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 up to my elbows in a crate of nasty, half-rotten potatoes at the back of the Spar on Prinsens Gate in Trondheim when I first spot her. Nothing dramatic or anything, just me slogging through stock during my shift, the stink of damp veggies making my nose scrunch up. Honestly, I’m not even supposed to be on inventory duty, but my boss, Oddvar, is a stingy jerk who figures minimum wage means I’m his personal grunt for every crap job in this little grocery hole. Anyway, I’m muttering curses under my breath about this one slimy potato when I notice this woman at the end of the aisle, just staring at me. Not even trying to hide it. Like she’s either sizing me up for a scrap or something sketchier. Turns out her name’s Ingrid, but I didn’t know that yet. She’s got that classic Norwegian vibe, pale as a ghost, blonde hair slapped back in a messy bun, kinda scrawny, but not in a cute way, more like she skips meals half the time. She’s in this beat-up old parka, unzipped even though it’s freaking freezing for October, and her boots are all crusted with mud, like she’s been stomping through the fields out by Lade or something. I don’t know why I clocked all that right off the bat. Guess I was just bored out of my mind. Been stuck working at this Spar for two years now, and the biggest thrill is when some drunk idiot tries to swipe a Ringnes from the cooler.

“Hey,” she says outta nowhere, her voice rough, like she’s been chain-smoking or something. “You got any of those cheap blue energy drinks left?” I wipe my hands on my apron, probably just smearing potato gunk everywhere, and give a shrug. “Dunno. Check the fridge up by the counter. Haven’t been out front in, like, an hour.” She nods, but she doesn’t budge. Just stands there, hands shoved in her pockets, eyeing me like I’m some weird riddle she’s gotta crack. I’m not used to people giving me a second glance. I’m just Espen, 29, a bit chunky, scruffy beard I keep forgetting to trim. I’m not hideous or anything, but I’m not turning heads either. Most folks around this part of Trondheim don’t care about me unless they need something from the store. So her staring? Yeah, it’s odd. Makes my skin crawl a bit.

“You live around here?” she asks, still not moving toward the fridge. Her eyes are sharp, like she’s trying to poke around inside my brain. “Uh, yeah. Over by Møllenberg, in one of those dumpy apartments above the bakery on Innherredsveien. Why?” I don’t even know why I answered so fast. Should’ve just told her to buzz off and grab her drink. She smirks, just a little twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Just curious. I’ve seen you here before. Always look like you hate everything.” I snort, chucking another bad potato into the bin. “Yeah, well, working at this place ain’t exactly living the dream. What’s your story? You stalking me or what?” Ingrid lets out this short, harsh laugh. “Nah, man. Just moved back to town. Used to be out by Stjørdal, but my ex was a total asshole, so I’m crashing with a friend over on Solsiden for now. This Spar’s the closest spot to grab stuff without freezing my butt off walking all the way to Kiwi.” I nod, not really sure what to say to that. I suck at small talk. Always have. Most of my chats are either Oddvar barking at me to mop up some mess or shooting the breeze with my buddy Torstein over beers at Three Lions Pub on Nordre Gate. But something about Ingrid keeps me from brushing her off. Maybe it’s how she’s not putting on some fake, polite act like most people around here. She’s just… straight-up. Like she couldn’t care less what I think of her.

We stand there for a sec, me messing with the crate, her still watching me. Then she goes, “You ever get outta here? Like, after your shift or whatever?” I look up, squinting at her. “What, you asking me out? I don’t even know you.” She rolls her eyes. “Chill, dude. I’m just saying I’m bored as hell, and you look like you could use a break from this shithole. My friend’s got some people coming over tonight. Nothing big, just beer and probably some crappy music at their place. You down or what?” I hesitate. I don’t usually do stuff like this. My nights are mostly just crashing on my couch with a sad frozen pizza, zoning out to Netflix, or scrolling dumb memes on my phone ‘til I pass out. But lately, I’ve been feeling… stuck, y’know? Like my life’s just this boring loop of Spar shifts and cheap beer. And Ingrid, weird as she is, is at least something different. “Where’s it at?” I ask, trying not to sound too into it. “Over on Kjøpmannsgata, one of those old buildings by the river. Third floor, apartment 3B. Just roll up around nine if you ain’t got better plans. Bring your own booze if you’re picky. My friend’s cheap as hell.” She finally turns to head toward the fridge, snagging a can of that blue energy drink I mentioned. “See ya, maybe.” “Yeah, maybe,” I mumble, watching her head to the counter to pay.

I don’t know why my heart’s thumping a little harder. It’s not like I’m into her or anything. She’s not even my type, if I’ve got one. Too skinny, too rough around the edges. But there’s something about how she just tossed that invite out there, like she don’t care one bit if I show up or not. It’s… I dunno, kinda gutsy. The rest of my shift drags on like always. Oddvar comes back from his smoke break and starts griping at me for not finishing the inventory fast enough, even though I’m also supposed to man the register while the other cashier, Marit, is on her lunch. Same old crap.

Man, by the time I punch out at seven, I’m drenched in sweat, totally beat, and I reek like a weird combo of potatoes and that cheap-ass floor cleaner we use at work. I drag myself back to my place on Innherredsveien, the cold air nipping at my face while I shuffle past those old wooden houses. The bakery downstairs is pumping out this faint bread smell that’s honestly kinda tempting. I’m half-thinking about just crashing at home, popping open a beer, and ignoring that odd invite from Ingrid. But then her smirk pops into my head, that sharp glint in her eyes, and I’m like, screw it, why the hell not? I hop in the shower real quick, throw on a hoodie that’s mostly clean and some jeans without any rips, yet, and snag a six-pack of Hansa from the fridge. I’ve got no clue what I’m walking into. Probably just a bunch of random people half-drunk, talking absolute nonsense. Hell, Ingrid might not even remember asking me to come. Part of me kinda hopes she doesn’t, so I can just dip out and say I gave it a shot.

It’s a short ten-minute trek to Kjøpmannsgata, cutting through the quiet little streets of Bakklandet with those cobblestones and overpriced hipster cafes I can’t even dream of affording. The closer I get to the river, the more this weird feeling twists in my gut. It’s not exactly nerves, more like… I dunno, curiosity? I got no idea who’s gonna be at this thing or what Ingrid’s whole deal is. I’m trash at meeting new folks, always end up saying something dumb or sounding like a total jerk without even trying. But I keep going, the six-pack swinging in my hand, my breath puffing out in little clouds in the chilly air.

When I roll up to the building, it’s one of those old brick ones right by the Nidelva river, all worn down and sketchy as hell with graffiti scrawled across the bottom of the walls. I hit the buzzer for 3B, and some dude’s voice crackles through the intercom, already sounding like he’s had a few too many. “Who’s there?” “Uh, Espen. Ingrid told me to swing by?” I mumble, feeling like a complete moron. There’s a beat of silence, then a laugh. “Yeah, alright, come on up.” The door buzzes, I push it open, and I’m hit with this stale beer and cigarette smoke stench as I climb the creaky-ass stairs. I can already hear music thumping, some bass-heavy stuff I don’t know, and a mess of voices talking over each other. I grip the six-pack a little tighter. No clue what I’m stepping into, but I’m here now, and there’s no turning back.

I knock on the door to 3B, and it flies open almost instantly. Some guy with a buzzcut and a beer belly grins at me like we go way back. “Hey, man, welcome to the shitshow,” he says, stepping aside. I spot Ingrid across the room, leaning against a cracked window frame, cigarette dangling between her fingers. She catches my eye, raises an eyebrow, and flashes that same smirk from earlier. I nod back, trying to act cool, but I got no idea what’s about to happen. I step inside, and yeah, it’s exactly what I figured, cramped, messy, stinking of cheap beer and old pizza. The furniture looks like it was yanked straight off the curb, with a sagging couch sporting stains I don’t even wanna guess about and a coffee table buried under empty cans and overflowing ashtrays. There’s maybe ten people here, most of ‘em sprawled out, half-yelling over the music blasting from some janky Bluetooth speaker. It’s generic EDM garbage, the kind they pump at lousy clubs on Solsiden. I don’t know a single soul here except Ingrid, and even then, I don’t really *know* her.

I crack open one of my Hansa cans, take a big gulp, and try to figure out where to plant myself without looking like a total idiot. Ingrid pushes off the window frame and heads over, her boots scuffing on the beat-up hardwood floor. She’s ditched the parka, just rocking a faded black tank top and ripped jeans now, her arms all skinny but kinda toned, like she lifts heavy stuff for a living or something. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up,” she says, flicking her cigarette ash into some random mug on the table. Her voice is rough as ever, and up close, I catch the nicotine on her breath mixed with something fruity, maybe gum or one of those cheap vapes. “Yeah, well, figured I’d check out what kinda chaos you’re into,” I say, sipping my beer again. I’m aiming for casual, but I already feel outta place. Everyone else here seems tight, laughing, passing around a joint, while I’m just the random chubby dude with a six-pack, standing there like a dumbass.

She snorts, snagging one of my beers without even asking. “This ain’t my chaos. It’s my buddy Jonas’s place. He’s the guy who let you in. Thinks he’s a big deal ‘cause he works at the port, but he’s just a loudmouth.” She pops the tab, takes a swig, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “C’mon, don’t just stand there like a lost puppy. Let’s grab a spot before these idiots hog all the space.” I follow her to the couch, stepping over a pile of empty pizza boxes and some stray sneakers. We sit, and the springs groan under me. She doesn’t seem to notice or give a damn, just leans back, one leg crossed over the other, her knee brushing mine. I don’t think it’s on purpose, but I’m super aware of it anyway. Been a minute since I’ve been this close to a woman, not since that sloppy hookup over a year ago after a night at Three Lions. That was fast, forgettable, and barely worth the hangover.

We chat a bit, mostly about nothing important, how much Spar sucks, how she’s hunting for a gig at one of the warehouses out by Tiller, how the rent in Trondheim is straight-up insane. I’m on my third beer now, and she’s keeping pace, her laughs getting a little louder, her hand landing on my arm a couple times when she’s making a point. I can’t tell if she’s flirting or just being chill, but my head’s starting to buzz, and it ain’t just the booze.

Man, there’s just something about the way she looks at me, ya know? Her eyes, sharp as hell, darting over my face, down to my chest, like she’s trying to figure out what’s hiding under this old hoodie. It ain’t cute or lovey-dovey or any of that nonsense. It’s just… intense. Like she’s testing me, wondering what I’d do if she pushed a bit more. After a bit, she mumbles, “Fuck, it’s hot in here,” fanning herself with her hand like she’s about to melt. The room’s pretty stuffy, I’ll give her that, too many people, too much smoke, but I think she’s laying it on thick. She tugs her tank top up a little, flashing just a sliver of pale skin, a small scar right above her hip. I try not to gawk, but c’mon, I’m not blind. My throat’s dry as hell, so I chug some more beer to play it off. Then she turns to me, all direct, and goes, “You always this quiet, or you just got nothing to say?” Her knee’s pressing into my thigh now, and I can feel the heat through my jeans. I just shrug, keeping it cool. “I talk when I got something worth saying. No point in yapping for nothing.” She grins, and it ain’t a sweet grin. It’s kinda… predatory, like she’s got me figured out. “Fair enough. But I bet there’s a lot going on in that head of yours.” She taps her temple, then leans in real close, her voice dropping low. “Wanna get outta here for a minute? Jonas has a balcony out back. It’s cold as shit, but at least it don’t reek like ass.” I pause for half a second, then nod. “Yeah, sure.” My heart’s picking up a bit, but I keep my face straight. No way I’m letting her see I’m shook.

We grab our beers and push through the crowd, dodging Jonas who’s hollering about some football game at Lerkendal, and head out to this tiny balcony overlooking the Nidelva. The cold air smacks me in the face, and I can see my breath puffing out, the river down below looking dark and still, glinting under the streetlights along Kjøpmannsgata. She leans on the railing, elbows sticking out, and I stand next to her, close enough that our shoulders brush. We don’t say a word for a minute, just sipping our beers, the bass from inside thumping softly through the glass door. Then she turns her head, hitting me with that same sharp look, and before I can even process it, she’s kissing me. It ain’t soft or slow like in some cheesy movie. It’s rough, sloppy, her lips cold from the air, tasting like beer and tobacco. I’m caught off guard, nearly dropping my damn beer can, but I kiss her back, my free hand grabbing her waist without thinking. Her body presses into mine, skinny but firm, her hip digging into my stomach as she moves closer. My head’s spinning, and it’s not just the kiss, it’s how fast this all ramped up. I don’t even know if I like her, but my body’s already reacting, stirring down there in my jeans, and I can feel the heat of her through that thin top. She pulls back for a breath, panting a little, her eyes flicking down like she knows exactly what’s happening. “You good with this?” she mutters, her voice low and kinda rough now. “Yeah,” I grunt, not trusting myself to say much else. Don’t wanna overthink it. Just wanna keep going.

She smirks again, then grabs my hand and tugs me back inside, but not to where we were sitting. She pulls me down a short hallway, past a bathroom with a busted lock, to what I’m guessing is some kinda spare room. It’s dark in there, just a flickering bulb overhead, a mattress on the floor with a messed-up blanket, and random junk piled in the corner. Smells like dust and old laundry, but I ain’t complaining. She kicks the door shut behind us, doesn’t even bother locking it, and shoves me against the wall. Her hands are already at my hoodie, yanking the zipper down. I let her pull it off, my t-shirt coming with it, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of how I look, my gut hanging over my belt a bit, chest all hairy, definitely not gym-bro material. She don’t seem to care one bit, though. Her hands are all over me, cold fingers digging into my sides as she kisses me again, her tongue pushing in, wet and demanding. I groan without meaning to, my hands fumbling with her tank top, tugging it up over her head. Her chest is small, barely a handful, nipples hard from the cold or whatever, pale against her skin. I don’t stop to stare or nothing, just pull her closer by the hips, feeling her grind against me, the friction of her jeans on mine making me ache bad. “Fuck, take these off,” she mutters, already messing with my belt, yanking it open with a loud clink. I help her out, kicking off my jeans and boxers in one clumsy move, my dick popping out, half-hard already, thick and uncut, a little precum at the tip. I ain’t huge or anything, just average, but the way she looks at it, eyes dark and hungry, you’d think it’s exactly what she’s after.

She shoves her own jeans down, no underwear underneath, and I catch a quick glimpse of her, pale skin, a neat patch of blonde hair, before she’s pushing me down onto the mattress. I hit my back, the springs creaking under me, and she’s on top in a flash, straddling my hips, her bony but strong thighs on either side. Her heat brushes against me, hot and already a little slick, and I hiss through my teeth, hands gripping her ass, feeling the muscle there. She leans down, biting at my neck, not gentle at all, her breath hot and uneven against my skin. I can smell her now, not just the nicotine but something else, the faint sharpness of her sweat, her arousal, raw and real.

Man, my fingers are digging into her skin, probably harder than I mean to, and she’s grinding down on me, teasing like hell. The tip of my dick keeps brushing against her, catching just at her entrance, but not quite going in yet. “Condom?” I mumble, my voice all thick and messed up, barely able to think straight but knowing I gotta at least ask. “Nah, I’m on the pill,” she shoots back, brushing it off like it’s nothing. Her hand slips down between us, grabs my cock, and starts stroking, rough and fast. My hips jerk up on their own, no control there, and she lets out this low, dirty laugh. “Damn, you’re ready, aren’t you?” I don’t even answer, just grunt like an idiot, my hands sliding up her back as she moves, lining herself up. The tip of me presses into her now, hot and tight, stretching her slow as she sinks down. She gasps a bit, her nails digging into my shoulders, and I feel every damn inch, her pussy’s gripping me so hard it’s like a vice.

It ain’t smooth or perfect, not at first. The angle’s off, kinda awkward, so I shift my hips to fix it. Then she’s all the way down, her weight pinning me, and I’m buried deep, the heat of her making my head spin like crazy. She starts moving, not gentle or slow, nah, just rough and desperate, rocking her hips hard. Her clit’s grinding against me with every thrust, and I’m pushing up to match her, my hands back on her ass, guiding her. The mattress creaks loud as hell under us. Her tits bounce a little with each move, and I can’t help but stare, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. There’s already sweat on her forehead, this shiny sheen on her skin, and I feel my own starting to drip down my chest. It’s messy, clumsy as shit in spots, but damn, it feels good. Like, the kind of good where you’re not thinking, just feeling, all instinct.

We’re just getting into a groove, her moans getting louder, my grunts mixing with the slap of skin against skin, when I hear something outside the door. Laughter, footsteps, some kinda noise. I freeze for half a second, but she doesn’t stop, just leans down, her mouth right by my ear, and whispers, “Don’t fuckin’ stop now.” Her voice is raw, like a command, and I’m not about to argue. My hips snap up harder, driving into her as she clenches tight around me, her breath hitching. I don’t know if we’re gonna get caught, don’t know how far this is gonna go, and honestly, right now, I don’t give a shit. All I care about is the heat of her, the way she’s riding me like she owns my ass. I’m half-lost in it, my cock throbbing inside her as she rolls her hips, grinding down with this desperate, hungry force.

Her hands, Ingrid’s hands, are braced on my chest now, nails scratching at my skin, probably leaving little red marks I’ll see later and wonder about. Her pussy’s so tight it almost hurts, slick with how wet she is, and every time she slams down, there’s this wet, nasty sound cutting through the muffled bass from the party outside. I’m sweating like a pig, my gut heaving with every breath, and I can feel the dampness of her thighs against mine, the heat of her body mixing with mine in this raw, kinda gross way if I think too hard. But I don’t think. I’m just chasing that feeling, that ache in my balls getting sharper every damn second. “Fuck, harder,” she growls, her voice cracking a little, her face all scrunched up, not pretty, but real as hell. I grab her hips tighter, fingers digging into the bony parts, and thrust up with everything I’ve got, my back arching off the mattress.

It’s awkward, man, my knees are bent all weird, and the blanket’s bunched up under my ass, scratching at me, but I don’t care. I’m pounding into her, the head of my cock hitting something deep that makes her gasp and curse under her breath. Her blonde hair’s falling out of that messy bun, sticking to her sweaty neck, and I catch this sharp smell of her, musk and some cheap shampoo, every time she leans close. Then she shifts, leaning back a bit, hands grabbing at my thighs for balance, and the angle changes. Her clit’s rubbing hard against me now with every move, and I can tell she’s getting close. Her breathing’s all over the place, moans turning into these sharp little whimpers, and her pussy’s clenching so tight it’s like she’s gonna break me.

I’m right there too, my balls tightening, that pressure building so fast I know I’m not gonna last. I mutter something dumb like, “I’m gonna, ” but she cuts me off, snapping, “Don’t you fuckin’ dare pull out yet.” I grit my teeth, trying to hold on, my hands sliding up to her small tits, pinching at her nipples just to see her react. It works, she makes this choked sound, her whole body shuddering, and then she’s coming, hard. Her cunt’s pulsing around me, hot and even wetter now, her thighs shaking against mine. It’s a mess, her juices slicking down my cock, dripping onto me, and seeing her lose it, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent yell, pushes me right over. I can’t hold it, grunt loud as hell, my hips jerking up one last time, and I’m unloading inside her, spurt after spurt, the relief so intense it almost hurts.

I feel it, the heat of my cum mixing with her wetness, leaking out a little as she keeps rocking on me, slower now, dragging out the last of her high. We’re both panting like we just ran a damn marathon, her weight still on me, my cock still half-hard inside her, twitching with little aftershocks. Ain’t no sweet moment, no gazing into each other’s eyes or any of that sappy shit. She just slumps forward a bit, forehead on my shoulder for a sec, her breath hot against my neck. I can feel the sticky mess between us, our sweat cooling in this chilly-ass room, and the smell of sex hits hard, all earthy, mixing with the dust and stale air of this crappy spare room.

My hands are still resting on her hips, but I’m not sure what to do with them anymore, so I just let them fall to the mattress with a little thud. She shifts after a minute, easing herself off me, and I catch her wince a bit as I slip out, a messy trail of cum and her own stuff sliding down her thigh. She doesn’t say a word about it, just grabs the edge of the blanket and wipes it off like it’s nothing, then starts tugging her jeans back on without even bothering to find her tank top yet. I’m still sprawled out, trying to catch my breath, my dick wet and going soft against my stomach, feeling kinda naked and vulnerable but way too wiped to move just yet. I watch her zip up, her back to me, and the dim light from the bulb overhead catches this small scar on her hip. “Guess we’re done here,” she says, finally turning to face me, her voice flat as hell, no warmth, no nothing. She’s already snatching her tank top off the floor, pulling it over her head quick, like she’s got somewhere to be. I drag myself up slowly, my back screaming from this crappy mattress, and start fumbling around for my boxers and jeans, the waistband sticking to my sweaty skin as I yank them on. I don’t know what I thought she’d say, but it damn sure wasn’t that. Not that I’m whining or anything, I’m not looking for some big emotional moment or whatever, but the way she’s acting, like this was just a quick deal, it kinda throws me off. “Yeah, I guess,” I mumble, zipping up my hoodie, my fingers all clumsy from that post-sex fog. I stand up, and the room spins a little, so I grab my last beer from where I left it on the floor. It’s warm as hell now, but I crack it open anyway. She’s already heading for the door, not waiting for me, her boots scuffing across the floor again. I trail behind, feeling weird, like I don’t even fit in this moment anymore.

Back in the main room, the party’s still raging, maybe even louder now, with Jonas yelling over the music about some stupid bet he made with another dude. Nobody seems to notice us slipping back in, or if they do, they don’t give a crap. Ingrid heads straight for the table with the drinks, grabbing another can without so much as a glance my way, and I just stand there for a second, sipping my lukewarm Hansa, feeling the ache in my legs and this faint throb down below. I don’t even know what to do with myself now. Don’t feel like chatting with her, don’t feel like hanging with these people I barely know. I down the rest of the beer fast, crush the can in my hand, and chuck it into a pile of empties by the couch. Ingrid’s laughing at something Jonas said, her back to me again, and yeah, I take that as my sign to go. I don’t bother saying bye, don’t make a big deal out of it. Just grab my jacket from near the door and slip out, the cold air in the stairwell smacking me hard after the stuffy heat of the apartment. My boots echo on the creaky steps as I head down, the buzz of the party fading behind me, and I shove open the heavy door to Kjøpmannsgata. The Nidelva’s glinting under the streetlights, same as before. I start walking back toward Møllenberg, hands stuffed in my pockets, the October chill biting at my face. My legs feel like lead, my body still kinda buzzing but mostly just beat, and I can still smell her on me, faint under the hoodie, which I don’t really wanna think about right now. I pass one of those late-night kebab spots on Bakklandet, the greasy smell hitting me and making my stomach growl even though I’m not hungry, and I think about grabbing something just to waste some time. But nah, I don’t. I keep walking, the cobblestones uneven under my feet, the quiet of the night starting to settle in.

Halfway home, my phone buzzes in my pocket, and I dig it out, squinting at the cracked screen. It’s a text from Torstein, asking if I wanna swing by Three Lions for a quick pint before last call. I stare at it for a beat, then shove the phone back without texting back. Don’t feel like explaining where I’ve been or what just went down. Don’t feel like much of anything, honestly. When I finally get to my building on Innherredsveien, the bakery downstairs is dark, but there’s still this faint smell of bread hanging in the air. I fumble with my keys, the lock sticking like it always frickin’ does. Inside, my apartment’s the same mess I left it, empty pizza box on the counter, a couple dirty mugs by the sink. I kick off my boots, drop my jacket right on the floor, and head straight for the couch, not even bothering to flip on the light. I sit there in the dark for a while, staring at the black TV screen, my mind pretty much blank except for this lingering ache in my body. Then I notice my sock’s got a hole in it, my big toe sticking out like a total dumbass, and I just laugh, short and kinda bitter, ‘cause yeah, of course it does.