Whispers of Stockholm Nights

My name is Nathan, I’m 35, single, 5’11”, and I’d say I’ve got a decent, average build. I’m a mechanical engineer, working as a production supervisor at a major tech firm in Portland, Oregon. Our company’s headquarters are in Sweden, so I frequently travel there for work.

In May, the company brought on a new engineer, Olivia, straight out of grad school. She’s a phenomenon – 26 years old, 5’9″, with a striking figure of roughly 92 – 60 – 86, chestnut-brown hair cascading in waves, a radiant face with a constant, infectious smile, and a mind sharp enough to cut glass. My bosses tasked me with mentoring her in the technical side of our production division. Her initial training required a three-week stint at our main facility near Stockholm.

We flew out on May 8th at 10 a.m. from Portland International, landing in Stockholm by 4 p.m. local time. After checking into our hotel and freshening up, we took a stroll through the city, grabbed a quick dinner, and hit the sack early. The next few days were intense – up at 5:30 a.m. to be at the factory by 7, darting between design labs, engineering offices, and production floors. We’d wrap up at 6 p.m., dragging ourselves back to the hotel, too exhausted to do much else.

On Friday, we finished early at noon. I asked Olivia what she wanted to do, and she groaned, “Food and a nap, at least until evening. I’m dead.” I had some personal errands to run in the city, so I told her I’d call her around 7 p.m. By 6:45, I was back, showered, changed into casual slacks and a button-up, and knocked on her room’s door.

Good lord! She answered in nothing but a towel, her hair dripping wet, skin glistening. She gestured me inside with a casual wave, then, with zero hesitation, turned her back and let the towel fall to the floor. I stood frozen, my eyes tracing her silhouette – her firm, rounded backside curved perfectly into strong, toned thighs and calves that seemed carved from marble. From behind, she was a vision, like a Renaissance sculpture brought to life. My body reacted instantly, a primal surge I couldn’t control.

She slipped on a pair of sheer, navy-blue lace panties, the delicate fabric hugging her curves like a second skin. Then came a tight, knee-length skirt that accentuated her hips. As she turned slightly, I caught the side profile of her breast – full, upright, with a nipple so pronounced it seemed to demand attention, like a ripe berry begging to be tasted.

She fastened a matching navy bra, then pulled on a fitted, semi-sheer blouse that hinted at the lace beneath, topping it with a tailored blazer. She looked stunning, like she’d stepped out of a magazine. I must’ve looked like an idiot, gawking, because she laughed and said, “What’s the matter, Nathan? Never seen a woman get ready?”

“I’ve seen women,” I managed, “but none quite like you.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she teased. “Now, how about dinner and some dancing? I’m in the mood to let loose.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said. “I’ve got just the place.”

I’d been to Stockholm enough over the past seven years to know my way around. We headed to Gamla Stan, the old town, where I knew a charming bistro owned by a friend, Erik. He greeted me with a bear hug, and when I introduced Olivia, he gave an exaggerated whistle, circling her playfully. She cracked up, her laughter filling the room.

Erik led us to a cozy private table, starting us with a potent elderflower aperitif. Dinner followed – fresh salmon, roasted vegetables, and a crisp white wine that left Olivia rosy-cheeked and giggling. By the time we got to coffee, Erik brought out a homemade lingonberry liqueur, sweet but with a kick that sent warmth spreading through us both, like a spark igniting kindling.

Olivia leaned in, her eyes glinting. “Take me dancing, Nathan. Somewhere fun.”

I knew just the spot – a sleek, upscale club in Södermalm, known for its low lighting, smooth jazz, and intimate vibe. The place had a long bar, a dance floor bathed in soft amber glow, and private booths tucked away for discretion. Olivia’s face lit up as we walked in. We claimed a booth, ordered cocktails, and headed to the dance floor, where the music was slow, sultry, and perfect for close contact.

I slid my hands to her waist, pulling her near. She melted against me, her body warm and pliant, her eyes locking onto mine before she leaned in for a soft, lingering kiss. The press of her breasts against my chest, the heat of her hips brushing mine, sent my pulse racing. My hands drifted lower, resting on the curve of her hips, and we moved together, less dancing than swaying in a heated rhythm. I was rock-hard in seconds, and she knew it, pressing closer, her thighs teasing against me through her skirt’s fabric.

With a sly smile, she reached down, deftly unzipped me, and guided me between her thighs, right against the lace of her panties. The move was so swift, and the lighting so dim, I doubted anyone noticed. We stayed like that, bodies locked, her warmth enveloping me as we kissed deeply, tongues exploring, the world fading away. After a while, she whispered, “Put yourself away, handsome. Let’s take a break.”