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 godawful microwaved burrito at the Esso on Prinsessegade, just trying to choke it down, when I first spotted her. It was late, like 11 at night, and I was pretty much just wasting time after a long-ass day of dragging boxes around at the warehouse by the harbor in Aalborg. That burrito? Tasted like cardboard and bad life choices, but I was too wiped out to give a damn. The gas station was basically a ghost town, just me, the cashier glued to his phone, and then this woman who wandered in, all wrapped up in a puffy jacket and a scarf that looked like it’d been through some shit. She didn’t seem like she fit in, ya know? Not in this grimy little spot in Denmark where half the town reeks of fish and the other half smells like cheap beer. Now, I’m not the type to gawk or anything, alright? I’m just some average dude, Jonas, 32 years old, not hideous but definitely not winning any beauty contests. Got a bit of a gut from too many late-night kebabs and a beard that’s more sad than scruffy. But something about her just… caught my attention while I was gnawing on that pathetic excuse for a meal. She looked late 20s maybe, super pale, with messy blonde hair poking out from under her scarf. Not hot like in some glossy magazine, just… different. Like she had something going on, a story or whatever. She grabbed a pack of smokes and one of those cheap-ass coffees from the machine, and I noticed her glance my way once while she paid. Didn’t make much of it, though. People look at people. Who cares? I finished up the burrito, chucked the wrapper in the trash by the door, and stepped out into the freezing cold. Aalborg in November is a whole different level of miserable, man. The wind just slices through you, and the streetlights on Prinsessegade barely light up a damn thing. I was messing with my phone, debating if I should swing by Baren on Bispensgade for a quick beer before crashing, when I heard her voice behind me. “Hey, got a light?” I turned around, a little caught off guard. There she was, cigarette already in her mouth, clutching that coffee like it was her lifeline in the cold. Her name, I’d find out later, was Freja. Pretty common around here, nothing fancy. I fished around in my pocket for my lighter and handed it over. “Yeah, sure. Keep it if you want. I’ve got another one.” My voice came out rougher than I meant, probably ‘cause I was half-frozen and tired as hell. She lit up, took a drag, and gave a little nod. “Thanks. You from around here?” Her Danish had that local vibe, kinda gritty, like she grew up in one of those old working-class spots near the fjord. I told her yeah, I’ve been stuck in Aalborg my whole damn life, caught in the same crappy loop of warehouse jobs and rent I can barely scrape together. She smirked a bit, like she got it. Said she worked overnights at the Netto on Østerågade, stocking shelves. “Pays like absolute garbage, but it’s something,” she muttered, blowing smoke into the chilly air. We just stood there for a minute, not really talking, just sorta… being there together. I don’t even know why I didn’t just walk away. Maybe ‘cause it was late, and I wasn’t ready to be on my own yet. Or maybe ‘cause she didn’t seem like she was in any hurry to leave either. The Esso’s fluorescent lights were buzzing above us, and every once in a while, a car would roll by, tires crunching on the grimy pavement. I noticed her jacket was unzipped just a bit, showing some faded band tee underneath, some old punk thing I didn’t know. Trying to break the awkward silence, I said something dumb. “What, you into that loud, screamy crap?” She let out a quick, sharp laugh. “Nah, just nabbed it from an ex. Fits alright.” Then she gave me a look, not flirty or anything, just… curious, I guess. “You heading somewhere, or just standing out here freezing your ass off?” I shrugged. “Was thinking of grabbing a beer at Baren. You know it? Over on Bispensgade. Nothing special, just cheap drinks and sticky floors.” I don’t even know why I mentioned it. I wasn’t trying to hit on her or anything, honest. Just felt like the convo was gonna fizzle out if I didn’t say something. Freja raised an eyebrow, took another drag. “Yeah, I know it. Been there a few times. Usually packed with old drunks and wannabe tough guys on mopeds.” She paused for a sec, then added, “I could go for a drink, though. If you’re buying.” I snorted. “Shit, I ain’t rolling in cash. But sure, why not. We can split a pitcher or something.” I wasn’t thinking anything weird, I swear. Just figured drinking with someone would be less depressing than sitting alone at the bar, staring at the same damn cracked wall I’ve seen a million times. So, we started walking down Prinsessegade toward the city center, past all the shuttered shops and those old brick buildings that look like they’ve been crumbling since the ‘80s. The wind was brutal, man, and I shoved my hands deep in my coat pockets, trying not to look like a total wimp. Freja didn’t seem to mind the cold, just kept smoking and sipping on that lousy gas station coffee. She chatted a bit as we walked, mostly about random stuff, how her boss at Netto was a complete jerk, how she hated working nights but couldn’t afford to ditch the job. I nodded along, threw in a few complaints about my own gig. It wasn’t some deep, life-changing talk or anything like that. Just two people griping about how much life sucks sometimes. By the time we rolled up to Baren, I was starting to pick up on little things about her. Not in a creepy way or nothing, just… details, ya know? Like how she walked with this odd sort of confidence, even though her boots were beat to hell. Or how her voice got a little scratchier when she laughed at some dumb thing I said. The bar was exactly what I expected, dim, smoky, stinking of stale beer and old wood.

So, there we were at this dingy bar, a couple of regulars slouched over their drinks at the counter, and some godawful ‘90s rock blaring from the jukebox in the corner. We snagged a little table way in the back, far from the loud idiots up front. I went ahead and ordered a pitcher of the cheapest crap they had, and Mikkel, this grumpy old bartender I’ve seen a million times, just grunted and shoved it over with a couple of smudged-up glasses. Freja poured for us, splashing a bit on the table ‘cause her hands were all shaky from the cold outside. “Skål,” she said, tapping her glass against mine. I mumbled it back, took a sip. Man, the beer was warm as piss and tasted like it’d been rotting in the keg forever, but whatever, I didn’t give a shit. We just sat there drinking quietly for a bit, taking in the room. I didn’t really know what to say, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t either. But there was this odd feeling sneaking in, you know? Like we both knew this wasn’t just about grabbing a drink and bitching about life.

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, giving me this look I couldn’t figure out. “So, Jonas,” she said, dropping my name for the first time since I told her back at the Esso. “You do this often? Scoop up random girls at gas stations and haul ‘em to shitty bars?” I damn near choked on my beer. “What? Hell no. I don’t ‘scoop up’ anybody. You’re the one who asked for a light. I was just… there, man.” I knew I sounded all defensive and whiny, but I didn’t want her thinking I’m some creep. I mean, I’m no angel, but I’m not out here trying to hook up every night or anything. She grinned, but it wasn’t a sweet grin, more like she was poking at me, seeing how I’d react. “Chill, dude. I’m just screwing with you. But for real, what’s your story? You don’t strike me as the type to just chill with strangers.” I shrugged, probably looking like a total dumbass. “I dunno. I’m bored, I guess. Life’s the same old bullshit every day. Work, crash, do it again. Talking to someone new’s better than sitting at home scrolling on my phone, right?” Freja nodded like she got it, then took a big swig of her beer. Then she hit me with something I wasn’t expecting. “Yeah, well, I’m not really after deep talks either. Sometimes you just need… something else. You get me?” I didn’t say anything right away. My head was spinning, trying to unpack what she meant. Was she just talking about switching things up, or was there more to it? I got this weird twist in my gut, not exactly nerves, just… something. Like the air between us got thicker all of a sudden.

I poured myself another glass, trying to act casual, but I could feel her eyes on me. Not staring, just watching, paying attention. And I’ll be real, I was starting to wonder where the hell this night was going. We kept drinking, the pitcher getting lower, the bar noise kind of fading into the background. I didn’t know it yet, but whatever was coming next wasn’t gonna be just another random night at Baren. Something was brewing, and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it or not. I took another gulp of that flat, warm beer, the taste sticking in my throat. Freja was still kicked back in her chair, one hand messing with her empty glass, the other on the table, fingers tapping like she was antsy or something. That look in her eyes was still there, sharp, kinda challenging, like she was waiting for me to make a move or say something. I had no clue what, though. I suck at picking up on hints, always have. Most of the time, I just bumble through stuff and hope I don’t look like a complete idiot.

“You gonna finish that pitcher, or just stare at it?” she said, cutting through the quiet. Her voice had that rough, raspy edge again, and it kinda got to me, like it was digging under my skin. I shoved the jug her way, sloshing a little over the side ‘cause my hands weren’t exactly steady either. “Go for it. I’m done with this garbage,” I grumbled, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. She smirked, poured herself another, and chugged half of it in one go. I watched her throat as she swallowed, and I don’t know why, but that hit me. Not in some cheesy, romantic way or whatever, just, like, physically. My body clocked it before my brain did. I shifted in my seat, trying to shake it off, but I could feel this heat creeping up my neck.

We didn’t talk much after that, just sat there, the bar’s crappy music and the random drunk laughter filling the silence. But it wasn’t an empty silence, you know? It was heavy, like we were both dancing around something we weren’t saying out loud. I kept catching her glancing at me, not flirty or shy, just straight-up direct. And yeah, I was looking too. Not at her face, but at how her jacket was still half-unzipped, showing that old, faded tee stretched over her chest, or the way her jeans fit tight around her thighs under the table. I wasn’t trying to be a perv or anything, but damn, I’m human. My mind started drifting, and I kinda hated myself for it, but not enough to stop.

She finished her glass, slammed it down a little harder than she needed to, and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “This place is dead,” she said, glancing around at the half-empty bar. Mikkel was over there wiping the counter with a rag that’s probably been dirty since the ‘90s, and the few regulars left were too wasted to notice anything. “Wanna get outta here?” I blinked, totally thrown off. “Uh, yeah, sure. Where to?” My voice sounded dumber than I wanted, but I was scrambling to keep up. I didn’t know if she just meant leaving the bar or… something else, and I sure as hell wasn’t gonna ask and sound like some desperate loser.

She just shrugged, getting to her feet and zipping her jacket up halfway. “Eh, dunno. My place isn’t far from here. I’ve got some cheap vodka if you’re down for it.” Didn’t even wait for me to say anything, just started walking toward the door like she was damn sure I’d tag along. And, well, I did. I mean, what else was I gonna do? Head back to my crappy apartment on Vesterbro and sit there bored out of my mind? Hell no. I grabbed my coat, tossed a wrinkled 50-kroner note on the table for Mikkel, and hurried to catch up with her outside. The cold slapped me in the face as soon as we hit Bispensgade, that sharp wind tearing down the street past the old Aalborg Teater building. Freja didn’t talk much while we walked, just kinda nodded toward a side street off Nytorv. We passed some graffiti-scrawled walls and a flickering neon sign for a late-night kebab spot that looked sketchy as hell. Her place turned out to be in one of those beat-up apartment blocks by the fjord, all crumbling brick and rusty balconies that looked ready to fall off.

We trudged up three flights of stairs that creaked like they might give out, the hallway stinking of dampness and stale cigarette smoke. She fumbled with a key that looked like it’d break if you breathed on it wrong, then finally got the door open. Her apartment was tiny, messy in that lived-in way, but not gross or anything. There was a sagging old couch, a coffee table littered with empty Red Bull cans and a full ashtray, and some band posters taped to the walls, bands I’d never even heard of. She kicked her boots off by the door, flung her jacket over a chair, and jerked her head toward the couch. “Sit or whatever. I’ll get the vodka.” I plopped down, feeling kinda awkward but trying to play it cool. My hands were sweaty as hell, so I wiped them on my jeans, hoping she wouldn’t notice. She came back with a half-empty bottle of Smirnoff and two random shot glasses that didn’t match, sitting down next to me, closer than I thought she would. Her knee bumped against mine, and she didn’t pull away. Neither did I, honestly.

“Skål,” she said again, pouring us each a shot. We clinked glasses and threw them back. That vodka burned like absolute garbage, but it sorta settled my nerves a bit. Or maybe it just made me stupider, who knows. Either way, that weird warmth from earlier started creeping back, stronger now, settling low in my stomach. She poured another round, and this time when we drank, her eyes caught mine for a beat too long. My throat went dry, and it sure as hell wasn’t from the booze. “Fuck, I’m so done playing nice,” she blurted out of nowhere, slamming her glass down. Before I could even wrap my head around it, she scooted closer, her hand landing on my thigh, firm, no hesitation. My brain just kinda short-circuited for a second, but my body? Oh, it reacted instantly. Felt myself twitch in my jeans like some dumb teenager. “You cool with this?” she asked, her voice low, but she was already leaning in, not really waiting for me to answer. “Yeah,” I managed to croak out, barely loud enough to hear, but it was enough.

Her lips hit mine, hard and sloppy, tasting like vodka and a faint hint of cigarettes. It wasn’t some romantic movie kiss, just raw and desperate, her teeth scraping my bottom lip as her hand slid higher up my thigh. I grabbed her waist, pulling her closer, my fingers digging into the soft skin under her shirt. She let out this low sound, not quite a moan, more like a grunt, and swung a leg over mine, straddling me right there on the couch. My hands moved on their own, shoving up under her tee, feeling the heat of her skin, the slight curve of her hips. No bra, and damn, that hit me like a punch, my thumbs brushing over her nipples, already hard from the cold or something else. She hissed, grinding down against me, and I could feel myself getting harder, trapped in my jeans, the pressure almost painful. Her hands were on my neck, tangled in my hair, pulling just enough to sting, and I didn’t give a damn. I pushed her shirt up higher, exposing her chest, pale skin, small breasts, nipples dark and pebbled. I ducked down, taking one into my mouth, not gentle at all, just hungry, my tongue flicking over it as she arched into me.

“Fuck, yeah,” she muttered, voice rough, one hand fumbling with the button on my jeans. I lifted my hips to help, probably looking awkward as hell, the couch creaking under us like it might collapse. She got the zipper down, her fingers brushing over my boxers, and I groaned into her skin, louder than I meant to. Could smell her now, not some fake perfume or anything, just her, sweat, a faint musk, something real that made my head spin. My hands went to her jeans next, popping the button, dragging the zipper down with shaky fingers. I shoved the denim down her hips as much as I could with her still on top of me, revealing plain black underwear, kinda worn at the edges. Didn’t care one bit. Slipped a hand between her thighs, over the fabric, feeling heat and a damp spot that made me ache even more. She rocked against my hand, breathing heavy, her own fingers dipping under my waistband, wrapping around me through my boxers. I bit back a curse, my hips jerking up into her grip.

She pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes half-closed, mouth red from kissing, and tugged my boxers down enough to free me. My cock sprang out, hard as hell, the tip already slick, and I felt weirdly exposed for a split second until her hand closed around it, stroking slow but firm. I groaned again, head tipping back against the couch, my fingers pressing harder against her through her panties, rubbing circles where I thought her clit might be. She gasped, sharp, her grip on me tightening. We were a total mess, half-dressed, panting, the couch springs digging into my ass, but I didn’t care one bit. Pushed her underwear aside, fingers sliding over her, wet and hot, finding her entrance and slipping one inside, then two, feeling her clench around me. She swore under her breath, some Danish curses I barely caught, and started moving her hips, riding my fingers while her hand worked me faster.

Man, I could feel it already, this pressure building way too fast, kinda embarrassing, you know? But there was no stopping it, not with her like that, grinding down on me, her other hand gripping my shoulder, nails digging in hard. I slid my fingers out, all slick from her, and grabbed her hips, trying to get us lined up, my dick brushing against her through that thin fabric still half in the way. No condom, no nothing, just pure impulse. Didn’t even cross my mind to ask, and she didn’t stop me either, just shifted a bit, helping out, her breath hot on my neck while we fumbled around. Then I felt it, the tip of me nudging against her, bare, wet, so damn close. I pushed up, slow at first, feeling her stretch around me as I slid in, raw and tight. Holy shit, it was almost too much right from the start, that heat just gripping me, wet and slick, nothing between us. Didn’t even think about the risks, not right then, just how her body took me in, inch by inch, ‘til I was all the way deep. She let out this low, rough sound, not some fake-ass porn moan, just real, like it maybe hurt a bit but she wanted it anyway. Her hands clamped down on my shoulders, nails biting through my shirt, and I grunted, my hips jerking up without me even meaning to. “Fuck, hold on,” she muttered, shifting a little, her knees pressing into the couch on either side of me. Her underwear was still bunched to the side, scratching my thigh, and her jeans were only halfway down her legs, making the whole thing awkward as hell. But did we care? Nah, not enough to stop and fix it.

She started moving, rolling her hips, not all smooth or anything, just hungry, grinding down while I thrust up to meet her. The couch creaked loud as fuck under us, probably waking up whoever’s downstairs, but screw it, I didn’t care. My hands were on her ass, squeezing, pulling her down harder, feeling how her muscles tensed with every move. I could smell it all now, her skin, salty with sweat, that faint tang of her arousal, even the stale vodka on her breath as she leaned in close, her forehead bumping mine. My shirt was sticking to my back, already damp, and the heat building between us was just messy and real. Her tits bounced a bit under her pushed-up shirt as she rode me, and I couldn’t help but stare, mouth damn near watering. I leaned in, caught one nipple again, sucking hard, tasting the salt on her skin while she hissed and sped up. My teeth grazed her, not on purpose, just clumsy as hell, and she swore, “Fuck, careful,” but didn’t pull away. Her pace got faster, uneven, desperate, and I could feel her getting tighter around me, her walls clenching like she was close. I wasn’t far off either, the pressure in my balls building quick, way too quick, and I knew I wasn’t gonna last. “Shit, I’m, ” I started to say, voice all rough and strained, trying to warn her, but she cut me off with a grunt. “Just do it,” she snapped, low, almost pissed, like she didn’t wanna hear any excuses. Her hand slid down between us, rubbing herself over her clit, fingers brushing where we were connected, and that was it for me. I groaned, loud as hell, embarrassing, my hips bucking up hard as I came, spilling inside her, pulse after pulse, no control, just pure fucking release. I felt her shudder a second later, her body locking up, a sharp gasp slipping out as she ground down one last time, her fingers working herself through it. Her thighs trembled against mine, and for a few seconds, we just sat there, panting, stuck together, my dick still twitching inside her as the high started fading.

But it wasn’t some magical, romantic bullshit, you know? The second it was over, the awkwardness hit me like a damn truck. I could feel the wet mess between us, my cum and her slickness mixing, starting to drip down onto my jeans, and the reality of no condom just slammed into me. Fuck, what a dumbass I am. She shifted off me, slow, wincing a little as I slipped out, and tugged her underwear back into place like it was nothing. Her jeans were still half-down, and she didn’t even bother fixing them yet, just plopped back on the couch next to me, breathing heavy, wiping her hand on her thigh. My dick was out, softening, sticky with everything, and I fumbled to tuck myself back into my boxers, feeling like a complete idiot. “Shit,” I muttered, not even sure what to say, zipping up my jeans with shaky hands. My heart was still pounding, sweat cooling on my neck. I glanced over at her, expecting… I dunno, something. Maybe anger, regret, a whole lecture about protection. But nah, she just shrugged, reaching for the vodka bottle on the coffee table like nothing even happened. “Want another?” she asked, pouring herself a shot without waiting for me to answer. Her voice was flat, casual, like we’d just watched some boring-ass movie, not fucked raw on her shitty couch. I nodded, ‘cause what the hell else was I gonna do, and took the glass she handed me. We drank in silence, the burn of the vodka cutting through the weird haze in my head. I could still feel the ghost of her around me, the ache in my groin, the damp spot in my boxers, and it was all so fucking surreal. Didn’t know what to say, and she didn’t seem to either. No cute pillow talk, no bullshit about how “amazing” it was. Just the faint hum of traffic outside her window, the occasional creak of this old-ass building settling, and the taste of cheap booze on my tongue. My eyes wandered to the mess on the coffee table, empty Red Bull cans, an overflowing ashtray, and I noticed a crumpled pack of Prince cigarettes half-buried under some magazine.

Man, it was such a stupid, tiny thing to get stuck on, but my head was just grasping for anything that felt normal right then. After a minute or so, she got up, tugged her jeans back on, and buttoned them without even glancing my way. “Gotta take a piss,” she muttered, straight to the point as always, and shuffled off down the short hallway to what I guessed was the bathroom. I heard the door click shut, and there I was, alone on the couch, still clutching an empty shot glass, feeling like I’d just crashed into someone else’s weird life for a hot second. My legs felt like lead, my shirt was a wrinkled mess, and I’m pretty sure I reeked of sex and sweat, but I didn’t budge. Just sat there, staring at the peeling wallpaper on the other side of the room, wondering how the hell I even got here.

When she came back, she didn’t bother sitting down. Just leaned against the doorway with her arms crossed. “So, you sticking around or what?” she asked, sounding like she couldn’t care less either way. Her hair was all over the place now, kinda sticking to her forehead, and her tee was still bunched up under her chest, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. I got the vibe, she wasn’t inviting me to stay, just checking if I was gonna make shit awkward by hanging around too long. “Nah, I should get going,” I said, standing up way too fast, my knees almost giving out ‘cause I was still half out of it. I snatched my coat off the arm of the couch, threw it on, and patted my pockets to make sure I had my phone and keys. “Got work in the morning anyway.” Total lie, I didn’t have a shift ‘til the afternoon, but I needed some excuse to bounce. She just nodded, no pushback, no fake nicey-nice stuff. “Cool. Door’s over there,” she said, jerking her chin toward the entrance, already turning back toward the kitchen like she had better things to do.

I mumbled something dumb like “see ya,” not even sure if she caught it, and let myself out. The hallway smelled even worse now, or maybe I was just noticing it more. That damp, smoky stink stuck to everything. I dragged myself down the creaky stairs, and the cold air outside hit me like a punch when I stepped onto the quiet street near the fjord. Started walking back toward Vesterbro, hands jammed deep in my pockets, the wind slicing right through my coat. My brain was pretty much empty, or close to it, just flashing bits and pieces of her on top of me, the feel of her, the stupid risks we took. No regrets, not really, but no deep life-changing thoughts either. Just a weird, messy night that happened ‘cause we were both there, both bored out of our minds, both needing something to shake things up.

Passed by that kebab joint again, the neon sign buzzing all faint and sad, and spotted a stray dog sniffing around a trash bin on the corner. It glanced up at me, all scruffy and couldn’t-care-less, then went right back to digging through the garbage like I wasn’t even worth a second look. Figured I might as well grab a falafel on the way home, patting my pocket for some spare change, ‘cause no way in hell am I cooking at 2 a.m.