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 pretty awful kebab at some dingy little spot on Storgata in Fredrikstad, Norway, when I catch this woman staring at me from across the counter. Not sneaky or shy about it, just full-on glaring like I owe her cash or something. I’m not exactly the type who gets noticed, you know, average height, got a bit of a beer belly going, and a beard that’s more sad patches than mountain-man rugged. So I’m thinking, she’s either wasted or got me mixed up with someone else. The place reeks of grease and stale fryer oil, and those fluorescent lights? They make everyone look like a zombie, me included. Still, she doesn’t look away, not even for a second.

Her name’s Ingrid, I find out later. Probably early thirties, with this short, choppy blonde hair that looks like she hacked it off herself with kitchen scissors or something. She’s not what you’d call “hot,” not in that polished Instagram way, nah. More wiry, pale as a ghost, with a nose that’s definitely been busted at least once. She’s in this worn-out black hoodie and jeans that’ve seen better days, but there’s something about how she holds herself, like she couldn’t care less what anyone thinks, that kinda grabs me. I wipe some sauce off my chin with the back of my hand, give her a little nod like, what’s your problem? She doesn’t smile or anything, just walks right over and plops down on the stool next to me, no invite needed. “You’re not from here,” she says, her accent heavy but easy enough to get. She’s not wrong. I moved to Fredrikstad a couple years ago for a warehouse gig down at the port, but I still stick out like a sore thumb. My Norwegian’s okay, but I’ve got this weird mash-up of British and American in my voice from moving around too much as a kid. I shrug, take another bite of the kebab, and mumble, “Nah, just been around a while. You?” “Born and raised,” she says, snatching a napkin off the counter and wiping her hands even though she’s not eating anything. “Live over by Glomma, near the old ferry dock. You know the spot?” I nod. Everyone here knows the Glomma, it’s the river that splits the town, and that old ferry dock is just this rusty, beat-up place where kids go to smoke and chug cheap vodka. I’ve been there myself a few times, mostly when I’ve got nothing better to do on a slow weekend.

I suck at small talk, always have. Normally, I’d just grunt or make up some excuse to bail, but something about Ingrid keeps me planted there. Maybe it’s how she doesn’t seem to care if I reply or not, like she’s just talking to kill the quiet. Or maybe it’s ‘cause it’s a Thursday night, I’ve got zilch going on, and this kebab’s starting to taste like actual cardboard. “I’m Tom, by the way,” I say, sticking out a hand. She eyes it for a second, then shakes it. Her grip’s solid, rough, like she works with her hands a lot. We just sit there for a bit, not saying much. The guy behind the counter, some older Turkish dude who always looks annoyed as hell, keeps wiping the same spot over and over like it personally insulted him. Outside on Storgata, it’s dead quiet except for the odd car or some drunk stumbling out of Baronen, this sketchy dive bar a block away. Fredrikstad’s not exactly buzzing, you know? Small town, old fortress kinda vibe, full of retirees and families. Most nights, you’re lucky if anything’s open past nine, especially in the off-season like now, with that November wind slicing right through you.

Ingrid finally breaks the silence. “You drink?” she asks, tilting her head toward the door. I figure she means hitting up a bar, and I’m not exactly rolling in money, but I nod anyway. “Sure. Where we going?” “Not a bar,” she says, standing up and zipping her hoodie. “My place. Got some beers and a bottle of aquavit if you’re not scared of the strong stuff.” I blink at her. I’m not an idiot, I know an invite like that could mean a couple things, but I’m not gonna jump to conclusions. Maybe she’s just bored, or lonely, or likes showing off her booze collection. Still, my stomach does a little flip, you know, that feeling when you’re not sure if you’re stepping into something cool or just plain dumb. I hesitate for a second, mostly ‘cause I don’t wanna look too eager, but then I’m like, “Yeah, alright. Lemme finish this garbage first.” I point at the half-eaten kebab, and she smirks, just a tiny one, but I catch it. I shove the rest down, toss the wrapper in the bin, and follow her out into the cold.

The walk to her place isn’t long, maybe ten minutes, but the wind coming off the Glomma makes it feel like forever. We cut through some side streets past the Domkirke, this big cathedral that’s basically the only touristy thing around here, though it’s all dark and empty now. We don’t talk much. I keep my hands stuffed in my pockets, trying to figure out what her deal is. She doesn’t seem flirty or nervous, just… straight-up, like inviting some random dude back to her place is no big thing. I can’t help but wonder if she does this all the time, or if I just happened to be in the right spot at the weirdest time. Her apartment’s in one of those old brick buildings by the river, the kind that probably used to be warehouses or something before they got turned into cheap flats. The stairwell stinks of damp wood and cigarette smoke, and her door’s got a dent in it like someone gave it a good kick once. Inside, it’s messy but not disgusting, couch with a couple blankets tossed over it, empty beer cans on the coffee table, a small TV with a cracked corner. There’s some tools scattered on the floor by the kitchenette, like she started fixing something and just gave up halfway.

“Go ahead, sit anywhere,” she said, kicking her boots off like she couldn’t care less, and headed straight for the fridge. I plopped down on the couch, feeling a bit weird, like I didn’t quite belong here, but not enough to just bolt out the door. She came back holding two cans of Ringnes, didn’t even ask if I wanted one, just handed it over. I popped it open, took a sip. Man, it was cold, bitter as hell, but exactly what I needed after that greasy kebab. “So, you live by yourself?” I asked, just to break the silence, you know? “Yeah,” she said, plopping down cross-legged on the floor right across from me instead of taking the couch. “Had a roommate once, but she ditched for Oslo, some big-shot job. Good riddance, honestly. Way too much drama.” She took a long gulp of her beer, then looked at me. “What about you? Got someone waiting up for you at home?” I snorted. “Nah, just me in a crappy one-bedroom by the train station. Most excitement I get is the neighbor’s dog barking its head off.” She nodded, like that was the most normal thing ever, and we just sat there drinking, not saying much. I kept sneaking glances at her, trying to figure out what this was. Just a chill hangout? Or was she, I dunno, checking me out for something more? I had no clue, and I sure as hell wasn’t gonna ask. I’m not that slick, and honestly, I didn’t wanna seem like some weirdo.

After a bit, she got up, grabbed a bottle of aquavit from a shelf, and two shot glasses that looked like they hadn’t seen soap in a week. “Ever tried this stuff?” she asked, already pouring two shots without waiting for me to answer. I shook my head. I’d seen it in stores, that clear, crazy-strong liquor with weird spices or whatever, but never had the guts to try it. “It’s gonna burn,” she warned, passing me a glass. “Don’t sip it. Just throw it back.” I nodded, and we clinked glasses. Holy crap, it hit like a punch, sharp and hot all the way down, with some herby taste I couldn’t even name. I coughed a little, and she let out a laugh, first time I’d heard it. It was rough, like she didn’t laugh much. “Told ya,” she said, already pouring another round before I could even think to say no. By the second shot, I was buzzing hard, and the room felt warmer, smaller somehow. She was still on the floor, leaning back on her hands, staring at me with that same steady look she had at the kebab joint. I shifted on the couch, not sure if it was the booze or her unblinking eyes making me jittery.

“So,” I started, not even sure where I was going with it, “what’s the deal with inviting me over? You do this a lot or what?” Her mouth twitched, almost a smile but not quite. “Sometimes,” she said with a shrug. “Depends. You seem… I dunno, not boring. Most guys around here are either hitched or total morons. You’re neither, at least not yet.” She paused, then added, “We’ll see.” I couldn’t help but laugh, even though my head was starting to swim. She poured another shot, and I knew I should probably slow down, but I didn’t wanna be the one to tap out first. There was this vibe in the air, not exactly tension, but like… a quiet challenge. Like we were both waiting to see who’d do something next, or if there was even anything to do. I set my glass down, leaned forward a bit, and she didn’t look away. Whatever was gonna happen, it wasn’t happening right this second, but it felt close. I could sense it.

I just sat there, elbows on my knees, staring at the empty shot glass in my hand like it was gonna tell me what to do. The aquavit was still burning in my chest, my head all fuzzy, but not so bad I couldn’t think. Ingrid was still on the floor, legs stretched out now, one hand lazily holding her beer can. Her hoodie was unzipped a little, showing a plain gray t-shirt underneath, and I caught myself noticing how it fit her, thin but not weak, like she could probably hold her own in a fight. I dragged my eyes back up to her face, and yep, she was still watching me with that same unreadable expression. My pulse kicked up a notch, and I told myself it was just the alcohol. “You’re thinking too hard,” she said out of nowhere, her voice slicing through the quiet. She tilted her head, like she could see straight into my brain. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Tom?” I shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Dunno. Just… wondering what the hell I’m even doing here, I guess.” That was half-true. I’m not used to this kinda thing, random invites, strong-ass liquor, some woman I barely know looking at me like she’s daring me to make a move. Normally, I’m just at home with a beer and some stupid Netflix show, not in a stranger’s place by the Glomma, feeling like I’m on the edge of… something.

She smirked, just a tiny flicker, and set her beer down on the floor. “You’re here ‘cause you didn’t have anything better going on,” she said, straight-up blunt. “Same as me.” Then she shifted, scooting a bit closer, still on the floor but now close enough I could reach out if I wanted to. Her knee brushed the edge of the couch, and I don’t know if she meant to do that or not, but it sent a jolt through me. I swallowed, my mouth dry even after all that beer. “Maybe,” I mumbled, setting my glass on the coffee table a little too hard. The clink sounded loud in the tiny room. I looked at her again, and this time she didn’t break eye contact. Those pale blue eyes of hers had this intensity, like she was waiting for me to crack. My hands felt twitchy, so I rubbed them on my jeans, trying to act chill even though my heart was pounding like crazy. I wasn’t sure if I was reading her right, but screw it, I was gonna test the waters anyway.

I bent down a little, getting closer to her height, and kinda grumbled, “So, what do you do when you’ve got nothing better to kill time with?” My voice sounded rougher than I wanted, probably ‘cause of the aquavit I’d been sipping. She didn’t say anything right away, just stared at me for a beat, and then, bam, she moved. Not slow or unsure or anything, she just pushed herself up onto her knees, closing the space between us in like half a second. Her face was right there, inches from mine, and I could smell the sharp bite of liquor on her breath, mixed with this cheap shampoo kinda vibe from her hair. “Depends,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. Then her hand came up, resting on the couch cushion right by my thigh, not touching me, but close enough I could feel the warmth off her. My dick twitched in my jeans, and I hated how damn obvious that probably was, but I didn’t budge. Neither did she, not yet. It felt like we were both just… waiting, ya know? Like, who’s gonna flinch first, call it quits, or push it further?

The room felt like it shrank, the only noise being the hum of the fridge over in the kitchenette, and my own breathing, which, honestly, was louder than I’d like. Then she went for it. She leaned in, her lips brushing against mine, not all soft or sweet, just straight-up raw and to the point. It wasn’t some romantic, passionate kiss or whatever; it was more like a test, like she was checking how I’d react. I froze for half a sec, my brain playing catch-up, then I pushed back, probably harder than I meant to. Our teeth kinda clashed, awkward as hell, but neither of us pulled away. Her mouth was warm, a little wet, tasting like beer and that damn aquavit, and I felt her hand slide from the cushion to my leg, grabbing my thigh just above the knee. My hands just… moved on their own, one grabbing the back of her neck, the other on her shoulder, pulling her closer. She shifted, half-climbing onto the couch, her knee digging into the cushion next to me as she straddled my lap. It wasn’t smooth or graceful, her elbow bumped my chest, and I grunted, but we didn’t stop. Her weight pressed down on me, not heavy, just solid, and I could feel the heat of her through my jeans, right where my dick was already straining against the damn zipper.

I groaned into her mouth, couldn’t help it, and she made this low sound, not a moan or anything, just a noise, like she was saying, “Yeah, I get it.” My hand slid down her back, under the hem of her hoodie and t-shirt, feeling her skin, cool, a little damp from sweat. No bra, just the sharp line of her spine under my fingers. She broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to yank her hoodie off over her head, chucking it somewhere behind her. Her t-shirt rode up a bit with it, showing a sliver of pale stomach and this faint scar running across her side, like she’d been cut or something once. I didn’t ask, didn’t care right then. My hands went to her hips, pulling her down harder against me, and she rocked forward, grinding against my crotch in a way that made my head spin like crazy. “Fuck,” I muttered, not even meaning to say it out loud. She didn’t laugh or say a word, just reached down and tugged at the hem of my shirt, pulling it up. I helped her out, shrugging it off quick, and then her hands were on my chest, rough and kinda curious, like she was figuring me out. I’m not some jacked dude or anything, got a bit of a gut, some hair, nothing to write home about, but she didn’t seem to care one bit. Her fingers dug into my skin a little, and then she leaned down, her mouth on my collarbone, biting just hard enough to sting. I hissed, my hands tightening on her hips, and I pushed her back a bit so I could get at her shirt. I pulled it up, and she lifted her arms to let me, leaving her bare from the waist up.

Her tits were small, pale like the rest of her, nipples hard, maybe from the cold, maybe something else. Freckles were scattered across her chest, and I didn’t waste time just staring. I leaned in, taking one into my mouth, sucking hard. She gasped, sharp and quick, her hand grabbing the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. Her skin tasted salty, a little bitter, and I flicked my tongue over her nipple, feeling her twitch against me. My hands went to her jeans, fumbling with the button like an idiot, but she didn’t stop me. I got it undone, unzipped them, and slid my hand down, over the waistband of her underwear, plain cotton, nothing fancy. I could feel the heat there, the dampness through the fabric, and I rubbed my fingers against her, clumsy but eager as hell. She groaned, low in her throat, and pushed down against my hand, her hips moving like she needed more, now. “Don’t fuck around,” she muttered, her voice all rough, and I wasn’t about to argue. I pushed the fabric aside, my fingers slipping against her, already wet and slick. She was shaved, mostly, just a bit of stubble, and I slid a finger inside her, feeling how tight and warm she was. Her breath hitched, and she grabbed my shoulder, nails digging in as I moved, adding another finger, stretching her a little.

She was dripping, coating my hand, and the smell hit me, sharp, musky, real as hell. No condoms around, and I didn’t ask, didn’t even think about it in the moment. My dick was throbbing, begging to get out of my jeans, but I focused on her, curling my fingers inside, trying to figure out what made her react. Her head tipped back, mouth open, and she rocked against my hand, picking up the pace. I could feel her clit under my thumb, hard and swollen, and I pressed down, rubbing tight little circles. “Shit, yeah,” she hissed, her voice cracking a bit, and I kept at it, my other hand gripping her ass through her jeans, pulling her closer.

Man, she was breathing heavy now, panting so loud it filled up the quiet room. I could feel her getting tighter around my fingers, her whole body stiffening like a coiled spring. I wanted to push her right over that edge, y’know, but, damn, I wanted more too. Wanted to be inside her, feel every damn inch of her from the inside. So I pulled my hand back, all slick and messy, and started fumbling with my jeans. Zipper was a pain, as always. She wasn’t waiting around, though, she shoved her own pants down her thighs, half-awkward since she was still kinda on my lap. Her underwear came down with ‘em, and there she was, bare, pale skin and that dark blonde hair between her legs, glistening like she was already soaked. I finally got my jeans open, pushed ‘em down just enough to free myself, hard as hell, leaking at the tip. She looked down at it, no shy bullshit, just straight-up curiosity, and then reached out, wrapping her hand around me. Her grip was tight, almost too tight, and I groaned, couldn’t help it, hips jerking up into her touch.

She shifted a bit, getting herself lined up, knees on either side of me on this old couch. I could feel the heat of her right there, just hovering over me, driving me nuts. My hands went to her hips, guiding her down, and that first brush of her against me, shit, I had to grit my teeth. She was so fucking wet, sliding against me, and then she started sinking down, real slow at first, taking me in bit by bit. It was tight, almost hurt a little, and I could feel every part of her stretching around me, so raw, so hot. No condom, no nothing, just skin on skin. I knew it was dumb as hell, but right then? Didn’t give a shit. “Fuck,” I grunted, head dropping back against the couch as she settled all the way down, her weight fully on me. She let out this shaky little breath, getting used to it, hands on my shoulders to steady herself. Then she moved, lifted up a bit and slammed back down, hard enough the couch creaked like it might break. It wasn’t smooth or fancy, just messy, desperate, both of us going after something we couldn’t name.

I thrust up to meet her, hands gripping her ass now, pulling her into me. The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud, kinda obscene, echoing in the room. We were both breathing hard, sweat starting to drip down my forehead. I could feel her getting tighter again, her movements all jerky, like she was right on the edge. I wasn’t far behind, pressure building fast, but, hell, I didn’t wanna finish yet. Wanted to drag this out, see how far we could take it. Her nails scratched down my chest, leaving these stinging red lines, and I hissed, thrusting harder, deeper, losing any kinda rhythm. The room smelled like us now, sharp and raw, and I didn’t care about anything else. Could feel her trembling, thighs shaking against mine as she rode me harder, her breath coming in short, ragged little gasps. Her face was all flushed, sweat shining on her forehead, eyes half-closed like she was lost in it.

I slid a hand between us, found her clit again, started rubbing it with my thumb, rough, quick, no messing around. She jolted, let out this sharp moan, and her walls clenched around me so tight I almost lost it right there. “Don’t fuckin’ stop,” she growled, voice all raw and gritty through clenched teeth, and I didn’t. Kept at it, circling, pressing, feeling her get even wetter, slicker, dripping down onto me. Her hips started bucking all uneven, movements erratic, and then she just froze for a split second before she broke. Her whole body shook, this low, guttural sound tearing out of her as she came, squeezing me so hard it almost hurt. I felt every pulse, every twitch, hot and wet around me, and it shoved me right to the brink.

I grabbed her hips tighter, probably gonna leave marks, and thrust up into her a few more times, hard and sloppy, chasing my own end. “Shit, I’m gonna, ” I started to warn her, but she didn’t move, didn’t pull off, just kept rocking against me like she didn’t give a damn. I came with a grunt, spilling inside her, the heat and pressure just exploding through me. It was intense, almost too much, my vision blurring for a sec as I emptied into her, pulse after pulse. She didn’t stop right away, kept moving, dragging it out, milking every last bit ‘til I was twitching, oversensitive as hell. My hands dropped from her hips, just limp on the couch, and she finally slowed down, slumping forward a little, her forehead resting on my shoulder for a quick second. Her breath was hot on my skin, and I could feel the sticky mess between us, my cum and her wetness mixing, leaking out as she shifted.

Neither of us said a word for a minute, just panting, trying to catch our breath. I was still inside her, softening now, and the reality of what we’d just done, no condom, no nothing, started creeping in, nagging at the back of my mind. Didn’t say anything, though. Didn’t wanna ruin whatever this was, even if it was just a stupid, reckless fuck on a beat-up couch in some shitty flat by the Glomma. She finally lifted herself off me, slow, careful, wincing a bit as she did. Felt the loss of her heat right away, the air cool against my damp skin. Saw the mess we’d made too, her thighs slick, a faint streak of white where I’d been. She didn’t look at me straight on, just grabbed her underwear and jeans off the floor, pulling ‘em on without a word. I did the same, tucking myself back into my jeans, zipping up with hands that were still kinda shaky. My shirt was somewhere behind the couch, and I leaned over to grab it, head spinning a little from the leftover buzz of that aquavit. Room was quiet now, just the faint hum of the fridge kicking back in, and the smell of sex hung around, mixed with the stale beer stink from earlier.

Man, it wasn’t some hot, romantic scene or anything like that, just… real, you know? Kinda nasty if I stopped to think about it too hard. Ingrid got up, raking a hand through her cropped hair, trying to flatten it down like that did a damn thing. She snagged her hoodie off the floor, threw it on, and zipped it up halfway. “Want another beer?” she tossed out, her voice flat as hell, like we hadn’t just gone at it like animals two minutes ago. I just stared at her, blinking, trying to figure out if she was for real. Her face didn’t give me squat to work with, just that same blank, don’t-give-a-shit look she’d been rocking since we met at the kebab spot on Storgata. “Uh, nah, I’m good,” I mumbled, scratching the back of my neck. My throat was dry as a desert, but I didn’t wanna hang around any longer than I needed to. The vibe felt off now, like something in the air had flipped, even if neither of us was showing it. I got up, tugged my shirt back on, and shot a quick glance at the door. “Probably gotta bounce. Got an early shift at the warehouse tomorrow.” Not a total lie, but not the real reason either. I just didn’t know what to do with myself now that the rush was gone.

She gave a little nod, like she saw that coming. “Yeah, cool. You know your way out.” Not mean, not friendly, just… nothing. She didn’t bother walking me out or anything, just folded her arms and leaned against the tiny kitchen counter, watching me grab my jacket off the couch arm. I slung it over my shoulder, threw her a half-hearted nod, and muttered, “Thanks for the, uh, drinks.” God, it sounded dumb the second it left my mouth, and I caught the tiniest twitch at the corner of her lips, almost a smirk, before she looked off somewhere else. I stepped into the stairwell, the smell of damp wood and old cigarette smoke smacking me in the face as her door clicked shut behind me. Didn’t hear her lock it or say another word, and I didn’t turn around to check. The cold November air hit me like a punch when I got outside, the wind off the Glomma slicing right through my jacket like it wasn’t even there. I jammed my hands in my pockets and started walking back to my place near the train station, my boots scraping on the busted-up pavement.

My head was still kinda hazy, legs wobbly like jelly, and I could still… feel her, you know? That lingering stickiness in my jeans, the dull ache in my muscles. I passed the old ferry dock on the way, the rusty railings barely there in the dark, and heard a couple of kids laughing somewhere close by. Probably sneaking beers or something, like I used to back in the day. Didn’t really think about it, didn’t think about much at all, to be honest. Just kept trudging along, the town dead quiet except for the odd car grumbling over the bridge. I figured I’d probably run into Ingrid again at some point, Fredrikstad’s small as hell, you can’t avoid people even if you try. Didn’t know if I’d want to, though. Didn’t know if she would either. Didn’t really matter right then, I guess.

Got to my street eventually, those buzzing sodium streetlights humming above me, and fumbled with my keys at the door to my building. My phone buzzed in my pocket as I stepped in, so I yanked it out and squinted at the screen. Just a text from a buddy, asking if I was down for a pint at Baronen tomorrow after work. Didn’t bother replying, just stuffed the phone back in my pocket and dragged myself up the stairs to my flat. Unlocked the door, kicked off my boots, and noticed one of ‘em had a fresh scuff on the toe, probably from tripping over some crap on Ingrid’s messy floor. Stared at it for a second, then grumbled, “Fuckin’ hell,” to absolutely no one, before flopping onto my couch to hunt for the damn TV remote I could never find.