Oslo is a stunning beauty of contrasts—chaotic architecture and hurried post-war rebuilds, vast green lungs that breathe through its parks, the grace of Holmenkollen, the wilderness of Østmarka. It is culture and pop-art, youthful rebellion pressed against gastronomic havens, and the quiet crumble of addiction.
She is the crash of the ocean, pressed into a narrow fjord until it breaks against rock and mountain, forest and stone, a city brimming with modernism most others would envy despite her age.
But she’s also kink, rot, and compulsion. Corruption, cock, and cunt. Cum and release, the stench of greedy lust and desperate need.
Jørgen Strand Fredriksen pulled the collar of his coat higher as he slipped through the narrow entrance cut into the brick. Beyond the wrought-iron gate, the cobblestoned path opened into a dark courtyard hemmed in by stone façades, Oslo-familiar at five stories high against the bruised evening sky.
Behind the fronts of gastronomy and art lay the truth—garbage containers crawling with rats, the stench of rot, sharp and sobering.
He didn’t know why his cock throbbed in moments like this. The sneaking, the shadows, the need that drove him toward the things he could never stop himself from doing.
His life was tucked west of the city—Bærum-raised, Bærum-wed, with two beautiful children who carried the same arrogance that life bred. Not a high-rise career, exactly, but steady pay from the City to grant permits or deny them. Better pay still to look the other way when refusal should have been certain.
Paid well enough to honor the contract. No lavish gifts, no crises of integrity, no social dumping. No deals under the table. No soliciting prostitutes—the only place he ever felt anything at all.
At the top of the narrow stairwell leading underground, Henrique waited. His skull was shaved clean, his eyes soft, his jawline more sensual than anything Jørgen’s wife had ever managed to conjure. Strong arms gleamed with oil beneath a leather vest that framed his chest and carved abs. His pants clung tight, cupping his ass like temptation and pressing the outline of his pretty cock into a deliberate tease.
He didn’t say anything, though Jørgen longed for a whisper in his ear—anything, so long as it carried Henrique’s Spanish accent and filth enough to make his cock throb harder.
They slipped down the stairwell, handing Hugo four hundred kroner at the door. Cigarette smoke drifted up, clinging to the low ceiling. Henrique paused for a whiskey at the bar while Jørgen moved ahead, finding their seats in the back row of the makeshift theatre. The chairs were scavenged relics, torn from the Colosseum’s last renovation—once velvet, now crusted and worn, still carrying the faint perfume of grandeur long since rotted through.
Henrique handed Jørgen his drink as the lights dimmed further and the screen came alive—pulsing cocks, stretched asses, massive releases splattering across surprised faces. Cum seeped from tight buttholes, dripped down eager ball sacks, pooled on sheets, carpets, tile, and hardwood.
Nothing staged, nothing softened by flimsy filters. Just real. Just raw.
Jørgen sipped his whiskey, then unzipped himself, letting his cock hang free. Henrique knew the drill. Without glancing over, his hand drifted toward Jørgen’s thickening length, throbbing for his touch.
Jørgen felt the beautiful man’s hand wrap around him, whiskey warming his bones, eyes closing to the dark.
“Suck me,” he whispered.
Henrique slid from his seat to the floor, moving between his legs. His mouth was everything Jørgen’s wife was not—soft, wet, open. No gagging, no look of disgust. Just a mouth cunt to fuck, slow and needy. Worth every thousand kroner.
He wished he could fuck him. Henrique’s curved ass was a delight, and Jørgen never knew which he preferred more—taking him from behind, his ass gripping him as he pounded his face into a cheap hotel pillow, or missionary, where he could watch that beautiful face twist with pleasure as he thrust into him.
Once, he had made Henrique cum that way. Seed spilling across olive skin, muscles tightening as his ass milked Jørgen’s cock. He wished for it every time, but it had only happened once. More often, he made Henrique stroke himself, just to see the release, the spillage playing across that skin.
Still, in the dark, he imagined fucking him again, regretting he hadn’t found the time, the money, or the freedom to take him the way he longed.
But instead of splitting Henrique open on a hotel mattress, he gripped his skull and drove into his throat. Oblivious to his own moans, to the cocks fucking on the screen, to Henrique’s need for air, he just pushed deeper, chasing the rush.
He didn’t care that he hadn’t always been this way. He let the sensation rip through him—spine to balls—and made no effort to hold back.
“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, spilling down Henrique’s throat.
Henrique never flinched, only swallowed, then took the money.
Jørgen sank back, finished his drink, and zipped himself in. He had no time for more before the police crashed in.
Cuffed, he barely registered the blue flicker bleeding in from the courtyard. But the camera flashes—those he registered.
No job.
No wife.
No children.
No bone movies. Not anymore.
