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 lousy kebab at some grimy little spot called Ali’s Grill on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim. It was a Tuesday night, freezing as hell for late September, and I was just trying to waste some time before catching the last bus back to Lade. Man, that place reeked of grease and burnt onions, with these annoying fluorescent lights buzzing above and a floor so sticky I bet it hadn’t seen a mop since the 90s. I was parked at this rickety table by the window, watching a bunch of drunk uni kids stagger by outside, when she walked in. Black hoodie, ripped jeans, hair all messy like she just crawled outta bed. Honestly, she didn’t look like she fit in this dump any more than I did, but she ordered a falafel wrap like she’d been coming here forever.

Look, I’m not some smooth-talking charmer or anything. I’m just Torvald, 32, stuck in a dead-end warehouse gig at Coop Obs over on Haakon VIIs gate. Yeah, my name sounds like I should be swinging an axe in some Viking flick, but nah, it’s just what my folks went with. I’m nothing special, kinda average, not ripped, not hideous, just got a bit of a beer belly from hitting up Mikrobryggeriet too often on weekends. Anyway, I kept stealing glances at her while I chewed on my overcooked lamb. She had this whole “I don’t give a damn” vibe going on, just glued to her phone while waiting for her food. I pegged her as late 20s, probably one of those artsy types who hang around Svartlamon, that hipster squat spot by the river.

I wasn’t planning on saying a word to her. I’m not the guy who chats up random women in sketchy diners at 10 p.m., you know? But then she caught me staring. Didn’t glare or look away, just raised an eyebrow like, “What’s your deal, dude?” I shrugged, wiped some sauce off my chin, real classy, and mumbled, “Sorry, just zoning out. Long day.” Yeah, real poetic stuff. She let out this little snort, not a full laugh, just a quick huff through her nose. “Yeah, same. This town just drains you dry,” she said. Her voice was kinda rough, like she smoked too much, and her accent was straight-up Trøndersk, all flat and clipped. I nodded, thinking that was the end of it, but then she grabbed her wrap from the counter and, outta nowhere, sat down at my table without even asking. “I’m Ingrid,” she said, peeling open her food. “You got a name, or you just gonna keep staring all night?”

I told her my name, feeling like a total idiot for being caught off guard like that. We didn’t say much at first, just ate in this awkward silence while the guy behind the counter blasted some random Turkish pop music. Outside, the wind was howling, rattling the windows of those old brick buildings along Prinsens Gate. I could see the Nidaros Cathedral spires in the distance, all lit up like something off a cheesy postcard, but down here it was just wet streets and the odd taxi rolling by. Ingrid kept checking her phone, texting someone with her fingers flying over the screen. I figured she was waiting for a friend or whatever, but I didn’t ask. Not my business, right?

After a bit, she looked up and goes, “You know that bar down by Bakklandet, near the old bridge? Den Gode Nabo?” I nodded. It’s this divey spot, all wood paneling and overpriced craft beer, right by the Nidelva river where they turned old warehouses into fancy flats. “I’m meeting some people there soon,” she said, picking at her wrap. “You look like you’ve got nothing going on. Wanna come with?” I wasn’t expecting that at all. I mean, I had work at 6 a.m. the next day, and the last bus to Lade was in, like, 20 minutes. But the way she said it, all casual like she couldn’t care less if I tagged along or not, made me just shrug and say, “Sure, why not.” I’m not usually this spur-of-the-moment, but it’d been a crappy week, boss on my case about inventory, ex blowing up my phone with drama over a stupid couch I don’t even want, so I figured a couple beers wouldn’t kill me.

We finished up, tossed our trash, and stepped out into the cold. Trondheim at night? Not exactly a fairytale. The streets were slick from earlier rain, reflecting those orange streetlights, and the air smelled like wet asphalt mixed with fish from the fjord. We walked down Kjøpmannsgata, past all the shuttered shops and that eerie quiet of the old town, cutting through Bakklandet with its tight cobblestone alleys and overpriced little cafes. Ingrid didn’t talk much, just smoked a cigarette and scrolled through her phone. I noticed her hands looked rough, like she worked with ‘em, maybe construction or something, I dunno. Didn’t ask, though. I suck at small talk, and she didn’t strike me as the type who’d wanna yap about the weather anyway.

Den Gode Nabo was surprisingly packed for a Tuesday. Mix of locals and a few tourists who’d probably wandered over from the Gamle Bybro bridge. The place stank of spilled beer and damp coats, with low ceilings and walls plastered with old ship stuff, nets, anchors, all that junk. The bar was sticky as hell, the music was some forgettable indie playlist, and the crowd was this weird blend of grizzled old fisherman dudes and younger folks rocking beanies and thrift store jackets. Ingrid scanned the room, then waved at a couple sitting in the back corner by a window overlooking the river. “There they are,” she muttered under her breath, and I followed her over, feeling a bit outta place but too stubborn to turn back now.

The couple looked about our age, maybe a tad older. The guy, Øyvind, had this scruffy beard and a beat-up Carhartt jacket, like he’d just stepped off a fishing boat. The woman, Marit, was pale, with short blonde hair and a nose ring, wearing this baggy sweater that looked like she might’ve knit it herself.

So, they gave Ingrid these quick little hugs when we showed up, then turned to me with these looks like I was some stray dog she’d dragged in off the street. And, honestly, I kinda was. Ingrid just gestured at me with her thumb and said, “This is Torvald. Picked him up at Ali’s. He’s cool.” I’ve got no clue why she called me cool, she barely even knew me, but I just nodded and plopped down in a chair. We ordered some beers, just Hansa, nothing special, and got to chatting. Well, they did, anyway. I mostly sat there, taking it in. Øyvind was loud as hell, rambling on about some boat repair he totally screwed up down at Ravnkloa, that fish market by the harbor. Marit kept rolling her eyes at him, but you could tell by her smirk she thought he was kinda funny anyway. Ingrid was quieter, sipping her beer, checking her phone every few minutes, though she’d toss out a sarcastic little jab now and then that got everyone cracking up. Me, I felt like the odd man out, but they didn’t seem to care I was there, so I just drank my beer and nodded along like I belonged.

After the second round, things started to loosen up a bit. Maybe it was the beer, or maybe it was just getting late, but the conversation got sloppier, more relaxed. Øyvind launched into some story about a party they’d all been at a few months ago, up at a cabin in Oppdal. He was hinting at stuff that went down, not saying it straight out, you know? Marit was laughing, her face all red, and Ingrid just smirked, shooting me this sideways glance like she was checking if I caught the drift. I think I did, or at least I figured I did, but I kept my mouth shut. My head was buzzing a little from the beer, and I couldn’t help noticing how close Ingrid was sitting now, her knee brushing against mine under the table. Didn’t feel like an accident, but who knows? Then Marit leaned over, her voice kinda low but not exactly a whisper, and said to Ingrid, “So, you bringing him in, or what?” I had no idea what she meant at first, but the way she said it, all casual but with this weird weight to it, made my stomach do a flip. Ingrid didn’t say anything right away, just took a slow sip of her beer, her eyes flicking over to me again. Felt like I was being judged or something, like I’d stumbled into a game I didn’t know the rules to. Øyvind grinned, leaning back in his chair, and tossed out, “Up to him, isn’t it?” I started to open my mouth to ask what the heck they were talking about, but Ingrid just shrugged me off. “We’ll see,” she said, her voice flat but her eyes sharp as knives. “Night’s still young.” And that was that. They moved on to other stuff, but the air felt… different now, heavier, like there was something unspoken hanging over the table. I chugged the rest of my beer, my pulse picking up, wondering what on earth I’d just walked into.

I sat there, nursing the last bit of my Hansa, feeling the buzz settle deep into my bones while the noise of Den Gode Nabo buzzed around us. Ingrid’s knee was still pressed against mine under the table, not pulling away, and I couldn’t tell if it was just the tight space or… something more. My head was spinning a bit, and not just from the beer. It was the weird vibe, the way Marit and Øyvind kept glancing at me like they were waiting for me to do something. I’m not an idiot, I could feel the tension, but I wasn’t about to ask straight out and look like a moron. So I kept quiet, letting the talk drift to random crap like gas prices up at Statoil on Elgeseter. After a bit, Ingrid pushed her empty glass aside and stood up. “I’m hitting the bathroom,” she said, her voice rough, like maybe she’d smoked half a pack on the way over. Then she looked right at me, one eyebrow raised. “You coming, or what?” It didn’t sound like a question, more like a challenge. My stomach did this weird little flip, but I nodded and scraped my chair back. Marit smirked into her beer, and Øyvind let out this low chuckle, like he knew something I didn’t. I ignored them and followed Ingrid through the crowd, past the sticky bar counter and these old guys bickering over a football match on the grainy TV in the corner.

The bathroom hallway was narrow, tucked behind this heavy wooden door near the back of the bar. Smelled like cheap pine cleaner and stale piss, with this one flickering bulb overhead. There were two doors, one for guys, one for gals, but Ingrid didn’t head for either. She stopped just past them, in this little alcove by a rusty old radiator, and turned to face me. I stood there, hands shoved in my pockets, feeling like a complete idiot for not knowing what to say. “So, uh, what’s this about?” I finally muttered, my voice louder than I meant it to be in that cramped space. She didn’t answer right off, just leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Her hoodie was unzipped a little, showing the edge of a faded tank top underneath, and I caught myself staring before forcing my eyes back up to her face. She noticed, obviously, and the corner of her mouth twitched up. “You’re not as clueless as you look, Torvald,” she said, dragging out my name like it was some kind of punchline. “You feel it, don’t you? What’s going on back there.” She nodded toward the main room. I shrugged, my face getting hot. “I dunno. You tell me.” I wasn’t trying to play dumb, I just didn’t wanna assume and look stupid. But my pulse was pounding now, and I could feel the heat coming off her, even with a couple feet between us.

She stepped closer, real casual, like she was just shifting her weight or something, but now I could smell the beer on her breath, mixed with something sharper, maybe tobacco, maybe just her. It wasn’t sexy in some Hollywood way, it was… real, raw, a little sour even. “Marit and Øyvind, they’re… open,” she said, her voice low, eyes locked on mine.

So, yeah, I’m not really the type to settle down with just one person, you know? We mess around every now and then. Nothing heavy, just… a good time, I guess. She stopped talking for a sec, giving me a chance to let that sink in, her eyes locked on mine, watching for a reaction. I swallowed, my throat feeling like sandpaper, but I didn’t break eye contact. “If that’s not your thing, no worries,” she said with a shrug, like it was no big deal. “Just thought I’d check if you’ve got the nerve for it.” Honestly, I didn’t even know what to say at first. My brain was all over the place, half of me thought she was screwing with me, the other half was already imagining stuff I probably shouldn’t. I’m no saint or anything, hell, I’ve had my fair share of late-night flings after one too many at Mikrobryggeriet, but this? This felt… different. Messy. Like I was stepping into something I couldn’t handle. “So, what, you just scoop up randoms at Ali’s Grill for this kinda thing?” I tossed out, trying to play it cool, but it came off way more snarky than I meant. She let out this little snort, that same sharp huff through her nose. “Nah, not really. You just looked… I dunno, curious, maybe? Bored as hell. Like you could use a little excitement.” Then she stepped closer, her boots scraping on the dirty floor, and I could feel the heat from the radiator mixing with the warmth coming off her. My back was literally against the wall now, and I didn’t budge. Didn’t want to, if I’m honest. “So, you in or out?” she asked, her voice dropping low, almost like a growl. I didn’t answer with words. Before I even thought it through, my hands were out of my pockets, one grabbing her hip through her rough denim jeans, the other sliding up to her neck, under that messy tangle of hair. She didn’t pull back, just tilted her head a bit, letting me draw her in. Our mouths smashed together, nothing soft about it, kinda clumsy, teeth clashing a little, her lips rough and tasting like cheap beer and salt. My heart was hammering so loud I could hear it in my ears, and her hands gripped my jacket, pulling me in tight. We stumbled a bit, my shoulder hitting the wall as I pressed into her, her back arching against the radiator. It wasn’t comfy at all, not even close, the metal was hot through her hoodie, and the hallway reeked like a freaking sewer, but I didn’t give a damn. Her tongue was in my mouth now, rough and eager, and I let out a groan without meaning to, the sound getting lost in the bar noise leaking through the door. My hand slid down from her hip, grabbing her ass, squeezing hard through the jeans, and she made this low sound, like half a moan, half a grunt, that hit me right where it counts. I was already hard, pressing against her through my cargo pants, and she definitely noticed ‘cause she ground her hips forward, slow but on purpose, making me hiss through my teeth. “Fuck,” I mumbled against her mouth, and she just smirked, pulling back just enough to look at me, her eyes dark and piercing. Then her hand slid down between us, bold as anything, palming me through the fabric, and I damn near lost it right there. Her grip wasn’t soft, just firm, like she was testing me, and I could feel the heat of her fingers even through my pants. “Not here,” she said, her voice rougher now, breathing fast. “Too many drunks stumbling around.” But she didn’t stop touching me, her thumb rubbing a slow circle right over the tip through the fabric, making my hips jerk. I nodded, barely able to think straight, and she grabbed my wrist, tugging me toward the men’s bathroom door a few steps away. Thank God it wasn’t locked. We stumbled inside, the door creaking shut behind us with a loud groan. The bathroom was a total dump, single stall, cracked mirror, a sink that looked like it hadn’t worked since the freaking 80s. Stank worse than the hallway, like piss and old mop water, with graffiti scratched all over the tiles. Did I care? Not a bit. Ingrid shoved me against the stall door, her hands already fumbling with my belt, quick and a little sloppy. The metal buckle clinked loud in the tiny space as she got it undone, yanking my pants and boxers down just enough to free me. The cold air hit my skin, then her hand was on me, skin to skin, rough and warm, stroking slow but tight. I groaned again, louder this time, my head tipping back against the stall as I looked down at her fingers wrapped around me, her nails chipped, a faint scar across her knuckles I hadn’t noticed before. “Condom?” she muttered, her other hand digging into her hoodie pocket while she kept stroking, not easing up for a second. I shook my head, too far gone to even feel dumb about it. “Didn’t exactly plan for this,” I grunted, and she just shrugged, pulling out a foil packet anyway. “Lucky I did,” she said, ripping it open with her teeth while I tried not to lose it right then and there. She rolled it on fast, no messing around, her fingers slick with the lube from the wrapper, and I had to clench my jaw to keep from making too much noise. Then I reached for her jeans, fumbling with the button, my hands shaky from the adrenaline and the beer still buzzing in my head. She didn’t help, just watched me struggle for a second with that damn smirk again, then pushed my hands away and undid them herself, shoving the denim and her underwear down to her thighs. I caught a quick glimpse, dark hair, untrimmed, pale skin against the black fabric all bunched up, and then she was turning around, bracing her hands on the stall wall, bending forward just enough. “Hurry up,” she snapped over her shoulder, voice sharp, like she was done waiting. I stepped closer, my hands gripping her hips, the rough denim scraping my palms as I lined myself up. Her skin was warm, a little sweaty under my fingers, and I could smell her now, musky and real, cutting through the bathroom stink. I pushed in slow at first, not wanting to mess it up, feeling the tight heat of her through the condom, and she sucked in a sharp breath, her head dropping forward.

Man, it wasn’t exactly a picture-perfect moment, you know? It felt all kinds of awkward with her jeans still halfway down, my pants sagging around my knees, and the angle just… off. But hell, it didn’t matter. I pushed harder after a second, sorta finding my groove, the sound of skin smacking against skin bouncing around in that tiny-ass space. Her quick, uneven breaths mixed with my grunts, making it all feel raw. Then her hand reached back, snagging my wrist, tugging it around to her front, under the edge of her tank top. I got the message, slid my fingers down over her stomach, past the rough patch of hair, and found her clit. I’ll be real, I’m no expert at this, kinda fumbling around, but she hissed out a sharp “Yeah, there,” so I stuck with it, rubbing these messy little circles while I kept going at her.

Her body started tightening up under me, hips shoving back harder, and I could feel that heat building in my gut, coming on way too fast, too damn much. Then, bam, the bathroom door creaked open behind us, this loud-ass squeak slicing right through the haze. I froze, mid-thrust, hand still on her, my heart pounding so hard I thought it’d bust out of my chest. I turned my head just enough to see who the hell was barging in. Some dude, maybe mid-40s, wearing a beat-up parka and a knit hat, stumbled in, clearly half-drunk. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes bugging out as he took in the scene, me with my pants half down, buried in Ingrid, her jeans bunched at her thighs, both of us sweaty and flushed in this grimy little stall. For a hot second, nobody moved. Then he just muttered something like, “Oi, for faen,” under his breath, spun around, and shuffled right back out, the door slamming shut with a bang that echoed off the shitty tiles.

Ingrid let out this sharp, barking laugh, her head still down, hair sticking to her sweaty neck. “Guess we’re not subtle,” she rasped, her voice dripping with amusement, and then she pushed back against me, hard, like she couldn’t care less about getting caught. That snapped me out of my freeze, adrenaline spiking all over again. I gripped her hips tighter, picking up right where I left off. My thrusts got rougher, less controlled, the stall door rattling like it might fall off with every move. The cheap metal groaned under the strain, and I could feel the edge of it digging into my shoulder through my jacket, but screw it, I didn’t care. All I could think about was the heat of her, the way her body clenched around me, tight and slick even through the condom, and those low, raw sounds she was making, not loud, just… intense, like she was holding back anything bigger.

My fingers stayed on her clit, rubbing harder now, still kinda clumsy but not giving up, and I could tell she was getting close. Her breaths were short, sharp little gasps, her legs trembling a bit under her. I wasn’t far behind, that pressure building low in my gut, my balls tightening with every thrust. “Fuck, I’m gonna, ” I started to grunt, but she cut me off with a hissed, “Don’t stop,” her voice almost a growl, and that was it for me. Her body locked up under me, a hard shudder ripping through her as she came, squeezing me so tight I nearly lost it right there. She didn’t moan or yell, just let out this low, drawn-out groan, her hands clawing at the stall wall, leaving little scratches in the filth. I kept going, maybe three or four more thrusts, my rhythm all messed up, sloppy and desperate, until I couldn’t hold it anymore. I came hard, a grunt tearing out of me as I spilled into the condom, hips jerking against her, fingers digging into her skin so hard I probably left marks.

For a second, I just stood there, panting like a dog, forehead pressed against her shoulder through her hoodie. Her sweat, the faint tang of her skin, it was all I could smell. My legs felt like they might give out, and the bathroom spun a little from the beer and the rush, that damn fluorescent light buzzing overhead like a freaking mosquito. After a bit, she shifted under me, straightening up some, and I pulled out slow, wincing as the condom tugged a little. I stepped back, boots scuffing on the sticky floor, and fumbled to peel the rubber off, tying it with shaky hands before chucking it into the overflowing trash by the sink. Real classy, right?

Ingrid tugged her jeans back up, not even looking at me, just focused on buttoning them, quick and no-nonsense. I yanked my own pants into place, belt clinking loud as hell while I buckled it, my breath still coming fast. The air in here felt thicker now, heavy with the smell of us, sweat, latex, and whatever else was clinging to our skin. She finally turned around, leaning back against the stall wall, face all flushed and shiny, hair a total mess sticking to her forehead. She didn’t say a word at first, just wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and gave me this half-smirk, like she was sizing me up all over again. I didn’t know what to say either, didn’t really feel like there was much to say. My dick was still half-hard in my boxers, kinda aching, and I could feel the sweat cooling on my back under my jacket. The whole thing felt… weird now, like I’d just stepped outta my body for ten minutes and was slamming back into it.

“Guess that’s that,” she said after a while, voice flat, rough from the effort. She pushed off the wall, brushing past me to the sink, turning on the tap even though it barely dribbled out anything. She splashed a little water on her hands, not really cleaning much, just sorta going through the motions. I stood there, feeling kinda dumb, wiping my own hands on my pants ‘cause there wasn’t a towel or anything in this dump of a place.

“You heading back out there?” I asked, kinda nodding toward the door, meaning the bar where Marit and Øyvind were probably still nursing their beers, smirking like they had us all figured out. Ingrid just shrugged, shaking the water off her hands and wiping them on her hoodie. “Nah, I’m good for tonight. Gotta be up early for a shift at the bakery on Nordre Gate.” She didn’t say more, didn’t ask if I was staying or tagging along, just started walking toward the door like the last fifteen minutes were nothing. I followed a step behind, my boots sticking a bit to the floor, the noise of the bar hitting me louder as we stepped into the hallway. That radiator was still humming in the alcove, and the air out here wasn’t as nasty as the bathroom, but I could still catch a faint whiff of her on me, maybe on my jacket, maybe my skin, I don’t know.

We didn’t talk much as we pushed through the crowd. I spotted Øyvind and Marit over by the window table, Marit laughing with her head thrown back, Øyvind waving his hands around like he was spinning another big story. Ingrid didn’t even look their way, just kept straight for the exit, and I trailed after her, not sure if I should’ve waved bye to them or what. Stepping outside, the cold slammed into me like a punch, the wind off the Nidelva slicing right through my jacket as we hit the cobblestones of Bakklandet. Streetlights bounced off the wet ground, and I could hear the river rushing nearby, mixing with the faint hum of a car crossing Gamle Bybro.

She stopped a few steps from the bar door, fishing in her pocket for a cigarette. She lit it with a cheap Bic lighter, the little flame flickering in the breeze. Took a long drag, let the smoke stream out thin and slow, then gave me a sideways glance. “Bus to Lade’s still running for another half hour if you hustle,” she said, like she somehow knew my whole damn life. I nodded, shoving my hands into my pockets, the cold already nipping at my ears. “Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, not really knowing what else to say. Felt like there wasn’t much left to chew over anyway. Ingrid just gave a small nod, took another drag, the cigarette’s orange glow lighting up in the dark. “See ya around, Torvald,” she said, turning to head down the street toward Kjøpmannsgata, her boots scuffing on the uneven stones.

I watched her for a sec, her hoodie fading into the shadows past the next streetlight, then turned the other way toward the bus stop on Innherredsveien. My phone buzzed in my pocket, probably some work text or stupid spam, but I didn’t bother checking. Just kept walking, my legs kinda aching, reminding me of what just happened, the wind carrying that wet asphalt and fishy fjord smell. Missed the damn bus by three minutes, ended up standing there in the cold for another twenty, listening to some drunk dude ramble on about Rosenborg’s last game while I waited for the next one. My head was still half in that bathroom, half out here, ya know, but I didn’t sit there overthinking it. Figured I’d just hit up Ali’s for a kebab again next week, see if the universe felt like tossing me another weird twist.