda chapped, tasting like cheap vodka with a hint of salt. It wasn’t some movie-perfect kiss, just messy and impulsive. Her hand grabbed at my shirt, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to shove me off or pull me in. I shifted on the couch, my knee banging into the coffee table as I turned toward her, my hand sliding to her waist under the hoodie. Her skin was warm, a little sticky with sweat, and I could feel the curve of her hip through her shirt. She let out this small sound, not a moan or anything, just a quick breath through her nose, then kissed me harder, her tongue pushing in, all sloppy and rushed. My heart was pounding like crazy, and yeah, I was already getting hard, the tightness in my jeans damn near painful. Didn’t care, though. My other hand fumbled up her back under the fabric, feeling the bumps of her spine, brushing the edge of her bra strap.

She pulled back for a sec, breathing heavy, her eyes half-closed but still sharp, like she was sizing me up, checking if I’d chicken out. No way I was stopping. Couldn’t think straight, didn’t wanna. “Screw it,” she muttered, more to herself than me, and yanked her hoodie off, tossing it somewhere on the floor. Her t-shirt got caught, riding up to show her stomach, pale, with a faint line of hair trailing down from her navel. The gray bra was nothing fancy, kinda worn, but I didn’t give a damn. I shrugged off my jacket, clumsy as hell, my elbow smacking the armrest. She smirked at that, then grabbed the hem of my shirt, tugging it up without even asking. I raised my arms, letting her pull it off, feeling weirdly exposed for a second with my gut on display and that stupid tattoo on my shoulder from when I was eighteen. Her hands were on me right away, rough and fast, running over my chest and down to my belt. I couldn’t help it, let out a little groan as her fingers brushed over the bulge in my jeans. She didn’t mess around, no teasing, just popped the button and yanked the zipper down, the sound stupidly loud in the quiet room. I lifted my hips, helping her shove my jeans and boxers down to my knees, my dick springing out, already hard and kinda leaking at the tip. Felt a quick flash of embarrassment, haven’t exactly been manscaping lately, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. Her hand wrapped around me, grip firm, maybe a bit too tight. I hissed, my hips jerking up without thinking, and she let out a low chuckle, her thumb sliding over the tip, spreading the precum around.

I reached for her, fumbling with the button on her pants, my fingers shaky from the vodka and the adrenaline pumping through me. She helped, kicking off her jeans, leaving her in mismatched underwear, dark blue, faded, clinging to her hips. I could see the outline through the fabric, a slight dampness already there, and my mouth went dry. I tugged at the waistband, and she lifted her hips, letting me slide them down her thighs. There she was, a neat little triangle of light hair, her lips pink and already slick. The smell hit me, musky, real, not fake or perfumed, just her. I ran a hand over her thigh, feeling the goosebumps under my palm, then slid my fingers between her legs, brushing over her clit. She sucked in a breath, her hips twitching a bit, so I did it again, rubbing slow circles, feeling how wet she was, my fingers slipping a little. Then she pushed me back against the couch, climbing onto my lap, her knees digging into the cushions on either side of me.

Man, I could feel the heat of her so close, my cock brushing against her inner thigh, and it was like my brain just short-circuited. She reached down, guiding me, the tip pressing against her, all wet and warm. No condom, no nothing, not even a word about it, just this raw, desperate need pushing us forward. I grabbed her hips, fingers digging in hard, as she started lowering herself onto me, real slow at first. It was tight, almost too much, you know? She winced a bit, her breath catching, and I froze for a second, not wanting to hurt her or anything. But she just shook her head and muttered, “Keep going,” and kept sinking down, taking me in bit by bit until I was all the way inside. The heat, the pressure, it was fucking overwhelming. We just stayed like that for a moment, both of us breathing heavy, her hands on my shoulders, nails digging into me. Then she started moving, rolling her hips, a little clumsy at first, like we couldn’t quite get the rhythm. I pushed up to meet her, hands sliding down to her ass, squeezing as she rocked against me, the couch creaking like it might give out. Her breath was hot on my neck, little grunts slipping out with every move, and I could feel sweat starting to drip down my back. The room felt way too damn warm all of a sudden.

My cock was throbbing inside her, every shift of her hips sending these jolts through me, and I knew I wasn’t gonna last long at this rate. Didn’t care, though. I just wanted more, wanted to feel her tighten around me, wanted to hear her lose it completely. She leaned back a little, one hand on my chest for balance, the other slipping down between us, her fingers finding her clit and rubbing fast. I couldn’t look away, just watched, totally hooked, as her face twisted up, mouth open, panting, eyes squeezed shut. I thrust harder, couldn’t help it, driven by how she looked, the wet slap of us together echoing in the tiny room, the smell of her mixing with the stale air of the flat. My hands were all over the place, clumsy as hell, desperate, sliding up to her bra, shoving it up to get at her tits, small, pale, with these hard pink nipples. I leaned in, sucked one into my mouth, tasting the salt on her skin, and she gasped, her hips stuttering against mine.

Her fingers pressed harder into my chest, almost hurting, as she kept rubbing herself, her movements getting all jerky and uneven. I could feel her tightening around me, this hot, slick grip that made my head spin, and I bit down lightly on her nipple without even thinking, just pure reaction. She let out this sharp, raw sound, not some fake-ass porn moan, but a real grunt, and then she was coming, her whole body shaking, her pussy clenching so tight it almost hurt. I groaned, hands gripping her ass hard enough to leave marks, trying to hold on, to not blow it right then while she rode out the waves, her breath all ragged against my ear. She slumped forward for a sec, forehead on my shoulder, panting, her hair sticking to her sweaty neck. I was still hard as hell inside her, aching, balls tight and heavy, but I didn’t move, just let her catch her breath. Then she lifted her head, eyes kinda glassy but sharp, and muttered, “Your turn.” No fluff, no bullshit, just straight-up.

She started moving again, slower now, grinding down on me with these deliberate hip rolls that made my toes curl. I thrust up into her, chasing it, hands sliding up her back, feeling the damp heat of her skin, the way her muscles moved under my fingers. I tried shifting us a bit, clumsy as fuck, my knee banging into the coffee table, again, while I angled for something better. She didn’t bitch about it, just adjusted, leaning back with her hands on my thighs, giving me a full view of where we were connected. My cock, all slick and shiny with her wetness, disappearing into her with every thrust, her lips stretched around me, it was too much, fucking obscene. That heat was building fast at the base of my spine. “Fuck, I’m close,” I rasped out, voice all rough, barely holding it together. She just nodded, didn’t slow down, her tits bouncing a little with each move, her bra still shoved up around her chest like we couldn’t be bothered to deal with it.

I didn’t even ask where to finish, my brain was barely working, and she didn’t say to pull out. Part of me knew I probably should’ve, but the rest of me didn’t give a damn. I thrust up hard one last time, hands clamping down on her hips, and then I was coming, spilling inside her, hot and messy, a low groan ripping out of me. It felt like it lasted forever, each pulse just wrecking me, my cock twitching as I emptied into her. She kept moving for a few seconds, dragging it out, until I was oversensitive and hissing through my teeth. Then she stopped, just sitting there on top of me, both of us sweaty and sticky, the air in the room thick with that raw, musky smell of what we’d just done.

She climbed off after a moment, wincing a little as she did, and I felt the wet warmth of her slip away, my softening dick sliding out, a trickle of cum following, smearing on my thigh. She didn’t say a word, just grabbed her underwear off the floor and tugged them back on, not bothering with the rest of her clothes yet. I sat there, jeans still around my knees, feeling kinda exposed and a little stupid, chest heaving while I tried to catch my breath. I yanked my boxers and pants up, the fabric sticking to my skin in this gross way, and wiped a hand over my face, feeling the scratch of my beard and the sweat on my forehead.

Man, there was no hanging around, no sweet talk or lingering glances. She just got up, fixed her bra, and snatched the vodka bottle off the table. Took a big gulp right from it, then held it out to me. I shook my head, nah, I was still too buzzed from the sex and those earlier drinks to even think about more. “You good?” I asked, not really sure why, just felt like I had to say something, you know? She shrugged, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. You?” I nodded, though honestly, I felt this weird mix of hyped up and totally wiped out, my legs all shaky beneath me. “Yeah, I’m good.”

She plopped back down on the far end of the couch, not close or anything, just… there. Pulled her hoodie back on like nothing even happened. I could still smell her on me, feel that sticky leftover on my skin, but I had no clue what to do with myself now. TV was off, room dead quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge in the little kitchenette and the random creaks of this old-ass building. Outside, a car grumbled by on Nedre Møllenberg Gate, the noise kinda muffled through the walls. I stole a glance at her, trying to figure out what she was thinking, but she was just staring at the empty glasses on the table, face blank, maybe a bit tired. “Guess I should get going,” I said after a bit, scratching the back of my neck, feeling like I was dragging this out too long, whatever “this” even was. She nodded, didn’t argue, didn’t ask me to stick around. “Yeah, sure. Bus stop’s down by Kongens if you need it.” Her voice was flat, not mean, not friendly, just… done.

I got up, tugged my jacket on, fumbling with the zipper for a sec ‘cause it got stuck. My shirt was still half-untucked, but screw it, I didn’t care enough to fix it. Looked around real quick to see if I left anything, but nah, nothing, just me and this lingering ache down there, plus a bit of soreness in my thighs from that awkward couch angle. She walked me to the door, barefoot, arms crossed over her chest like she was already done with the night. I turned, thinking I should say something, maybe a thanks or a “see ya around,” but it felt dumb before I even opened my mouth. So I just nodded, mumbled a quick “Later,” and stepped into the dim stairwell. She didn’t say a word back, just gave a tiny jerk of her chin and shut the door. The lock clicked behind me, sounding way louder than it should’ve, like it was final or something.

The cold slammed into me as soon as I got outside, way sharper now, cutting right through my jacket even though I’d been burning up just minutes ago. Møllenberg was dead silent, streetlights throwing long shadows on the wet pavement. Some stray cat darted across the road by one of those old wooden houses. I shoved my hands in my pockets, my breath puffing out in little clouds, and started trudging toward the bus stop on Kongens Gate, boots scuffing against the ground. My head was half-empty, half-stuck on flashes of her on top of me, the feel of her, those sounds she made, but I didn’t let myself linger on it. Didn’t wanna. Whatever it was, it’s over.

Passed by a closed bakery, the sign for “Trondhjems Bageri” flickering a little, and spotted a crumpled receipt on the ground. Probably mine from earlier at Narvesen, but I didn’t stop to check. My phone buzzed in my pocket, probably some stupid work notification or one of the guys asking if I’m down for a beer tomorrow, but I ignored it. Got to the bus stop, and it was empty, just a graffitied bench and a busted timetable sign that hasn’t been updated in forever. Leaned against the shelter, the metal cold as hell through my jacket, and stared down the street, waiting for the late-night 5-line to roll up, if it even would. Some guy on a bike rode by, a delivery dude with this huge backpack, cussing under his breath as he struggled up the little hill. Watched him vanish around the corner, then pulled out my phone just to have something to do, scrolling through random crap. The screen light was blinding in the dark, made me squint, kinda annoyed but mostly just passing time.

Somewhere close, a dog barked once, sharp and pissed, then shut up. Checked the time, way past midnight now, and figured I’d just walk the rest of the way to Lademoen if the bus didn’t show in the next ten minutes. Not like I’ve got anywhere to be tomorrow, just another soul-crushing shift at the docks, stinking of fish and regret all over again. Then, outta nowhere, I noticed this single sock stuck to the bottom of my boot. Must’ve picked it up at her place somehow, black, kinda worn, definitely not mine. I snorted, peeled it off, and tossed it in the trash bin by the stop, shaking my head at how freaking random that was.