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 halfway through this godawful microwaved burrito I grabbed from the Shell station on Prins Hendrikstraat, and it hits me, I left my damn wallet at home. That’s just how my day’s going, you know? I’m already running late for my delivery shift, my stomach’s growling like crazy, and here I am, patting down my jacket pockets like an idiot, praying for some stray coins. I’m parked in the middle of Leeuwarden, this little town up in the north of the Netherlands where I’ve been stuck for, what, five years now? I’m pedaling my beat-up bike through these tight brick streets for a courier job that barely covers rent. It’s one of those gray, damp afternoons, the wind coming off the canals just slices right through you. I’m sitting outside De Koperen Tuin, this old bar by the Nieuwestad canal, trying to figure out how I’m even gonna pay for the rest of this sorry lunch.

Then I see her. Femke. She’s the kind of person you can’t help but notice, even if you’re not trying to. She’s got this short, messy blonde hair that’s always all over the place, a nose ring that glints in the light, and this walk, like she’s got somewhere to be but couldn’t care less if she’s late. I’ve seen her around town plenty over the years, usually lugging crates of veggies for her family’s market stall over by Zaailand square. She’s not, like, some glamorous type or anything, just a regular girl, late 20s maybe, with a sharp jawline and hands that look like they’ve done some real work. We’ve nodded at each other a few times, maybe tossed out a “hoi” here and there, but that’s it. I don’t even know her last name.

Anyway, she’s stepping out of De Koperen Tuin with this dude, Sjoerd, who I sorta know from way back when I used to mess around at the skate park by the Potmarge river. He’s this tall, gangly guy with a patchy beard and a beanie pulled down low, even though it’s not that cold out. They’re cracking up about something, and her laugh, it’s loud, kinda rough, cuts right through the air. Meanwhile, I’m just perched on my bike, crinkling this stupid burrito wrapper in my hand, feeling like a total weirdo for staring. I don’t even know why I’m looking so hard. I’ve been single for ages, mostly ‘cause I’m broke as hell and too wiped out to bother with dating apps or any of that crap. But there’s just something about how Femke moves, all sharp and like she doesn’t give a damn, that kinda hooks my brain.

“Hey, Joris!” Sjoerd yells out, spotting me before I can act like I’m not just sitting there gawking. Oh, yeah, I’m Joris, by the way. Nothing fancy, just some dude in his early 30s with a scruffy haircut and a bike that’s on its last legs. I nod back at him, trying to act all casual, even though I’ve probably got bean juice smeared on my chin. “Yo, Sjoerd. What’s good?” I say, wiping my face with the back of my hand, probably making it worse.

“Not much, man. Just grabbing a drink. You know Femke, right?” He waves a hand toward her, and she gives me this half-smirk, like she’s checking me out and not exactly thrilled with what she sees. Can’t blame her. I’m rocking a stained hoodie and cargo pants that haven’t seen a wash in, like, a week. “Yeah, sorta. Hey,” I mutter, and she just nods, shoving her hands into the pockets of her worn-out leather jacket.

“You still doing the delivery gig?” Sjoerd asks, leaning against the bar’s brick wall. There’s this old, peeling poster for some local band behind him, and the canal water a few steps away reeks of wet moss and stale beer. “Yeah, man. Gotta pay the bills somehow. What about you?” I ask, shifting a little on my bike.

“Odd jobs, mostly. Helping out Femke’s uncle with some construction stuff near Stiens. Boring as hell, but whatever.” He shrugs, then flashes a grin. “Hey, we’re heading to a thing later. You should come. Just a few people chilling at Femke’s place.”

I blink, not sure I heard him right. I don’t get invited to stuff much. Most of my old friends ditched Leeuwarden for bigger places like Amsterdam or Utrecht after school, and I’m just the guy who stayed behind, scraping by. “Uh, what kinda thing?” I ask, trying not to sound too desperate or anything.

Femke jumps in before Sjoerd can say more. “Just a hangout, nothing special. My flat’s on the Ruiterskwartier, above the old butcher shop. Got some beers, maybe some weed if Sjoerd doesn’t hog it all. You in or what?” Her voice is straight-up blunt, almost like she’s challenging me to say no. And there’s this look in her eyes, just a quick flash of something I can’t quite figure out. Not flirty or anything, just… I dunno, curious, maybe?

I hesitate for a sec. I’ve got another shift in a couple hours, and my boss already chewed me out last week for being late. But honestly, I’m bored out of my skull, and the thought of going back to my tiny apartment on the edge of the Vliet neighborhood, just to watch reruns of some dumbass show, makes me wanna gag. And, I don’t know, there’s something about Femke’s whole vibe that’s got me intrigued. She seems like trouble, but the kind I’m not totally against getting mixed up in.

“Yeah, alright. What time?” I say, shifting on my bike seat. My legs are killing me from pedaling all morning, but I’m not about to complain and sound like a baby.

“Like, eight or so. Don’t be late, I’m not waiting around,” Femke says, and Sjoerd lets out a little chuckle, like he’s used to her bossing people around. She pulls out a pack of cigarettes, some cheap brand, I can tell from the tacky yellow packaging, and lights one up. The smoke curls up into the damp air, mixing with the canal stench, and somehow it feels… grounding, I guess. Like this is just another random day in Leeuwarden, except now I’ve actually got something to look forward to.

“Cool. I’ll swing by after my shift,” I say, and Sjoerd gives me a lazy fist bump before they start heading off toward Grote Kerkstraat. I watch them walk away, Femke’s boots scraping on the cobblestones, Sjoerd slouching along next to her with his lanky frame. My burrito’s gone cold in my hand by now, and I chuck the wrapper at a nearby bin, missing by a good foot. Of course. Typical me. The rest of my shift drags on like a freaking hangover.

I’m out here dragging packages all over town, from those ritzy houses by the Prinsentuin to the kinda rough apartments near the station. My phone keeps buzzing with messages from my boss about some delayed drop-off, but I just let it go. My mind’s not on work anyway, it’s stuck on that chat I had with Femke and Sjoerd earlier. I’m not even sure what I’m hoping for tonight. Probably just a couple of drinks, some weird, awkward conversation, and then I’ll pedal home and pass out. But there’s this nagging feeling, like a little itch I can’t scratch, that maybe it could be… I dunno, something more. Not love or any of that mushy nonsense, I’m not about that life. Just… something to shake things up. A distraction, a little jolt. Hell, I don’t know.

By the time I wrap up work, it’s almost 7:30, and I’m sweaty and pissed off. I swing by my place on Noorderweg to ditch my nasty work clothes. My apartment’s a total mess, peeling paint on the walls, just a mattress on the floor, and a sink piled high with dishes I’ve been ignoring for, like, days. I grab a t-shirt that’s sorta clean and a flannel that doesn’t stink too bad, then snatch my bike and head out. The streets are pretty dead now, just the low hum of a car or two and some random drunk stumbling out of a bar. Leeuwarden never really gets crazy, even on a Friday night. It’s not like Amsterdam or anything. It’s just… here. Familiar, I guess. Kinda stifling, but it’s all I’ve got right now.

I ride over to Ruiterskwartier, that old part of town with tight little alleys and buildings that look like they’re slumping into each other, like they’re exhausted. The butcher shop Femke told me about isn’t hard to find, it’s shut for the night, with a worn-out sign that reads “Slagerij De Boer” in flaky paint. There’s a door right next to it with a buzzer, and I stand there for a second, feeling like a complete idiot. What if this whole thing’s a waste of time? What if they’re just screwing with me? But then I shake it off and press the button, hearing this faint static crackle before Femke’s voice cuts through, sharp and kinda annoyed. “Yeah, who’s there?” “Uh, it’s Joris. From earlier.” There’s a beat of silence, then the door buzzes open. “Come up. Second floor,” she says, and I shove through. The stairwell reeks of old wood and, faintly, of meat from the shop downstairs. My boots clomp loud on the creaky steps, and my heart’s beating faster than it should, not ‘cause I’m out of shape (okay, maybe a little), but ‘cause I’ve got no idea what I’m walking into.

I can hear muffled voices and the dull thump of bass from a speaker as I hit the landing. I stop for a sec, hand just hovering over the door. This is it, man. Whatever’s behind here, I’m not turning back now. I give a quick double-knock, and the door swings open almost right away. Femke’s standing there in a baggy tank top and ripped jeans, barefoot, holding a beer bottle loosely in one hand. Her hair’s a bigger mess than it was earlier, like she’s been raking her fingers through it, and there’s a smudge, grease, maybe?, on her cheek. She looks at me for a split second, then steps aside without saying a word, letting me in.

The flat’s tiny and cluttered, the kind of place that’s lived-in but not really taken care of. There’s a sagging couch against one wall, a coffee table buried under empty cans and an ashtray spilling over with cigarette butts. The air’s thick with stale smoke and cheap beer, plus a faint whiff of something earthy, weed, I’m guessing. Sjoerd’s lounging on the couch, rolling a joint with this slow, laid-back focus, and there’s another dude I don’t know, shorter, with a buzzcut, sipping a drink in the corner. Some lousy Dutch rap is blasting from a Bluetooth speaker on the windowsill, the bass making the frame rattle a bit. Outside, I can see the orange glow of streetlights on Ruiterskwartier, the alley below quiet except for the random clink of a bike chain.

“Grab a drink if you want,” Femke says, nodding toward a beat-up mini-fridge in the corner. Her tone’s flat, like she couldn’t care less if I do or don’t, and I just nod, shrugging off my flannel and tossing it over a chair. I’m still in my t-shirt, sleeves rolled up, and I notice her glance at my arms for half a second before she looks away. No idea if that means anything, but my skin kinda tingles anyway. I snag a can of Heineken from the fridge, warm, of course, just my luck, and pop it open, the fizz sounding loud in the cramped room. Sjoerd glances up from his joint, grinning like an ass. “Yo, Joris, didn’t think you’d actually come. Figured you’d chicken out.” “Screw you,” I mumble, taking a swig. The beer tastes like garbage, but at least it gives me something to do with my hands.

I perch on the edge of the couch, not too close to anyone, trying to act like I fit in. The buzzcut guy, turns out his name’s Thijs, starts going on about some job he’s got coming up at the FrieslandCampina factory outside town, but I’m only half paying attention. My eyes keep wandering to Femke. She’s leaning against the wall by the speaker, scrolling on her phone, one hip jutted out, her tank top riding up just enough to show a tiny strip of skin above her jeans. I don’t mean to stare, but yeah, I do, and when she catches me, she doesn’t look away. Just raises an eyebrow, like she’s challenging me to say something. I don’t. I just take another sip and act like I’m cool with everything.

We just chill like that for a while, drinking, passing the joint around, talking about nothing that matters. The weed hits me harder than I thought it would, probably ‘cause I haven’t smoked in, like, a month, and my head gets all fuzzy, my arms and legs feeling heavy. Femke’s laughing at something Sjoerd said, her voice slicing through the haze, and I notice she’s closer now, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her knee just brushing the edge of the couch near me. I don’t know if she meant to do that, but it’s enough to get my pulse jumping again.

I’m not drunk, nah, not really. Just buzzed enough to quit overthinking every damn thing. Then she pipes up out of nowhere, voice cutting through the haze. “Hey, Joris, you’re quiet as hell. What’s your deal, man?” I blink, kinda thrown off. “Uh, I dunno. Just chilling, I guess. Been a long-ass day.” She snorts, slamming her beer down on the table with a little clink. “Yeah, well, don’t just sit there like a damn statue. Say something, will ya?” There it is again, that pushy vibe, like she’s trying to get a rise outta me. I don’t even know why it bugs me so much, but damn, it does. “Alright, fine. You’re kinda bossy as hell, you know that?” I toss back, half-grinning, and for a split second, I’m like, shit, did I just screw this up? But then she lets out this loud, rough laugh, head tipping back. “Damn straight I am. Better get used to it, buddy.” She’s staring at me now, like really staring, and there’s something in her eyes I can’t figure out. It twists my gut, but not in a bad way. Just… weird, different. Sjoerd and Thijs are off in their own world, yapping about some busted car near the Bonifatiuskerk, and suddenly the room feels tighter, smaller, like it’s just me and her in here.

She scoots closer, her knee bumping against my leg, and I don’t budge. Neither does she. My mouth’s dry as hell, and I can’t tell if it’s the weed, the beer, or just… her. I’m noticing every little thing, though, the warmth of her skin through her jeans, the way her tank top hugs her chest, that faint whiff of sweat and tobacco clinging to her. “You’re not as boring as I figured,” she mumbles, quieter now, almost like she’s talking to herself. Her hand’s on the couch cushion right next to me, fingers brushing mine, and I don’t pull away. I got no clue what I’m doing here, but I’m not stopping either. “Oh yeah? Thought I was just some delivery loser,” I mutter back, and she smirks, her nose ring catching the dim light. “Maybe you are. But I ain’t hating it.” Her voice is low, gritty, and before I can come up with something slick to say, she’s leaning in, her face just inches from mine. I can feel her breath, warm and sharp with beer, and then bam, her lips crash into mine, hard, no messing around. It ain’t soft or sweet or any of that crap. It’s raw, messy, her teeth scraping my bottom lip like she’s starving for it.

My hands move without me telling ‘em to, one grabs her waist, the other slides up her back under her tank top. Her skin’s warm, kinda sticky with sweat, and she presses into me, her chest against mine, her tongue shoving into my mouth. It’s sloppy, a little awkward for a sec while we figure out the angle, but then it’s just heat, just need. I’m already half-hard in my jeans from the way she’s grinding on me. I don’t give a damn that Sjoerd and Thijs are still in the room, even though I hear one of ‘em mutter something like “fuckin’ hell” before they crack up. Femke doesn’t care either, apparently, she’s got a fistful of my shirt, yanking me closer, her nails digging into my shoulder. She pulls back just long enough to rip her tank top off, tossing it somewhere on the floor. No bra, just her bare tits, small but firm, nipples hard and dark against her pale skin. I stare like an idiot for a second, brain just… gone, before she grabs my hand and slams it against her chest, eyes locked on mine like she’s daring me to wuss out. I don’t. I squeeze, harder than I meant to, and she hisses, but it ain’t pain, it’s something else, something that makes her push into me even more.

“Fuck, come on,” she grumbles, fumbling with the button on my jeans. My hands are shaking a bit as I help her out, shoving ‘em down just enough to let my dick spring free, already rock-hard now, the tip slick and ready. She doesn’t mess around, wrapping her hand around me, grip tight, almost too tight, but it feels so damn good, the kind that makes my hips jerk up without me thinking. She strokes me once, twice, her thumb swiping over the head, spreading the wetness, and I groan, low and rough, not giving a shit who hears. I tug at her jeans next, clumsy as hell, and she lifts her hips so I can yank ‘em down, underwear and all, plain black, nothing special, but I ain’t looking at that. I’m looking at her, down there, the dark hair trimmed short, the shine of wetness between her thighs. She ain’t shy, spreading her legs a bit as she straddles me on the couch, her weight pinning me down.

My hands grab her hips, fingers digging in, and she leans forward, her breath hot on my neck as she lines herself up. I can feel the heat of her, so damn close, and I’m not even thinking about a condom or nothing, just the straight-up need to be inside her. She sinks down slow at first, just the tip, and it’s tight, almost too much, both of us wincing for a sec before she pushes harder, taking me in bit by bit. “Fuck,” I grunt, head falling back against the couch, the stretch and heat of her wiping my brain clean. She’s biting her lip, eyes half-shut, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple as she starts moving, rocking her hips in short, choppy thrusts. It ain’t smooth or fancy, just desperate, messy, the couch creaking under us, her thighs slapping against mine. I push up to meet her, one hand sliding down to grip her ass, the other still on her hip, pulling her harder, faster. Her breath’s coming in sharp little gasps now, her nails clawing down my chest through my shirt, and I can feel her tightening around me, the wet heat, the slick sound of it filling the small room.

I’ve got no clue how long we’ve been going at it, and honestly, I don’t give a damn. I’m not stopping, not yet, not when she’s grinding down on me like she’s desperate for something just out of reach. Her movements get sharper, more frantic, and I can tell she’s close, her breath catches, her thighs shake against mine. I’m right there with her, this tight pressure building low in my gut, my balls tightening with every wet, messy thrust. I slip a hand between us, my thumb finding her clit, kinda rough and clumsy, rubbing tight little circles. She makes this sharp, broken noise, not really a moan, more like a grunt, and her hips jerk hard against me. “Fuck, yeah, right there,” she growls through clenched teeth, her voice all raw and ragged. So I keep going, pressing harder, feeling her start to tighten around me, hot and tight and just relentless. She comes first, her whole body freezing for a split second before she shudders, her head dropping to my shoulder, her breath all hot and damp against my neck. I can feel her pulsing around me, the slickness of her soaking through my jeans where they’re still bunched around my thighs, and that’s it, that’s what pushes me over. I thrust up hard, once, twice, and then I’m coming too, spilling inside her, the heat of it just overwhelming. My hands grip her ass so tight I’m probably leaving marks, but I don’t care. I’m not thinking about the mess, not thinking about anything except the way my dick throbs, emptying into her, that raw, animal feel of it all.

We’re both panting now, stuck together with sweat and cum, her weight heavy on me as she slumps forward, forehead pressed against my collarbone. My hands are still on her, one on her hip, the other tangled in her messy hair, but I don’t say a word, and neither does she. It’s not some sweet, tender moment or anything, just two people trying to catch their breath after screwing like we needed to get something outta our systems. I can feel the sticky mess between us, her thighs slick against mine, the faint, musky smell of sex mixing with the stale smoke and beer lingering in the room. My dick’s still inside her, softening now, and there’s this wet drip as some of my cum leaks out, probably staining the couch. But screw it, I don’t care. And from the look of things, neither does she.

After a minute or so, she shifts, lifting herself off me with a little grunt, not even glancing my way as she does. My dick slips out, all slick and messy, and I wince a bit at the sudden cool air on my skin. She stands up, completely unfazed by the fact that she’s naked from the waist down, cum and sweat glistening on her inner thighs. She snatches her jeans off the floor, tugging them on without even bothering to wipe off, the denim sticking to her skin as she zips up. I’m still half-sprawled on the couch, my own jeans shoved down to my knees, dick out and looking kinda pathetic now that the heat’s faded. I yank them up quick, fumbling with the button, feeling like a total idiot for not knowing what the hell to do next. Sjoerd and Thijs are still over in the corner, acting like they didn’t just see the whole damn thing, though I catch Sjoerd smirking as he takes a drag from his joint. “Fuckin’ hell, man, didn’t know you had it in you,” he drawls, voice all lazy and annoying. I just flip him off, not in the mood for his bullshit.

Femke snorts, grabbing her tank top from wherever it landed and pulling it over her head, her tits disappearing under the thin fabric. She doesn’t bother fixing her hair or anything, just picks up her beer from the table and takes a long swig, like nothing even happened. “Alright, I’m done for the night,” she says, her tone flat, like she’s talking about finishing up some boring chore. She glances at me for half a second, not smiling or anything, just a quick look that doesn’t mean jack. “You can crash here if you want, couch is free. Or don’t. I don’t care.” She shrugs, then heads toward what I’m guessing is her bedroom, the door creaking as she pushes it open. I hear the faint thud of her boots hitting the floor in there, probably kicking them off, and then the door clicks shut. Just like that, she’s gone.

I’m sitting there, still tasting her on my lips, feeling the faint ache in my legs from holding her weight, and there’s this damp spot on my jeans that’s gonna be a pain to explain if anyone notices. I don’t feel anything huge, y’know? No big rush of guilt or satisfaction or whatever the hell people are supposed to feel after something like this. Just… kinda empty, I guess. Like I scratched an itch, and now it’s done. I grab my warm Heineken off the table, take a sip, and grimace at how flat it’s gotten. Sjoerd and Thijs are back to yapping about some dumb car stuff, their voices just a low drone under the shitty rap still blaring from the speaker. The room feels bigger now, colder somehow, even though the window’s shut tight against the damp Leeuwarden night.

I don’t really wanna crash here, to be honest. The couch reeks of old beer and now probably cum, and I’m not in the mood to deal with whatever awkward crap might come up if I’m still around when Femke wakes up. I stand, feeling a little shaky, and grab my flannel from the chair, shrugging it on. “I’m heading out,” I mutter to no one in particular. Sjoerd just waves a hand, not even looking at me. Thijs doesn’t say a damn thing. Fine by me. I step out into the stairwell, the smell of old wood and faint meat from the butcher shop below hitting me again as I tromp down the creaky steps. My bike’s still locked up outside, right where I left it next to Slagerij De Boer, the faded sign looking even sadder under the orange glow of the streetlight.

I fumble with the lock, the chain clanking way too loud in the dead quiet of this Ruiterskwartier alley. I swing my leg over the bike, wincing a bit ‘cause my thighs are screaming at me. Man, I’m outta shape, no kidding. The ride back to my place on Noorderweg doesn’t take long. The streets are pretty much deserted, just a couple of drunks tripping over themselves outside some late-night bar by the Nieuwestad canal. The wind’s kicking up now, cold as hell, slicing right off the water and cutting through my flannel. My hands are stinging on the handlebars, feels like needles. I’m not really thinking about Femke, or at least I’m trying not to. Just pedaling on autopilot, my brain all hazy from the weed, the beer, and that fast, sloppy mess of a hookup that already feels like it happened to some other dude.

My apartment’s waiting for me, same old dump it’s always been. I know I’m gonna crash the second I hit that mattress on the floor. I lock the bike outside, not even bothering to double-check if it’s secure, whatever, man. I drag myself up those narrow-ass stairs to my door, feeling every step. My keys slip outta my hand, clattering loud as hell on the ground, and I curse under my breath before finally getting the door open. I kick it shut behind me, not even caring if it slams. Don’t bother with the lights, just peel off my clothes down to my boxers. There’s this faint sticky feeling on my skin, and yeah, I know I should probably shower, but nah, not happening.

I flop onto the mattress, the springs creaking like they’re about to give up on me. I stare at the cracked ceiling for a hot second before my eyes start getting heavy. Outside, some dog barks once, sharp and pissed off, then shuts up. I roll over, yanking the thin blanket up to my chin. “Fuckin’ Tuesday,” I mumble to myself, even though I’m like… pretty sure it’s Friday. Whatever.