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, there I was, up to my elbows in a crate of old, dusty vinyls at the back of De Platenkelder, this little hole-in-the-wall music shop on Grote Marktstraat in The Hague. It was a crappy Thursday afternoon, all rainy and grey, the kind of day that just makes you wanna crawl back under the covers with a beer and forget the world exists. But nah, I’d told myself I’d hunt down some old punk records for my buddy’s birthday, so there I was, smelling like a damp jacket and stale coffee, flipping through scratched-up sleeves of The Clash and some weird Dutch bands I’d never even heard of. The place reeked of mold and old paper, and the fluorescent lights were buzzing like they were on their last legs. Then I spotted her over by the cassette racks, this tall, skinny chick with a buzzcut and a leather jacket that looked like it’d been through a war. Her name, I found out later, was Sanne, which, y’know, is about as Dutch as it gets. She had these sharp, almost mean eyes, and the way she stood just screamed, “I don’t give a crap what you think.” I caught her glancing my way once, then twice, while I was pretending to be super into a beat-up copy of Never Mind the Bollocks. Look, I’m no catch, thirty-two, a bit soft around the middle, with a scruffy beard I keep forgetting to trim, but I’ve got this dumb habit of thinking every look means something. Probably just me being a moron, though, right?

I’d been in The Hague for about three years by then, after moving from some nowhere town down south for a warehouse job near the port. It’s not exactly living the dream, just stacking boxes and dodging forklifts for eight hours a day, but it keeps the bills paid for my crappy little apartment by Zuiderpark. I’ve gotten to know the city pretty well, y’know? Like, where to grab a cheap broodje haring near the Spui, or which bars on Noordeinde won’t toss you out for being a loud drunk. De Platenkelder was one of those random spots I’d wandered into a few times, mostly ‘cause it’s quiet and the old dude at the counter, Pieter, doesn’t yap unless you ask him about jazz or whatever. I like that. I’m not one for chit-chat. But Sanne? Oh, she wasn’t quiet at all. She started grumbling to herself about how the cassette section was “a focking mess,” her voice all rough and gravelly, like she’d smoked one too many cigs. I couldn’t help but smirk a little, not loud or anything, but she caught it and gave me this death glare, like I’d just trashed her mom or something. “What’s so funny, huh?” she snapped, hands on her hips. Her accent was pure Haags, thick and rough, the kind you hear from folks who grew up in the grittier parts of town, like Schilderswijk or Moerwijk maybe. “Nothin’,” I mumbled, scratching the back of my neck like an idiot. “Just… yeah, it’s a mess. You’re not wrong.” I suck at confrontation, always have. I figured she’d just huff and go back to her tapes, but nope, she stomped over, boots thumping on the creaky wood floor, and leaned right up against the shelf next to me. Up close, I could see the piercings in her nose and this faded tattoo of some bird on her neck. She smelled like cigarettes and something sharp, cheap perfume, maybe, or hair gel.

“You into this punk stuff?” she asked, nodding at the record in my hand. Her tone wasn’t exactly warm, more like she was sizing me up, seeing if I was full of it. “Kinda,” I said with a shrug. “More for a friend, though. I’m honestly more into metal. Old-school stuff, like Sabbath.” I don’t even know why I felt like I had to explain myself. I’m not usually one to talk to strangers, especially not ones who look like they might deck me if I say the wrong thing. She snorted, like that was the most boring answer she’d ever heard. “Figures. You’ve got that scruffy, sad metalhead vibe goin’ on.” I couldn’t tell if she was insulting me or just pointing out the obvious, but I laughed anyway. What else are you supposed to do? Then she snatched a record out of the crate I was digging through, a roughed-up copy of something by a band called De Kift, and held it up like she’d just found gold. “This is real Dutch stuff. Not that touristy crap. You ever hear of ‘em?” “Nah,” I admitted. “Never even heard the name.” “Pathetic,” she shot back, but there was this little smirk on her face, like she was having fun messing with me. “Come on, I’ll play it for ya. Pieter’s got a turntable in the back.” I just blinked at her. “Uh, what? Like, right now?” “Yeah, now, dikzak,” she said, which I knew was Dutch slang for something like “fatass.” It didn’t sound mean, though, more like she was just screwing around. I probably should’ve been annoyed, but… I dunno, I wasn’t. Something about her vibe, the way she just didn’t care, kinda drew me in. I glanced over at Pieter, who was basically dozing off behind the counter. Figured he wouldn’t give a damn if we used the turntable. Guy never cared about much.

“Fine,” I said, trailing after her to the back of the shop, past piles of unsorted CDs and a busted jukebox that probably hadn’t worked since the ‘90s. The back room was even grungier than the front, just this tiny, cramped space with a beat-up couch, a couple of rickety folding chairs, and an ancient record player hooked up to some cheap, tinny speakers. There was a peeling Miles Davis poster taped to the wall, and the whole place stank like someone had spilled beer on the carpet ten years ago and just left it there. Sanne plopped the record onto the turntable without any fuss, cranking the volume up way too loud for a little room like that. The music was… weird, man. Kinda folky, kinda punk, with accordions and horns and a singer who sounded like he was shouting through a megaphone.

Honestly, I wasn’t into it at all, but I kept my mouth shut. I just perched on the edge of the couch, feeling like a total idiot, while she leaned against the wall, nodding her head like whatever was playing was pure gold. After a bit, she glanced over at me with those piercing eyes of hers and goes, “You get it?” I shrugged, being straight with her. “Uh, not really. It’s… weird, I guess.” She rolled her eyes, didn’t even bother arguing. Instead, she yanked a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket, lit one up right there without even asking if it was cool. The smoke drifted up to the stained ceiling, and I figured Pieter wouldn’t give a damn anyway. “You’re kinda dull, you know that?” she said, blowing out a puff of grey. “But hey, at least you’re not a complete jerk. That’s something.” I muttered, “Thanks, I guess,” not even sure if she meant it as a compliment. I shifted on the couch, the stupid springs poking into me, trying to come up with something to say that wouldn’t make me sound like a total moron. “You hang out here a lot?” I finally asked. “Sometimes,” she said, taking another drag. “When I’m not stuck at work. I do shifts at the V&D warehouse over by Laakkwartier. It’s crap, but it pays. What about you?” “Same deal,” I said, kinda surprised we had that in common. “Warehouse by the port. Sucks just as much.” She flashed a quick grin at that, her teeth showing for a split second, and I couldn’t help but notice how different her face looked when she wasn’t glaring. Not that I was getting all mushy or anything, I’m not that guy. Still, there was something about her, this raw, no-nonsense vibe, that made me wanna keep the convo going. Or maybe I was just desperate for a real chat after weeks of nothing but work talk.

We just sat there for a while, that weird music scratching out of the speakers, her smoking away, me messing with the torn edge of my hoodie. Then she flicked her cigarette butt into an empty coffee cup on the table and looked right at me, like she was figuring me out. “Got plans tonight?” she asked out of nowhere. Truth is, I didn’t. My big Friday night was gonna be ordering a pizza from Domino’s on Regentesseplein and zoning out to some lame crime show rerun. But I wasn’t about to admit that. “Nah, not really. Why?” “I’m meeting a friend later at Café De Pijp on Lange Poten,” she said, all casual like it was no big deal. “You should tag along. Unless you’re too boring for that too.” I hesitated. I’m not the type to just go off with some random person, especially not someone who straight-up calls me boring. But the way she said it, like she was daring me, kinda got to me. Plus, De Pijp wasn’t far, just a quick tram ride. I knew the spot, a grungy little bar with sticky floors and cheap Heineken on tap. I’d been there a few times after work with the warehouse crew. “Who’s this friend?” I asked, trying to act chill even though my hands were getting sweaty for no reason at all. “Just someone I know,” she said with a shrug. “You’ll see. So, you in or what?” I didn’t answer right off, just stared at her while she leaned forward, waiting on me. I had no clue what I was signing up for, but something felt… different, like the air got thicker or something. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a drink with some chick and her mystery friend. But deep down, I had a feeling it wasn’t gonna be that easy.

I kept looking at her, Sanne, her sharp eyes cutting right through me like she’d see through any lame excuse I could throw out. My gut was screaming to say no, to just head home to my sad pizza and TV, but my dumb mouth had other plans. “Yeah, alright,” I said, scratching at my scruffy beard. “I’ll come. What time?” “Eight,” she said, straightening up and brushing some nonexistent dirt off her leather jacket. “Don’t be late, or I’ll assume you wussed out.” She shot me that smirk again, the kind that made me feel like I was being put to the test, then turned to grab her stuff from the shelf by the turntable. I watched her stride out of the back room, her boots thumping on the floor, and I just sat there for a minute, wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into.

The rest of the day dragged on. I picked up a couple of records for my buddy, handed Pieter a crumpled twenty, and stepped back out into the drizzle. The Hague was its usual dreary self, trams clanking down Grote Marktstraat, people hunched under umbrellas. I wandered around to kill time, grabbed a quick broodje kroket from a snackbar near the Spui, and tried not to overthink this whole thing. It’s just a drink, right? Probably no big deal. But I couldn’t shake the way Sanne had looked at me, like she knew something I didn’t.

By the time I got to Café De Pijp, it was just past eight. The place was already half-packed, mostly locals and a few after-work folks sipping beers at the bar. The air stunk of stale hops and fried bitterballen, and the jukebox in the corner was blaring some old Dutch schlager song I didn’t know. I spotted Sanne right away, parked at a shaky table near the back with a pint of Heineken in front of her. She was by herself, no sign of this “friend” she’d mentioned. Her buzzcut caught the dim light from the bulb overhead, and she glanced up as I walked over, giving me a nod like she figured I’d show. “Thought you’d bail,” she said, kicking out a chair for me. Her voice had that same gritty edge, and up close, I could smell the cigarettes on her again, mixed with a faint whiff of beer.

“Hey, I’m here,” I said, shrugging off my soggy jacket and plopping down on the chair. It creaked under my weight, and I felt like a total mess next to her, scruffy, out of place, just not right. “Where’s your friend at?” I asked. She took a long sip of her beer and shrugged. “Late. Or maybe not showing up at all. Who cares? You want a drink, or you just gonna sit there looking all weird and uncomfortable?” I mumbled something about grabbing a beer and shuffled over to the bar, snagging a cheap Heineken. When I got back, she was rolling a cigarette right there on the table, not giving a damn about the no-smoking signs glaring at us from every wall. We didn’t say much at first, just sipped our drinks and scoped out the crowd. She threw out a few jabs about the people around us, some dude in a suit who looked like he’d never stepped foot in a dive like this, a couple bickering in the corner, and I found myself laughing more than I thought I would. She had this sharp way of cutting through the nonsense that kinda hit me different, even if it made me feel like a dumbass half the time.

After the second beer, things started to loosen up a bit. She leaned in closer when she talked, her elbow brushing mine on the sticky-ass table. I couldn’t tell if she meant to do it or if the place was just that packed, but man, I noticed it every single time. My hands were sweaty again, and I kept wiping them on my jeans like some nervous kid. She caught me doing it once and flashed this grin, her teeth catching the dim light. “What’s up with you?” she said, her voice dropping low, almost like she was messing with me. “You look like you’re about to run for the hills.” I lied straight to her face, “I’m good,” and took a huge swig of beer to hide how not good I was. My head was buzzing, and it wasn’t just the booze. There was something about how she looked at me, those half-lidded eyes, still somehow piercing, that twisted my gut in a way I hadn’t felt in forever.

“Bullshit,” she shot back, leaning in even closer. Her breath hit me, smelling like beer and tobacco, and I could see this little scar above her eyebrow, a faint white line on her pale skin. “You’re all jittery. What, you scared of me or something?” I snorted, trying to laugh it off. “Nah, I’m not scared. Just… I dunno, not used to this, I guess.” “Used to what?” she pushed, her voice getting even quieter. Her knee bumped mine under the table, and this time, I’m pretty damn sure it wasn’t by accident. I didn’t answer right away, just stared at my half-empty glass like it was gonna tell me what to say. Embarrassing as hell, but I was already half-hard in my jeans, and I couldn’t do shit about it. She was right there, all rough-around-the-edges and full of attitude, and I was dying to see what she’d do next. Finally, I looked up and muttered, “Used to… whatever this is.”

She let out this short, sharp laugh, almost like a bark, and then she was moving. Before I could even think, she slid her chair right up next to mine, her thigh pressing against me. “Relax, dikzak,” she said under her breath, her hand landing on my knee under the table. Her fingers were cold from gripping her glass, and the shock of it made me jump a little. She noticed and grinned even wider. “See? Twitchy as hell.” I didn’t know what to say, so I just kept my mouth shut. Her hand stayed there, heavy, like she meant it, and then it started sliding up, slow but with purpose, till it was halfway up my thigh. My breath hitched, and I glanced around the bar, paranoid someone would see, but nobody gave a crap. The place was loud, smoky, everyone lost in their own little worlds. Her fingers pressed into my leg through my jeans, and I could feel the heat of her even through the denim. “You gonna stop me?” she asked, her voice low, almost a growl, her face so close I felt her breath on my neck. Her other hand just sat on the table, casual as hell, like she wasn’t feeling me up in the middle of a damn bar.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry even after all that beer. “No,” I managed to choke out, my voice rougher than I meant. My cock was fully hard now, straining against my zipper, and I knew she could tell. Her hand slid higher, brushing right over the bulge, and I let out this stupid, choked noise I couldn’t hold back. “Good,” she said, and next thing I know, she’s standing up, grabbing my wrist, and yanking me along. I stumbled a bit, legs all shaky, but I followed her toward the back of the bar, past the bathrooms, into this narrow hallway that reeked of piss and bleach. There was a door labeled “Storage” with a busted lock, and she shoved it open, dragging me inside. It was dark, just one flickering bulb overhead, and the room was tight, crammed with crates and empty kegs. The air was stale, heavy with the smell of old beer and dust.

She pushed me against the wall, not gentle at all, and I hit it with a thud, the cold brick biting into my back. Her hands were on me before I could even open my mouth, one on my chest, the other fumbling with my belt. “Fuck, you’re slow,” she grumbled, yanking the buckle open with a loud clink. I didn’t argue, just stood there breathing heavy as she shoved my jeans down just enough to get at me. My boxers were still on, but she didn’t bother with ‘em, just reached in and pulled my cock out, her grip firm and a little rough. I groaned, my head tipping back against the wall, and she let out this quiet laugh. “Already a mess, huh?” I looked down, and yeah, I was. Hard as hell, leaking a little at the tip, and her hand was stroking me slow but tight, her thumb brushing over the head in a way that made my knees damn near give out.

Man, I could smell her now, that sharp, salty tang of her sweat mixed with this cheap-ass perfume she always wore. It hit me hard, almost dizzying, in this cramped, shitty little room. She moved in close, her body right up against mine, and I swear I could feel the heat off her even through that worn-out jacket of hers. Then her other hand slipped under my shirt, nails dragging across my stomach, and I couldn’t help it, I sucked in a sharp breath. “Shit, Sanne,” I mumbled, my voice already sounding like I’d been through the wringer. I reached for her, hands all clumsy and fumbling as I grabbed at her hips, yanking her closer. She didn’t push me off or anything, just kept working me with her hand, picking up the pace like she knew exactly what she was doing. I could feel the roughness of her palm, all callused up from hauling stuff at the warehouse, and damn, it just made everything feel messier, more real somehow. My fingers were shaking as I messed with the button on her jeans. She didn’t stop me, just tilted her hips a little to make it easier. I got the zipper down, hands still jittery, and shoved the denim aside just enough to feel the heat of her through her underwear. She was already wet, the fabric damp under my fingertips, and when I pressed against her, she let out this sharp hiss, her grip on me tightening like a vise. “Fuck, hurry up,” she growled, voice all rough and raw now, and hell, I didn’t need her to say it twice. I pushed her underwear down, not smooth or anything, just desperate as hell, and slid my fingers against her. She was hot, slick, her clit hard under my thumb, and she bucked against my hand with this low moan that shot straight through me. We were both breathing heavy now, the air in here feeling way too thick, too damn close. I could hear the muffled racket from the bar through the flimsy walls. Her hand was still on me, jerking me off with this rough, uneven rhythm, and I was already way too close, my balls tightening as I fought to keep it together. I slid two fingers inside her, feeling her clench tight around me, and she cursed under her breath, her head dropping onto my shoulder. Her buzzcut scratched against my neck, and her breath was hot on my skin as I worked her, curling my fingers just to hear that gasp again. We were a damn mess, half-dressed, grinding against each other in some storage room that reeked of stale beer, but I didn’t give a shit. All I could think about was how she felt, how she sounded, and how bad I needed to be inside her. I pulled my fingers out, slick with her, and started digging in my back pocket for my wallet, praying to God I had a condom stashed in there somewhere. She caught on quick, smirking a little, her hand slowing down on me but not stopping. “Got one, huh?” she muttered, voice all hoarse and scratchy. “Better hurry, ‘cause I ain’t waiting around all night.” My hands were shaking like crazy as I fumbled through my wallet, my cock throbbing in her grip while I fished out this crumpled-up foil packet I’d shoved in there ages ago. Thank fuck it was still there. I ripped it open with my teeth, not even trying to act cool about it, and rolled the condom on fast, fumbling ‘cause my damn hands wouldn’t stay still. Sanne just watched me, eyes dark and impatient, her lips curled in that half-smirk that always made me feel like a total idiot. She’d pushed her jeans and underwear down to her knees, not even bothering to take ‘em off all the way, and I could see her now, pale thighs, dark hair between her legs, everything just raw and real in the shitty dim light of this storage room. “Turn around,” I muttered, my voice coming out way rougher than I meant it to. I wasn’t trying to sound like some dumbass in a porno or anything, just didn’t know how else to say it. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, just turned and braced her hands against the wall, her leather jacket riding up enough to show the curve of her ass. I stepped closer, my own jeans still half-down around my thighs, and grabbed her hips, pulling her back toward me. My cock brushed against her, and I hissed at the contact, even through the condom. She was still wet, I could tell just from the heat, and I didn’t waste any time. I lined up and pushed in slow at first, feeling how tight she was around me, and she let out this low, guttural sound that made my head spin. “Fuck, harder,” she snapped almost right away, not even giving me a damn second to get used to it. Her voice was sharp, bossy as hell, and I wasn’t about to argue. I gripped her hips tighter, fingers digging into her skin, and thrust harder, the cheap latex making it feel a little too slick but still so fucking good. The angle was awkward as shit, her jeans were in the way, my belt buckle kept clinking against my thigh, and the crates next to us rattled every damn time I moved, but I didn’t care. Her ass slapped against me with every thrust, and I could hear her breathing hard, nails scraping at the brick wall as she pushed back to meet me. I leaned forward a bit, my chest pressing into her back, and I could smell the sweat on her neck, mixed with that sharp cigarette stink that always clung to her jacket. My hands slid up under her shirt, feeling the damp heat of her skin, and I groped at her tits through her bra, not gentle at all. She didn’t have much, just small handfuls, but when I squeezed, she groaned loud enough that I was half-sure someone outside would hear us over the bar noise. “Shit, yeah,” she muttered, head tipping back against my shoulder, her buzzcut scratching at my jaw. I kept fucking into her, my rhythm all sloppy now ‘cause I was too far gone to keep it steady, and I could feel her clenching around me, her body jerking every time I hit deep. “Touch yourself,” I grunted, not even sure where the hell those words came from.

I’m not usually the pushy type, you know, but damn, I wanted her to come, needed to feel it. She didn’t say a word, just slipped a hand down between her legs, fingers moving quick over herself while I kept at it. Her other hand was pressed against the wall, and I could see her arm muscles tightening as she worked. The sounds, man, they were straight-up filthy, wet, sloppy skin slapping, her sharp little gasps, my own uneven breaths coming out rough. Sweat was rolling down my back, making my shirt stick to me like glue, and the room felt like a freakin’ oven even though it was probably cold as hell outside. Didn’t take long after that, though. Her fingers picked up speed, and I could tell she was close, heard it in the way she started muttering curses under her breath, some Dutch stuff I couldn’t make out but knew was dirty as hell. Then she just locked up, her whole body going rigid, and she came with this choked moan, squeezing around me so tight I nearly lost it right then. I kept going, pushing through it to draw it out for her, until she shoved back against me like she’d had enough. “Fuck, that’s it,” she rasped, voice all raw and shaky, and I slowed down but didn’t stop completely ‘cause I was right there myself. I pulled out for a sec, just to catch my damn breath, and she turned her head, looking at me over her shoulder. Her face was all flushed and sweaty, but her eyes were still sharp, even after that. “You done or what?” she tossed out, half-mocking, and I just shook my head, too messed up to even form a proper answer. I pushed back in, harder this time, and she grunted but didn’t stop me, just arched her back a bit more, like she was daring me to finish. My hands were slick on her hips now, sliding with sweat, and I could feel it all building up, everything tight, throbbing. A few more thrusts and that was it, I came hard into the condom, groaning loud enough I couldn’t hold it in, hips jerking all uneven as I rode it out.

For a moment, I just stood there, panting like I’d sprinted a mile, hands still on her hips, forehead pressed against the back of her jacket. She didn’t say much, didn’t really move either, just breathed heavy while we both tried to come down from it. Then she straightened up, pushing me off with a little nudge, and started pulling her jeans back up like it was no big deal. I stumbled back a step, legs wobbly as hell, and tucked myself into my boxers, peeling off the condom and tying it before chucking it into a corner behind some crates. Yeah, not my finest moment, but I sure as hell wasn’t gonna carry that thing outta there. “Fuckin’ hell,” I mumbled, mostly to myself, as I zipped up my jeans and tried to unstick my shirt from my skin. My hands were still kinda shaky, and I could feel the heat in my face, my beard all damp with sweat. Sanne didn’t look much better, her jacket was half falling off one shoulder, her buzzcut somehow messed up even though it’s barely there, and there was this red mark on her neck I don’t even remember leaving. She caught me staring and smirked, but it wasn’t the playful kind this time, more like she was just worn out. “Don’t make it weird,” she said, her voice back to that rough, normal tone as she fixed her jacket. “It’s just a fuck. Shit happens.” “Yeah, sure,” I replied, scratching the back of my neck, not really sure what else to say. I wasn’t about to get all sappy or whatever, I’m not that dude, but it still felt off, standing in some storage room that reeked of stale beer and sex, pretending like nothing just went down.

I glanced at the door, half-thinking someone might barge in, but the bar noise outside was still just this low hum. Nobody gave a crap. She pulled a pack of smokes from her pocket and lit one up right there, not giving a damn about the no-smoking signs, just like she hadn’t earlier. The smoke curled up toward the flickering light bulb, and she blew out a long stream before looking at me again. “You staying for another beer, or you gonna dip now?” she asked, casual as if she was talking about the damn weather. I shrugged, still feeling kinda off-kilter. “Dunno. Might head out. Got work early.” Not a total lie, but not the full story either. I just didn’t know how to sit back at that sticky-ass table with her and act like everything was chill after this. “Suit yourself,” she said, taking another drag. She didn’t push me to stay, didn’t even seem fazed. Just turned and shoved the storage room door open, the noise from Café De Pijp hitting louder now, some drunk dude laughing, glasses clinking, that same annoying schlager song still playing. I followed her out, boots scuffing on the grimy floor, and we walked back to the table like nothing happened. My beer was still sitting there, half-empty and warm as piss, and I grabbed it just to have something to do with my hands. “Later, then,” she said after a minute, not even looking at me as she stubbed out her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. She got up, slung her jacket over her shoulder, and headed for the door without another word. I watched her go, her lanky frame disappearing into the crowd outside on Lange Poten, and then I just sat there, staring at the foam on my crappy beer. Some guy at the bar started shouting about a football match on the tiny TV in the corner, and I figured that was as good a cue as any to get the hell outta there. I chugged the last of my drink, tossed a couple of euros on the table, and stepped out into the damp night air, the tram tracks on the street shining under the streetlights.

So, my phone vibrates in my pocket, right? It’s a text from my friend, checking if I managed to snag any records for his birthday. I didn’t even bother replying, just kept trudging along toward the stop at Grote Markt. Figured I’d hop on the next tram, get home, and veg out in front of some dumb TV show for the rest of the night. But then, halfway there, it hits me, I left my freaking hoodie back at the bar. And you know what? Screw it. I’m not turning around for that thing.