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 a pretty crappy kebab at this little dive called Ali’s Grill on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim, Norway. It’s a total hole-in-the-wall, greasy as hell, and I notice this woman just staring at me from the corner of the diner. Not in a flirty, cute kinda way, nah, more like she’s studying me, sizing me up with this weird, unblinking look. I’m not exactly prime dating material, you know, thirty-two, got a bit of a beer belly from too many late-night pizza runs, and a scruffy beard that’s honestly just me being too lazy to shave. But there she is, this girl with short, choppy black hair, wearing a beat-up leather jacket that’s seen better days, just eyeballing me over her half-eaten plate of fries.

This place, Ali’s Grill, it’s a dump right off the main street in downtown Trondheim, not far from the old Nidaros Cathedral where all the tourists go. You don’t come here to impress anybody. Nah, it’s the kinda spot you end up at 11 p.m. on a Thursday when you’re broke as hell and too wiped out to cook. The fluorescent lights are buzzing above, the air reeks of burnt oil and cheap spices, and I’ve been coming here for years mostly ‘cause it’s a quick five-minute walk from my crappy apartment above a second-hand bookstore on Kongens Gate. I know the owner, Ali, well enough to give him a nod, and he knows me well enough not to ask why I always look like I haven’t slept in a damn week. Work at the warehouse by the Nidelva River will do that to you, loading crates of fish and whatever else comes off the boats ‘til your back is screaming at you.

Anyway, I’m sitting there, wiping sauce off my chin with a napkin that’s basically falling apart, and I catch her eye again. She doesn’t look away, which is kinda creepy, to be honest. Most folks here in Norway don’t just stare like that, we’re all about minding our own business, keeping our personal space. I’m thinking maybe she’s drunk, or high, or just plain weird. Turns out her name’s Ingrid, which I find out later, super common name around here, nothing fancy. She’s maybe in her late twenties, pale as a ghost, with sharp cheekbones and a couple of tiny tattoos poking out from under her jacket sleeve. Not hot like some model or whatever, but there’s something about her, like she doesn’t give a damn what anybody thinks. I kinda dig that, even if I’m not sure why.

I take another bite of my kebab, chewing real slow, trying to play it cool like I don’t notice her staring. But then, outta nowhere, she gets up, all casual-like, and walks right over to my table. Doesn’t even ask if she can sit, just plops down across from me with her plate of fries. I raise an eyebrow, like, what the hell is this, but I don’t say anything at first. She shoves a fry in her mouth, chews real loud, and finally says something. “You always eat alone?” Her voice is rough, like she’s smoked one too many cigarettes, and her Norwegian’s got a bit of a northern twang, maybe Tromsø or somewhere up that way. I shrug, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Yeah, most of the time. Why, you offering to keep me company or just bored out of your mind?” I toss back, not expecting much. I’m not smooth, never have been.

By the way, I’m Lars, another boring-ass Norwegian name. Just a regular guy who works, drinks too much sometimes, and occasionally wonders why the hell I’m still in this cold, overpriced town when I could’ve moved to Oslo or even Sweden for something better. She smirks at me, not a flirty smirk, just this little twist of her mouth like she thinks I’m funny or something. “Maybe I’m bored. Maybe I just like watching people eat like they haven’t seen food in days.” She leans back in the cheap plastic chair, crossing her arms. I notice her nails are short, bitten down, and her jacket sleeve’s got a rip in it. She’s not trying to impress anybody either, that’s for sure.

I snort. “Well, I ain’t putting on a show here. You got a name, or are you just gonna sit there judging how I eat?” “Ingrid,” she says, straight to the point. No nonsense, no games. “And you’re… what, some kinda dock worker or something? You’ve got that look.” I let out a short laugh, more like a bark. “Close enough. Warehouse down by the river. What about you?” She shrugs, picking at her fries again. “I do odd jobs. Cleaning, mostly. Hotels, offices, whatever pays the bills. Right now, I’m crashing at a friend’s place over on Innherredsveien ‘til I figure my shit out.” I nod, not super invested in her life story but a little curious anyway. Innherredsveien’s a long street, lots of old buildings and cheap rentals, not far from here. Some parts are kinda rough, but that’s Trondheim for you, small city, big difference between the fancy university crowd around NTNU and the rest of us just trying to get by.

I take a sip of my lukewarm cola, the ice all melted, and figure I might as well keep the convo going. Got nowhere else to be, right? We sit there for a bit, not saying a whole lot at first, just eating and tossing out random gripes about the shitty weather. Late fall in Trondheim is all rain and wind blowing in off the fjord, makes you wanna stay inside ‘til spring. She mentions how much she hates the tourists clogging up the streets near the cathedral, snapping selfies like it’s Disneyland or something. I’m with her on that; I can’t stand ‘em either, always stopping me to ask for directions in broken English when I’m just trying to get home. It’s not deep talk, just two people grumbling about life in a town that’s too small to get outta but too damn expensive to leave.

After a while, she pulls out a pack of smokes from her jacket pocket, Prince, the cheap kind you grab at the Kiwi supermarket on Munkegata, and offers me one. I don’t smoke much these days, but I take it anyway, thinking, eh, why not. We step outside into the damp night air, leaning against the grimy brick wall of Ali’s Grill while the streetlights flicker above us. Prinsens Gate is pretty quiet for a Thursday, just a couple of drunk university kids stumbling by and some delivery guy on a bike.

Man, the air around us was this weird mix of cigarette smoke and that faint salty tang from the fjord just a few blocks off. I don’t know, standing there with her, not saying a damn thing, it felt kinda… nice, you know? Like I didn’t need to force some dumb conversation. After a long pull on her cig, she blew the smoke out the side of her mouth and just went, “So, you got a girl or what? Or are you just a sad lonely bastard like me?” I let out a little laugh, shook my head. “Nah, no girlfriend. Had one a while back, but she ditched me for some dude with a fancier job in Bergen. What about you?” She flicked her ash onto the ground, didn’t even look at me. “Nope. I don’t mess with that relationship stuff. Too much damn hassle. I like keeping things… simple.” The way she dragged out “simple,” though, it lingered, like there was a whole story behind it. I didn’t pry, though. I’m not an idiot. I could feel something in that sideways glance she gave me, not shy, not obvious, just… testing me, maybe. Seeing if I’d make a move. I took a drag of my own cigarette, felt that rough burn in my throat, and just wondered where the hell this was headed. I’m not desperate or anything, but shit, it’s been a minute since I’ve even been close to a hookup. And Ingrid? There’s something about her. Not like she’s some perfect fantasy girl or whatever, but she’s got this vibe, like she doesn’t give a crap about anyone’s rules. That kinda draws me in, even if I can’t put my finger on why.

We finished our smokes, crushed the butts under our boots on the cracked sidewalk, and she nodded her head toward Torvet, that main square a couple streets over. “Wanna walk a bit? I’m not ready to crash on my friend’s couch yet, and this place is boring as hell.” I glanced back at Ali’s Grill, that neon sign buzzing all faint in the window, and figured, eh, I got nothing better to do. My apartment’s nearby, but no way I’m inviting her up or doing anything dumb like that. Not yet, at least. “Yeah, sure, why not. I don’t gotta work ‘til tomorrow afternoon anyway.” So we started walking, hands shoved in our pockets against the cold, not talking much but not feeling weird about it either. The streets were all slick from the rain earlier, catching the orange glow of the streetlamps, and I could hear the distant hum of cars over on Fjordgata. I had no clue what was on her mind, and I didn’t bother asking. But as we passed those old wooden houses near the square, I started feeling this strange tension, like something’s building. No idea what, but I wasn’t in a hurry to figure it out, or to stop it, for that matter.

We kept going, cutting through Torvet, that big open square right in the middle of Trondheim. It was pretty dead this late, just a couple of randoms lingering near the statue of Olav Tryggvason, you know, that old king who started the city or some history crap like that. The cobblestones were wet, my boots slapping against them with every step, kinda dull and echoey. Ingrid was a little ahead of me, hands still buried in her jacket pockets, shoulders all hunched against the wind blowing in from the fjord. I couldn’t tell if she had a plan or if she was just wandering to kill time, but honestly, I didn’t care enough to ask. My head was a bit fuzzy from the cigarette, and just being out here with someone, anyone, really, felt a hell of a lot better than going back to my empty place and scrolling through junk on my beat-up phone.

Eventually, we ended up veering off toward those old warehouses by Bakke Bru, the bridge over the Nidelva River. It’s not exactly a scenic spot, just a bunch of industrial junk and graffiti scrawled on brick walls, but it’s quiet at night. No drunk students or tourist nonsense. The river smelled like wet dirt and fish, same as always, and the streetlights barely reached down here, leaving everything in these long, creepy shadows. Ingrid stopped by this low concrete wall, hopped up to sit on it, her boots swinging a little. She patted the spot next to her, not looking at me, just staring out at the dark water. I sat down too, feeling the cold bite through my jeans. My knee bumped hers at first, totally by accident, but neither of us pulled away. It wasn’t some big mushy moment or anything, just two people close enough to notice it. I could smell the faint tobacco on her breath, mixed with something like cheap shampoo from her hair. She turned her head a bit, caught my eye, and there was that look again. Not flirty, not nervous, just… straight-up. Like she was daring me to do something, or waiting to see if I’d back off.

“You’re not much of a talker, huh, Lars?” she said, her voice low, almost like she was muttering to herself. She smirked, but it didn’t feel mean, more like she was just pointing out the obvious. I shrugged, rubbed the back of my neck. “Eh, not much to say, I guess. It’s not like I got some wild life story to dump on you. You’re not exactly a chatterbox either.” She let out this short, rough laugh and shifted closer. Her thigh pressed against mine now, and this time it wasn’t an accident. My pulse kicked up a notch, not ‘cause I was nervous or whatever, but ‘cause I could feel where this was going, even if I wasn’t sure how we got here. I didn’t move, just let it be, the warmth of her leg cutting through the damp cold. She tilted her head, looking right at me now, eyes half-closed but sharp as hell. “Fuck it,” she mumbled, more to herself than to me, and before I could even think, she leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t soft or sweet or any of that sappy stuff, just hard, messy, her lips all chapped, tasting like salt and smoke. I froze for like half a second, totally caught off guard, then kissed her back, my hand grabbing her jacket collar without even thinking. Her tongue pushed in, no hesitation, just going for it, and I matched her, that same raw hunger hitting me out of nowhere.

Man, it wasn’t about any deep feelings or some romantic crap, you know? It was just this raw, desperate need, like we’d both been pent up for way too long. We were making out right there on that cold concrete wall, the river gurgling nearby, for a minute or two, I guess. My hands slid to her waist, pulling her in tight, and she threw a leg over mine, kinda half-straddling me without even breaking the kiss. That damn jacket zipper of hers was digging into my chest, and I could feel her sharp, bony hips through her jeans. She wasn’t soft or curvy or anything you’d call “perfect,” nah, just real, skinny in that way that makes you think she skips too many meals, but with this wiry strength when she grabbed my shoulders. I was already half-hard, my dick pressing against my jeans, and with her so close, I figured she could probably tell. Didn’t seem to faze her, though. She just ground down a bit, testing me, and I let out this low grunt right into her mouth. “Shit,” I mumbled when we finally pulled back, both of us breathing heavy as hell. My lips felt all raw, and I could still taste her on my tongue.

She didn’t say a word, just slid off the wall, grabbed my hand, and yanked me up with her. I stumbled a little, my boots slipping on the damp ground, but she didn’t even pause, dragging me toward one of those dark alleys between the old warehouse buildings off Elvegata. Not exactly a charming spot, you know, broken beer bottles all over the ground, brick walls covered in sloppy spray paint, probably done by some bored kids from Bakklandet. But it was hidden, out of sight, and right then, that’s all we cared about. She backed up against the wall, pulling me along, and we were kissing again, harder this time, hands all over the place. I pushed a knee between her legs, pinning her there, and she pushed right back, rocking against me like she couldn’t wait another second. My hands slipped under her jacket, finding this thin t-shirt underneath, and I could feel her ribs, the heat of her skin even through the fabric. She tugged at my coat, getting it half off my shoulders, and her cold-ass fingers slid under my hoodie, clawing at my back. It wasn’t smooth or sexy or any of that, just messy, desperate, like we didn’t know what the hell we were doing but didn’t care enough to slow down.

I broke the kiss, panting hard, and moved to her neck, biting down a bit rougher than I meant to. She hissed, but didn’t pull away, just tilted her head like she was daring me to keep going. Her skin tasted salty, kinda sour, like maybe she hadn’t showered today, but I didn’t give a damn. If anything, it made it feel more real, less like some made-up fantasy. My hands slid lower, fumbling with the button on her jeans, and she didn’t stop me, just shifted her hips to make it easier. The zipper got stuck for a second, and I cursed under my breath, but then it gave, and I shoved my hand in, past the rough denim and the edge of her underwear. She was already wet, slick against my fingers, and I groaned without even meaning to, rubbing over her clit through the thin cotton before pushing it aside. Felt her pussy, hot and soft, the short, scratchy hair there rubbing against my palm. I slid a finger in, just testing, and she gasped, her nails digging into my arm. I wasn’t being gentle, didn’t even try to be, and she didn’t seem to want it any other way, bucking against my hand like she needed more. “Fuck, don’t stop,” she muttered, her voice all rough and low, so I added another finger, curling them a bit, feeling her tighten around me.

My dick was fully hard now, aching in my jeans, and I ground against her thigh, not even trying to play it cool. She noticed, reached down, and palmed me through the fabric, her grip firm, almost too damn tight, but it felt good as hell anyway. I hissed, my forehead dropping to her shoulder, and she let out this short, breathy laugh, not mocking, just… like she got it, you know? Like she knew exactly what this was. No bullshit, no pretending it was anything more than just getting off. She popped the button on my jeans, tugged the zipper down quick, and shoved her hand in, past my boxers. Her fingers wrapped around my cock, cold as hell against me, and I grunted, thrusting into her grip without even thinking. I’m not huge or anything, just average, thick enough, uncut, already leaking a little at the tip. She smeared it with her thumb, rough, not careful at all, and I bit my lip to keep from making too much noise. We were still kinda in public, even if the alley was dark and empty. Didn’t wanna risk some random drunk stumbling by and catching us.

I pulled my hand out of her jeans, slick with her wetness, and grabbed her hips, turning her around so she faced the wall. She braced her hands against the brick, her ass pushing back against me, and I yanked her jeans and underwear down just enough to bare her. Her skin looked pale in the dim light, a couple faint bruises on her thighs I didn’t ask about, and I could smell her now, musky, sharp, real. I shoved my own jeans down further, freeing my cock, and rubbed it against her ass, not inside yet, just feeling the heat of her. Didn’t have a condom, didn’t even think to ask if she was on anything, stupid as hell, yeah, but my brain wasn’t exactly running the show right then. “Fuckin’ do it,” she growled over her shoulder, voice thick, like she was done waiting, and I gripped myself, lining up with her pussy, feeling the wet heat of her against the head of my dick. I pushed in slow at first, just the tip, and holy shit, it was tight, hot, gripping me like a damn vise. She let out this low moan, almost a grunt, and I felt her tense for a split second before she pushed back, taking more of me.

Man, I let out a groan, my hands gripping her hips tight as I pushed in deeper, not all the way, but damn close. I could feel every bit of her stretching around me, tight and warm. It wasn’t exactly smooth, though; my angle was kinda off, and that brick wall she was leaning on had to be scraping her hands something fierce. But honestly, neither of us gave a crap. I started moving, just short little thrusts at first, trying to get a rhythm going, and she was right there with me, rocking back, her breath catching every time I went a little deeper. My jeans were still half-on, bunched up around my thighs, and the fabric was rubbing me raw, but I didn’t care. All I could think about was how wet and hot she felt, the way she clenched around me, and those little noises she made, grunts, gasps, nothing fake. Just real, raw, like this whole damn thing. We were still half-dressed, messing around in this grimy alley off Elvegata, the faint sound of the river nearby mixing with the distant hum of a car on Fjordgata. My hands slipped under her shirt again, finding her small tits, no bra, just hard nipples pressing into my palms as I started fucking her harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin bouncing off the brick walls. She arched her back, taking it, mumbling something I couldn’t catch over the blood roaring in my ears. Didn’t know how long we’d keep this up, didn’t care either, just kept going, lost in the feel of her, the messy chaos of it all, nowhere near done yet.

I kept thrusting, harder now, gripping her hips so tight I figured I’d leave marks, but Ingrid didn’t seem to mind one bit. Her hands were braced against that rough brick, knuckles looking pale, and she pushed back against me with every move, meeting me halfway. Her jeans were still tangled around her knees, and mine weren’t much better off, the denim scraping my thighs every damn time I shifted. It wasn’t comfy, not by a long shot, but that didn’t matter worth a damn. The heat of her around me, slick and tight, was all I could focus on. I could feel the wet mess of her on my skin, sticking to me every time I buried myself deep, and the faint, sharp smell of her, sweaty, musky, kinda unwashed, hit me hard. Not bad, though, just… real, you know? Like this whole messed-up moment. “Fuck, harder,” she grunted, her voice all low and scratchy, head tilted down so her choppy black hair fell over her face. I didn’t argue, just did what she wanted, slamming into her with more force, feeling the jolt of it shoot up my spine. My balls slapped against her with every thrust, this crude, wet sound mixing with our heavy breathing. I slid a hand up her back, under her jacket and shirt, feeling the damp heat of her skin, the little bumps of her spine under my fingers. She wasn’t soft or anything, just lean and wiry, like life had worked her over too much for too little. My other hand stayed on her hip, pulling her back onto me, and I could already feel myself getting close, that pressure building low in my gut. I slowed down for a sec, trying to hold off, not wanting to finish too fast like some dumb kid. My cock throbbed inside her, and I felt every little twitch of her around me, hot and gripping.

I leaned forward, my chest pressing against her back, and bit at the side of her neck again, tasting the salt on her skin. She hissed, but didn’t pull away, just rocked her hips in this slow grind that damn near made me lose it right then and there. “Don’t fuckin’ stop now,” she muttered, sounding more annoyed than anything, and I snorted, pulling back to get a better angle. I straightened up, hands back on her hips, and started fucking her again, deep and steady, watching the way her pale ass moved with every thrust. There was this small, faded tattoo on her lower back, some crappy tribal thing that looked like it was done in someone’s sketchy basement, but I didn’t linger on it. My thumb brushed over it as I held her, smearing the sweat there, and I could see the faint red marks where my fingers had dug in earlier. My cock glistened every time I pulled out, slick with her, and I groaned low in my throat, not giving a damn if anyone heard us in this alley off Elvegata. Hell, part of me almost wanted someone to stumble by, just to see how little we cared. She shifted a bit, spreading her legs as much as the tangled jeans would let her, and I felt her tighten around me, like she was doing it on purpose, trying to push me over the edge. “Shit, Ingrid,” I growled, my voice all rough, and she let out a breathy little laugh, barely loud enough to hear over the sound of us.

I reached around, fumbling under her shirt again, finding one of her tits and squeezing, rolling the hard nipple between my fingers. She gasped, sharp and quick, and I felt her clench even harder around me, her whole body tensing up. “Fuck, I’m, ” she started, but didn’t finish, just let out a low moan, her head dropping forward against the brick as she came. I could feel it, the way she pulsed around me, wetter now, hotter, and it shoved me right over the edge. I thrust into her a couple more times, sloppy and desperate, before everything snapped and I came hard, spilling inside her without even thinking twice. No condom, no pulling out, just pure dumb instinct taking over. My groan was louder than I meant, echoing a bit off the warehouse walls, and I held her tight against me, my cock twitching as I rode it out, feeling the mess of it, the heat of my cum mixing with her wetness. We stayed like that for a few seconds, both of us panting, my forehead pressed against her shoulder through her jacket.

Man, my legs were trembling, and my lower back was screaming from the weird position. That cold brick wall probably wasn’t doing her any good either, huh? I eased out slowly, wincing a bit as the chilly air hit me down there, yeah, sensitive as hell. I could see the sticky mess of us running down her thigh, a mix of my cum and her wetness. She didn’t budge right away, just stayed pressed against the wall, catching her breath. Her jeans were still halfway down, showing off the curve of her ass and those red marks from my hands. I yanked my own jeans up, fumbling with the damn zipper ‘cause my fingers were still shaky from the rush. My cock was still half-hard, all wet and messy, so I just wiped it on the inside of my boxers before sorting myself out.

Ingrid finally stood up straight, tugging her underwear and jeans back into place with these quick, sharp movements. She didn’t even glance my way. No sweet looks, no lingering bullshit, just the awkward shuffle of getting dressed in some grimy alley like we didn’t just do what we did. I noticed a tiny rip in her shirt, probably from the rough brick, and a scrape on her palm she didn’t seem to give a crap about. “Fuckin’ cold out here,” she grumbled, zipping up her jacket and shoving her hands into her pockets. Her tone was flat, like we’d just finished folding laundry or some shit, not fucked against a wall by the Nidelva River at midnight. I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck, feeling the damp cold creep back into my bones now that the heat of the moment was gone. “Yeah, no kidding,” I muttered, my voice still rough from panting.

I glanced around, half-thinking someone might’ve been watching from the shadows, but the alley was dead empty. Just broken glass and graffiti for company. The faint stink of fish and damp earth from the river mixed with the raw smell of us still hanging in the air, but I didn’t let my mind linger on it. My head was already halfway on the walk home, the ache in my legs, and the fact I’ve got a warehouse shift tomorrow. Probably won’t sleep for shit tonight. Ingrid started heading back toward the main path by Bakke Bru, not waiting to see if I’d tag along. Her boots scuffed on the uneven ground, and I just fell into step behind her, hands stuffed in my coat pockets. Didn’t really have much to say. What’s there to talk about, anyway? It’s not like we had some big emotional moment or whatever crap people think happens after sex. It was just… a thing. A quick, messy release in a town that doesn’t give either of us much else to feel good about.

I didn’t ask for her number, didn’t throw out some lame idea of meeting up again, and she didn’t offer either. Didn’t seem like her vibe, and it sure as hell ain’t mine. We got back to the concrete wall near the bridge where we’d started, and she stopped, digging out a pack of Prince smokes from her jacket. She lit one up with a cheap plastic lighter, the flame flickering in the wind off the fjord, and took a long drag before holding it out to me. I took it, sucking in the harsh tobacco, feeling that burn in my chest as I passed it back. We just stood there for a bit, sharing the cigarette, staring at the dark water of the Nidelva rippling under the dim streetlights. A late-night bus rolled by on Fjordgata, headlights slicing through the dark, but neither of us budged.

“Guess I’ll head back,” she said after a while, flicking the cigarette butt to the ground and grinding it out with her boot. She didn’t look at me, just kinda nodded toward Innherredsveien, where she’d mentioned she was crashing. I gave a little nod, not sure if she meant right this second or just in general, but I didn’t bother asking. “Yeah, same. Got work tomorrow,” I said, scratching at my beard, still feeling the stickiness on my skin under my jeans. I’d need a shower when I got back to my place on Kongens Gate, but I wasn’t exactly rushing. She let out a short grunt, maybe a goodbye, maybe just a noise, and started walking off without another word. I watched her for a second, her leather jacket fading into the shadows, then turned the other way toward home.

Halfway up the hill, my phone buzzed in my pocket, probably some stupid work text about a schedule change or whatever. I ignored it. Too damn tired to deal with anything else tonight. A stray cat darted across the street in front of me, hissing at absolutely nothing, and I nearly tripped over a cracked piece of sidewalk. Just another night in Trondheim, I guess. Except now I’ve got a half-empty kebab wrapper stuffed in my coat pocket and the dull ache of a quick fuck to remind me I’m still kicking, for better or worse.