The cottage had never felt this still before. Not even when snow muffled the fjord's breath, not even when the wind tiptoed instead of howling. Astrid sat at the table, her thighs still sticky from Ida, her lips still tasting of late summer.
A jar of cloudberry jam sat open beside her, half-spooned into a bowl of cream, untouched. Her notebook lay splayed, pages curling at the edges. She'd written nothing all morning. Not because she was blocked—but because the words were vibrating inside her so furiously, she didn't know how to choose them. She was… full.
She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.
Ida had come over just before sunrise, barefoot, without her coat. She'd pressed herself against the glass door until Astrid opened it, and then pressed herself against Astrid without saying a word. They'd made love on the wooden kitchen floor, the early light spilling over Ida's back like honey. She had ridden Astrid with a quiet kind of hunger—lips parting like prayer, moans caught in her throat, thighs trembling with some grief she never named.
Astrid had wanted to ask her—what's wrong, tell me, speak—but the weight of Ida's body above her, the rhythm of her hips, the way her hands splayed over Astrid's chest like someone memorizing a story, made it impossible to interrupt.
And when she came, she bit down on Astrid's shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. Then she wept. Quietly, against her neck. No explanation. Only sweat, breath, and then a kiss.
And now—now Astrid sat with the echo of it.
The village outside was alive in its soft way: distant sounds of boots on frost, the creak of a wheelbarrow, the occasional laughter of children. But inside the cottage, it was Ida's sobs that lingered. Not mournful. Just… overwhelmed.
Astrid's hand moved absently down to her thigh. She touched herself without urgency, her fingers trailing over the bruises Ida had left, then between her legs, remembering the weight of Ida's wetness, the desperate arch of her back, the smell of her hair. But it wasn't lust. It was reverence.
She whispered, "Your mouth opens like a question."
The words found her then, not from her mind, but from her body. She reached for the notebook, still damp at the corners from when they'd knocked over a glass of water in their frenzy.
She wrote:
Her mouth opened like it was asking the fjord to swallow her whole.
She moved above me as if she had nowhere else to live.
And when she came, she came undone—not from pleasure alone, but from something deeper. Something like returning.
A knock on the door.
Astrid froze, pen still on the page.
Another knock. Softer.
She opened it slowly, half-expecting Ida again. But it was Ase.
Wrapped in a red wool shawl, silver hair coiled high on her head, Ase stood like she always did—like she owned your attention without demanding it.
"Astrid," she said gently. "I need your eyes today. Are they free?"
Astrid blinked. "My… eyes?"
Ase smiled. "To watch. The way you do."
Astrid nodded, not even knowing what she was agreeing to. But the ache between her thighs told her it would matter.
They walked through the forest, Ase's gait slow but sure. She didn't say much. She never did unless she needed to. The sun filtered through bare branches, the ground still soft from melted frost, and somewhere in the distance, a bird called out like it was warning someone not to come closer—or maybe begging someone to.
They reached a clearing. A small wooden cabin stood at the edge, half-sunk into the earth, moss already claiming its walls. Astrid had never seen it before.
Inside, it was dim. A fire burned low. On a thick rug lay Kari and Emil, naked but not touching. At first.
"They asked me to invite you," Ase whispered at Astrid's ear. "They like being watched."
Astrid opened her mouth, unsure whether to say yes or just moan. But her body answered for her. She stepped inside.
The heat wrapped around her. The scent of smoke and cedar and something else—something human, musky, electric—rushed into her lungs.
Kari looked up, her long auburn hair fanned behind her on the rug. She smiled, lazy and knowing. Emil's fingers were tracing a slow path up her shin. Neither said a word.
Ase settled into a chair near the wall, knitting needles in hand, clicking slowly but without looking down. Watching. Always watching.
Astrid stood near the door, heart thudding. She felt shy. Overdressed.
Emil leaned down and kissed the inside of Kari's knee. Kari arched slightly, her breath catching.
And then the show began.
Not performance—ritual.
Emil's tongue at Kari's hip, his fingers spreading her slowly, reverently. Kari whispering his name like a secret. And Kari—Kari turning her head toward Astrid and not looking away as she began to pant, her lips parting like Ida's had just hours before.
Astrid sank to her knees, not touching herself, not moving—just feeling. Watching.
Ase whispered from the shadows, "Do you see how they let themselves be undone?"
Astrid nodded. Her mouth was dry. Her thighs were shaking. But her gaze never faltered.
Kari was crying now—not with sadness, but with rawness, openness. And Emil kissed the tears from her cheeks before pushing into her slowly, their bodies moving like something ancient. Something tidal.
Astrid felt it—her own orgasm blooming from the watching alone, without touch, just from being allowed to witness someone else's hunger without shame.
Her breath came in ragged gasps.
Kari was moaning now, back arched, hair wild, mouth open—wide, so wide.
And Astrid whispered again, to no one: "Your mouth opens like a question."
When they were finished, Kari beckoned Astrid closer. Not to join—but to hold.
Astrid lay beside her, clothed, and let Kari curl into her, trembling.
Emil kissed both their foreheads, and then Ase—still knitting—said softly, "Sometimes, the most erotic thing in the world is not taking."
Astrid understood.
For the first time in her life, she understood.