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 standing there at the Spar on Storgata in Tromsø, Norway, halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito that tastes like cardboard and regret, when I catch myself staring at some guy’s ass for a full damn minute. Yeah, not exactly my proudest moment, but screw it, it’s been a long, brutal day. I’ve been dragging fish crates down at the harbor since 5 in the freaking morning, and my brain’s just mush at this point. Tromsø in late fall, man, it’s a cold, dark hell. Barely any daylight, just this weird gray-blue haze hanging over everything. Makes you wanna drink or hook up or something, anything to feel alive. I’m propped up against the counter by the hot dog rollers, grease all over my fingers, when I notice I’m zoning out on this dude bending down to grab a soda from the bottom shelf. He’s got these tight work pants on, the kind with reflective strips, probably a construction worker or some shit. Look, I ain’t proud of it, but I’ve got eyes, okay?

By the way, I’m Kjetil. Thirty-two, built like a guy who hauls heavy stuff for a living but drinks too much øl on the weekends to stay in any kinda shape. I’m no pretty boy, trust me, got a bit of a gut, scruffy beard, and a couple scars on my knuckles from stupid bar fights way back. I’m crashing in this tiny apartment off Hansjordnesbukta, right by the harbor, where the air always reeks of salt and diesel. Been in Tromsø my whole damn life, except for a couple years in Bodø trying to “figure myself out” or whatever the hell that means. Spoiler alert: it didn’t do shit. Now I’m just another dude grinding through the week, trying not to freeze my ass off in this Arctic wasteland.

Anyway, back to this guy at the Spar. Let’s just call him Lars, ‘cause he looked like every other Lars up here in northern Norway. He straightens up, catches me staring, and I don’t even flinch or try to play it cool like some wimp. I just give him a nod, like, yeah, I see you, so what? He doesn’t smile or anything, just locks eyes with me for a second before turning to the cashier. I figure that’s the end of it. I shove the last bite of that nasty burrito in my mouth, wipe my hands on my jeans, and I’m about to head out into that biting-ass wind when I hear him mutter something to the cashier about meeting someone at Fjellheisen later. That’s the cable car up to Storsteinen, the mountain overlook. Kinda touristy, sure, but locals hit it up too when you just need to get away from the town’s noise for a bit. I don’t know why, but my dumb brain latches onto that. Fjellheisen’s not far, maybe a 20-minute walk from Storgata if you cut through the backstreets by Tromsdalen. I didn’t have any plans to go there, no reason at all, but something about how Lars carried himself, all quiet and confident, just stuck with me. Plus, what else was I gonna do? My flatmate, Oddvar, is pulling the late shift at the fish plant, and I’m not in the mood to sit alone in my crappy apartment watching reruns of Skavlan with subtitles I don’t even need.

So, I zip up my parka, yank my beanie down over my ears, and step out into the dark. Tromsø this time of year, man, it’s like walking through a damn freezer with streetlights. The wind cuts right through you, especially down by the water near Tromsøbrua bridge. I shove my hands deep in my pockets and start trudging toward Fjellheisen, not even sure why I’m bothering with this. Maybe I’m just curious. Maybe I’m bored out of my freaking mind. Or maybe, just maybe, I wanna see if Lars is meeting someone for the same kinda thing I’ve got on my mind. I ain’t gonna pretty this up, I’ve messed around with guys before, though I don’t go shouting it from the rooftops. Up here, people talk, and I don’t have the energy to deal with that bullshit. But sometimes, you know, you just get an itch.

The streets are pretty much empty, just a few people rushing home from work or grabbing smokes at the Narvesen by Kirkegata. I pass the old Domkirke, that wooden cathedral that looks like it’s ripped straight outta some Viking postcard, and keep walking. My boots crunch on the thin layer of snow that’s been coming down on and off all day. By the time I roll up to the base station for Fjellheisen, my nose is running like a faucet, and my fingers are numb even through my gloves. It’s quieter than I expected out here. Usually, you’ve got a handful of tourists snapping pics of the fjord or hoping to catch the northern lights if they’re lucky, but tonight it’s just a couple old dudes smoking by the ticket booth and some girl on her phone, probably waiting for a ride. I don’t see Lars at first, and I’m feeling like a complete idiot for even coming out here. What am I gonna do, just walk up to some random guy and be like, “Hey, saw you at Spar, wanna mess around?” Nah, I ain’t that desperate, come on.

I’m about to turn around and head back when I spot him near the edge of the parking lot, leaning against the railing with a cigarette in his hand. He’s alone, just staring out at the black water of the fjord, the faint glow of city lights bouncing off it. Up close, he looks older than I figured, maybe late thirties, early forties. Rough around the edges, kinda like me. Short blond hair under a wool cap, stubble on his jaw, and a jacket that’s seen better days. He looks like he fits here, like he’s spent his whole life fighting the cold and the dark just like the rest of us. I don’t say a word at first. Just walk over, keeping a couple meters between us, and lean on the railing too. I dig out my pack of smokes, Prince, the cheap crap, and light one up. The wind snatches the smoke away fast, and I cough a bit ‘cause I haven’t smoked in a week. Lars glances over, gives me a quick look up and down, then turns his eyes back to the water.

I didn’t say a thing at first. Just stood there, feeling like some kinda weirdo, so I figured I’d say something to break the awkward silence. “Man, it’s cold as hell out here,” I muttered, my voice all scratchy from the wind and too many smokes. Real clever, Kjetil, I thought, rolling my eyes at myself. But hey, it was better than nothing. He just grunted, took a long drag on his cigarette, and gave a little nod. “Ja. Always is.” His voice came out low, rough, like he didn’t talk much. Which was fine by me, I’m not exactly a chatterbox either. I took another drag, racking my brain for something to say that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete idiot. My eyes caught his hands, big, rough, knuckles all red from the cold. Looked like he worked hard with ‘em, just like I do. There was this quiet about him, though, like he didn’t care about much of anything. I kinda liked that, weird as it sounds. Made me feel a little less on edge.

“You waiting for someone?” I asked, trying to sound like I didn’t really care one way or another. He shrugged, flicked some ash off his cigarette. “Was. They didn’t show. You?” “Nah,” I said, maybe a bit too fast. “Just had to get outta the house. Shitty day, you know.” He nodded again, like he got it, no questions asked. We just stood there for a while, smoking, not saying much. The wind was howling around us, and I could hear this faint hum from the cable car machinery, even though it wasn’t running this late. I kept sneaking glances at him, trying to figure out if I was reading this all wrong. I’m no mind reader, and I’ve messed up before, thought someone was on the same wavelength when they weren’t. Last thing I needed was to get clocked in the face out here in the middle of nowhere.

But then he turned his head, caught my eye, and just… held it. Not friendly, not pissed off either. Just straight-up, like he was sizing me up. My stomach did this weird little flip, not ‘cause I was scared, but ‘cause I knew that look. I’ve seen it before, in shady dive bars off Grønnegata, in the back of trucks after a long-ass shift. It’s the kind of look that says, “I know what you’re thinking, and maybe I’m thinking it too.” I didn’t say a word, just flicked my cigarette butt into the snow and shoved my hands deep in my pockets. My heart was pounding a little harder than I wanted to admit, but I tried to play it cool. Or at least act like I was.

He finished his smoke, crushed it under his boot, and turned a bit more toward me. Still didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. The air between us felt… different now, heavier, like something was gonna happen if one of us didn’t back down. And I sure as hell wasn’t planning to back down. Not yet, anyway. I shifted my weight against the railing, the cold metal biting through my gloves, and kept my eyes on him, Lars, I think his name was. He didn’t look away, just kept that steady, unreadable stare. My pulse was up, and I could feel this heat in my neck, even with the freezing wind whipping off the fjord. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but I wasn’t about to walk away. Not with him looking at me like that. It wasn’t friendly, wasn’t angry either, just raw, like he was daring me to make a move.

“Wanna get outta this wind for a bit?” I said, nodding toward the base station for Fjellheisen. There’s a little overhang by the ticket booth, not much, but enough to block some of this damn cold. My voice came out rougher than I meant, probably ‘cause I was pretending not to be nervous. He didn’t answer right away, just gave a small nod, like he’d already made up his mind before I even asked. We walked over, boots crunching on the packed snow, and ducked under the overhang. Didn’t do much for the cold, honestly, but at least the wind wasn’t ripping at my face anymore. Up close, I could smell the faint tobacco on him, mixed with something else, maybe motor oil or just sweat from a long day. It wasn’t bad, just… real. Made me notice how my own hands still reeked of fish and grease from the harbor, even after wiping ‘em on my jeans.

I leaned against the wall, the concrete cold as hell through my parka, and he stood a couple feet away, hands in his pockets, still watching me. I’m not great at this part, you know? The talking, the figuring out if someone’s on the same page. I’ve screwed it up before, said the wrong thing and ended up with a black eye, or just walked away feeling like a dumbass. So I didn’t say much, just let the quiet hang there between us. My breath was coming out in little clouds, and I could see his doing the same. Then he took a step closer, not a big one, just enough to cut the space between us in half. My gut tightened, and I straightened up a little, not sure if I should move or just stay put.

“You do this a lot?” he asked, his voice low, almost swallowed by the wind. Didn’t sound like he was accusing me of anything, more like he was just curious, testing the waters. “Nah,” I said, keeping it real. “Not really. You?” He shrugged, one corner of his mouth twitching like he might’ve smirked if he gave a damn. “Sometimes. When it’s worth it.” That hit me harder than it probably should’ve. Not the words themselves, but the way he said ‘em, like he already knew this was heading somewhere. I swallowed, my throat dry as hell despite the cold, and took a chance. Stepped closer, just a little, enough that I could feel the heat off him even through all our layers. He didn’t back off, didn’t even flinch. Just kept looking at me, eyes dark under the brim of his wool cap. My hands were still in my pockets, but I wanted to do something with ‘em, anything. Didn’t, though. Not yet.

“Worth it now?” I asked, keeping my voice as steady as I could, even though my chest felt tight as hell.

He didn’t say a damn thing. Just reached out, real slow, and grabbed the front of my parka, bunching it up in his fist. Not hard or anything, but firm, like he meant business. My breath caught in my throat, and before I could even think about it, I grabbed his jacket too, yanking him closer. Our mouths slammed together, kinda messy at first, teeth clacking a bit ‘cause, well, neither of us was trying to be smooth about it. His stubble scratched against my beard, rough as hell, but real, you know? His lips were cold, wet, tasting like tobacco and salt. I leaned in harder, desperate almost, not giving a shit that we were barely out of sight under this crappy overhang, the wind still sneaking through and chilling us.

His hand slid up to the back of my neck, gripping tight, and I couldn’t help it, I let out a groan right into his mouth. It was louder than I meant, way too loud for how quiet it was out here, but screw it, I didn’t care. My hands went to his hips, pulling him in, and I could feel how solid he was through his jacket, heavy, like he could toss me around if he felt like it. My brain wasn’t doing much thinking, just zeroed in on the heat of his tongue pushing against mine, the sharp puffs of his breath through his nose. My dick was already half-hard in my jeans, pressing against the fabric, and I shifted a little, rubbing up against him to see if he was on the same page. Yeah, he was. I could feel him, hard as hell through his pants, and it hit me like a damn lightning bolt.

We pulled apart for a second, both of us breathing like we’d just run a mile. I darted a quick look around to make sure no one was creeping on us. The parking lot was empty, just the dim glow of streetlights over by Sollivegen and the faint hum of a car way off on Tromsøbrua. Nobody gave a rat’s ass about us out here. I turned back to him, and his eyes were half-shut, pupils huge, like he was already too far gone to care either. He didn’t say a word, just fumbled with the zipper on my parka, his gloves making it clumsy as hell, and I did the same to his. The cold slapped my chest through my sweater, but I barely felt it ‘cause his hands were on me, shoving under the layers, rough palms scraping against my sides. “Fuck,” I mumbled, mostly to myself, while I struggled with his belt. The metal was freezing, my fingers weren’t cooperating, but I got it undone, popped the button on his pants too.

He let out a low grunt, deep in his throat, and pushed my hand down, guiding me to the bulge in his boxers. I grabbed him through the fabric, feeling the heat, the weight of it, and he hissed, hips jerking a bit. I’m not gonna lie, my mouth kinda watered, but there was no time to even think about that ‘cause he was already yanking at my jeans, getting them open just enough to shove his hand in. His fingers were cold as fuck, and I flinched when they wrapped around my cock, but honestly, it didn’t matter. The shock, the roughness, it just made it better. I was rock hard now, already leaking a little, and he smeared it with his thumb, not gentle at all, just messy and fast. I bit my lip to keep quiet, but a low noise slipped out anyway.

I shoved his boxers down just enough to get at him, and damn, he was thick, heavier than I figured, the skin burning hot against my hand. I could smell him now, musky, sharp, mixing with the salty air and that faint diesel stink from the harbor that sticks to everything up here. I stroked him slow at first, testing the waters, watching his face to see if I was screwing it up. His jaw was clenched, eyes half-closed, and he let out a quick, sharp breath through his teeth. He pushed in closer, pinning me against the wall, the concrete rough even through my jacket. His hand was still on me, jerking me off with no real rhythm, just pure need, and I kept up, gripping him tighter, moving faster.

Our foreheads pressed together, breath hot and quick between us, and I could feel it building already, way too fast, but I didn’t give a damn. I shifted, spreading my legs a little to give him more room, and he took it, sliding his other hand down to cup my balls through my briefs, squeezing just hard enough to make me gasp. “Condom?” he muttered, voice all rough, barely loud enough to hear over the wind. I shook my head, too far gone to think straight. “Nah, just… keep going,” I said, not caring if it was stupid. I’ve been tested, I’m good, but in that moment, none of that crap mattered. He didn’t push back, just gave a quick nod and rocked his hips into my hand, fucking into my fist like he couldn’t hold off.

I could feel the slickness, pre-cum making it messy, and I knew I wasn’t gonna last much longer. Neither was he, from the way his breathing kept hitching, the way his grip on me got tighter, almost too much. I wanted more, wanted to shove him down or bend over or something, but there was no time, not out here in the open with the cold biting at every bit of bare skin. So I just kept going, stroking him hard, feeling his cock pulse in my hand, his thighs tensing under his pants. He groaned, low and raw, and I felt my own gut tighten, heat building fast at the base of my spine.

But before I could lose it, he grabbed my wrist, stopping me, his chest heaving. “Not yet,” he rasped, eyes locked on mine, and I nodded, panting, trying to catch my damn breath. We weren’t done, not even close, but we couldn’t stay out here much longer without freezing our asses off or getting busted. He let go of my wrist, and I pulled my hand back, wiping it on my jeans without even thinking about it.

Man, my dick was still out, hard as hell and throbbing, with the cold air nipping at it now that his hand wasn’t there to keep it warm. I stuffed myself back into my jeans real quick, wincing ‘cause the denim scraped against my sensitive skin. Zipped up my parka halfway to block out some of that biting wind. Lars was doing the same, fiddling with his pants and letting out a low grunt, his breath still puffing out in sharp little clouds. That wind, though, it was brutal, sneaking under the overhang and stinging my face like a slap. Still, the heat between us? Didn’t cool off even a little.

“There’s a maintenance shed around the back,” Lars muttered, jerking his head toward the side of the Fjellheisen base station. His voice was all gravelly, low, like he’d been shouting into a storm for hours. “No one’s gonna be there this late.” I didn’t even think to question it. Didn’t give a damn if he was making it up or if we’d get busted. My head was too clouded with need, and, well, my balls were basically yelling at me to get this done. I just nodded quick, and we started moving, sticking close to the building to dodge the worst of the wind. My boots slid a bit on the icy ground as we turned the corner, passing a couple of rusted signs for the cable car times. Sure enough, there it was, a little shed tucked against the back wall, half-buried under snow and some beat-up equipment crates. Looked like no one had touched the place in weeks, maybe months.

The door had a padlock on it, but Lars just pulled a small key from his jacket pocket. Don’t ask me how he had it, ‘cause I sure as hell didn’t care to find out. He popped it open like it was nothing, like he’d done it a million times. Inside, it wasn’t much warmer than out there, just a cramped little space with a concrete floor, some shelves of tools, and this faint, grimy smell of rust and oil. A single bulb flickered above us, throwing harsh shadows all over the place. No heat, no cozy vibes, just a dirty workbench in the corner and a couple of folded tarps on the ground. Perfect, honestly. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted this to be fast, messy, just get it outta my system and be done.

He shut the door behind us, the latch clicking loud in the tiny space, and turned to me. Didn’t say a word, just gave me that same heavy stare from before. I shrugged off my parka, letting it drop to the floor with a thud, and he did the same, his jacket hitting the ground softly. The cold cut right through my sweater to my arms, but I ignored it, stepping closer ‘til we were chest to chest again. No messing around this time. His hands went straight for my jeans, yanking them down along with my briefs. I kicked ‘em off one leg, too worked up to even bother getting them all the way off. My cock sprang free, still rock hard, and the cold air made me hiss, but then his hand was back on me, rough, tight, and I forgot about everything else. I shoved his pants down too, just enough to get to him, and grabbed his cock, feeling the heat of it in my palm. He was leaking, slick at the tip, and I smeared it down his shaft, jerking him slow but firm. He let out a groan, this deep rumble in his chest, and shoved me back ‘til my ass hit the edge of the workbench. The wood was all splintered, digging into me through my sweater, but I didn’t give a shit.

He leaned in, his mouth crashing into mine again, all teeth and tongue, no smoothness, just pure hunger. I could still taste the tobacco on him, mixed with the salt of sweat, and I bit at his lip, not hard enough to bleed, but enough to make him grunt. “Turn around,” he muttered right against my mouth, and I didn’t argue. I spun around, bracing my hands on the workbench, the cold wood biting into my palms. My jeans were still tangled around one ankle, and I felt exposed as hell with my bare ass out in this freezing shed, but that just made my pulse race even faster. I heard him spit, the sound cutting through the quiet, and then his fingers were on me, slick and cold, pushing against my hole. I tensed up at first, couldn’t help it, but made myself relax, breathing hard through my nose. He wasn’t gentle, didn’t take it slow, just worked one finger in, then two, stretching me fast and rough. It burned, sharp and raw, but I pushed back into it, wanting more, even wanting it to sting a bit.

“Fuck, hurry up,” I growled, my voice all thick and messed up, and he let out a short, rough laugh, the first real hint of amusement I’d heard from him. I heard him spit again, felt the wet heat as he slicked himself up, and then the blunt head of his cock was right there, pressing against me. No condom, no real lube beyond what we had, and yeah, I knew it was dumb, knew I’d probably regret it later, but in that moment? Didn’t care one bit. I just wanted him in me, wanted to feel it, screw the consequences. He pushed in slow at first, just the tip, and I bit down on my own arm to keep from making a noise that’d echo in this tiny shed. It hurt, damn it, it hurt, but it was that good kind of hurt, the kind that made my toes curl in my boots and my dick twitch against my stomach.

He didn’t wait long, didn’t ask if I was good, just gripped my hips hard, probably hard enough to leave marks, and thrust in deeper, filling me up with one rough push. I gasped, my hands scrambling on the workbench for anything to grab onto, and he started moving, hard and fast, no real rhythm, just pure need driving him. The shed filled up with the sound of skin slapping against skin, his grunts, my sharp, ragged breaths, and the creak of the workbench under us.

Man, I could feel every damn inch of him, thick and heavy, just dragging inside me, and it was way too much, too fast, you know? But hell, I didn’t want him to stop, not even for a second. My own dick was dripping onto the floor, bouncing with every thrust he made, and I reached down, grabbed it, started jerking myself off to match his rhythm. The air in that shed stank, sharp with sweat, spit, and that faint, musky smell of sex, all mixed with the oil and rust lingering around us. His hands clamped down on my hips, fingers digging hard into my skin, and I knew I’d be marked up tomorrow, probably bruised, but I didn’t give a shit. I pushed back against him, meeting every thrust, chasing that tight, burning heat building deep in my gut.

Then he leaned over me, his chest pressing against my back. He was still mostly dressed, and the scratchy wool of his sweater rubbed rough against my bare skin where my shirt had ridden up. His breath hit my neck, hot and uneven, and I could tell he was losing it, his rhythm started to slip, his body tensing up. “Gonna, ” he muttered, voice all strained and broken, but he didn’t finish the thought, just slammed into me one last time, so hard I saw freaking spots. I felt it when he came, hot and wet inside me, his dick pulsing as he let go. He didn’t pull out right away, just stayed there, breathing heavy, his weight pinning me down against the workbench.

I wasn’t far off myself. A couple more rough tugs on my dick, and I was done, spilling all over my hand and the grimy floor, a low groan tearing out of me. My legs were shaking like crazy, ready to give out, but I locked my elbows, kept myself propped up somehow. For a moment, we just stayed like that, him still inside me, both of us panting, the cold starting to creep back in now that the heat of it all was fading. Then he pulled out, real slow, and I winced at the sudden emptiness, the dull ache he left behind. I could feel his cum trickling out, warm against the chilly air, and I straightened up fast, wiping at myself with my sweater sleeve like that was gonna do jack shit.

He stepped back, already yanking his pants up, not even glancing my way. I did the same, pulling my jeans on, the fabric sticking to my sweaty skin, annoying as hell. My hands were shaky, my breathing still all over the place, but I didn’t say a word. Neither did he. That damn bulb overhead flickered again, throwing weird shadows across the walls, and I grabbed my parka off the floor, shrugged it on without bothering to zip it up. My ass was sore, my legs felt like jelly, and I knew I’d be hurting tomorrow, but I didn’t sit there dwelling on it. Just wanted to get the hell out of that shed.

“See ya,” I mumbled, not really meaning it, just tossing something out there to break the awkward silence as I headed for the door. He grunted, maybe a reply, maybe not, already turned away, grabbing his own jacket. I didn’t look back as I stepped outside. The wind hit me hard, like a slap in the face, feeling even colder now that I was all sweaty and worn out. I trudged back toward Sollivegen, not thinking about much, just listening to the snow crunch under my boots and staring at the far-off lights of Tromsøbrua. Halfway down the road, it hit me, I’d left my beanie back in the shed. Didn’t turn around, though. Screw it, let the seagulls have it for their nest or whatever the hell they do up here in this frozen mess.