This erotic short story is meant for english language audiences.
If you want to read our Norwegian erotic short stories («erotiske noveller») you will find those here.

Sugar and Static

The little brick building of WBLU sat low and sturdy on the edge of Cloverdale, Tennessee, its antenna poking up into the starry night like a jukebox needle. It was 11:38 PM, and the town had gone quiet. Screen doors creaked shut, the last few malt shop kids pedaled home on their Schwinns, and the air buzzed with cicadas. Inside the station, the broadcast booth glowed warm and amber, walls covered with Coca-Cola ads and old photos of crooners in bow ties. A turntable sat still, its needle resting after spinning Patti Page and The Platters out into the night, leaving just a soft crackle of static and the cozy smell of waxed linoleum.

Bobby “Suds” Wheeler leaned against the control board, his soda jerk apron tossed over one shoulder, a bottle of vanilla syrup swinging from his fingers like a trophy. At 25, he had broad shoulders and a crooked grin, his black hair slicked back with a little too much pomade, a few strands curling free over his forehead. His rolled-up dungarees and scuffed sneakers showed a day spent flipping burgers and pouring floats at Dolly’s Drive-In. Bobby could turn a sundae into a show, twirling spoons like a pro, but tonight he’d swapped the counter for a dare, his hazel eyes sparkling with the fun of bending the rules.

The door squeaked open, and Lila “Twist” Marwood bounced in, her ponytail swinging like a metronome, her yellow polka-dot dress swirling around her knees. She was 20, full of energy with a freckled nose and a voice that popped like soda fizz. Her DJ gig at WBLU, “Twist’s Top Hits,” had made her the late-night favorite around Cloverdale. She held a key she’d nabbed from the station’s lockbox after the manager left, her grin wide as she kicked the door shut. “Well, look who showed up!” she chirped, tossing her purse onto a chair stacked with records. “Thought you’d be too busy scooping ice cream to crash my party.”

Bobby stood up straighter, twirling the syrup bottle with a flashy spin. “Miss a chance to kick up some fun with you, Twist? No way.” He stepped closer, the vanilla smell mixing with the dusty air, and she laughed, a bright sound that filled the room. “Fun, huh? Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve.” She zipped over to the board, flipping switches with quick, graceful moves, the speakers humming to life as she turned a dial. “How about a live show? Give Cloverdale a little late-night jolt?”

His eyebrows jumped up, but his grin didn’t budge. “You’re something else, Lila.” He popped the cap off the syrup, letting a drop hit the desk, and she swiped it up with her finger, tasting it with a playful hum. “Sweet enough?” he asked, leaning in, and she nodded, grabbing a root beer from a crate by the wall. “Sweet’s my style,” she said, twisting the cap off with a loud pop that bounced around the small space. “Come on, Suds, let’s play something wild.”

She hit the “On Air” button, the mic glowing red, and slipped into her DJ voice. “Hey there, Cloverdale night owls, it’s Twist Marwood, sneaking back on the air with a little surprise! I’ve got my pal Suds Wheeler here, the soda fountain king. Say hi, Suds!” Bobby leaned in close, his arm brushing hers as he spoke into the mic. “Hey, night birds! Ready for some fizz?” His voice oozed charm, and Lila nudged him, her giggle almost spilling over the air.

The booth turned into a soda-pop party. Lila queued up a Little Richard song, Bobby started yapping about the time he flooded Dolly’s with a broken seltzer tap, and their chatter bubbled up like a fresh drink. She tipped the root beer too fast, splashing some on the floor, and he mopped it up with his apron, winking as he licked a drop off his thumb. “Messy much?” she teased, and he fired back, “Just getting started, doll.” The song rocked on, their silly antics floating out to whoever was still tuned in, waitresses pulling late shifts, kids hiding radios past bedtime, the town waking up under the static.

The real spark, though, was right there in the booth, where they kept inching closer with every joke. Lila hopped up on the desk, her skirt flaring out, bare feet swinging as she sipped root beer, her toes brushing his hip. Bobby stepped in, syrup bottle in hand, his grin turning mischievous. “Think I can make this mic blush?” he whispered, too quiet for the airwaves, and she tilted her head, eyes twinkling. “Show me, hotshot.” The record faded out, static hummed, and the booth buzzed with a sweet, playful heat, ready to bubble over.

The booth at WBLU settled down as Little Richard’s song faded, the turntable spinning quiet now, its needle hovering over a worn groove. Static crackled through the speakers, mixing with the sugary smell of vanilla syrup and root beer. The mic’s “On Air” light cast a warm glow over Lila’s polka-dot dress as she sat on the desk, legs swinging, toes nudging Bobby’s hip. Her yellow scarf had slipped off, her ponytail was a mess, and her pink lips curved into a daring grin. Bobby stood close, his plaid shirt untucked, apron tossed aside, still holding the syrup bottle like it was a prize. The air felt thick and lively, the broadcast still rolling as Cloverdale’s listeners stayed glued to their radios.

Lila popped her gum, the sound sharp in the small room. “Well, Suds? Gonna make that mic blush or just keep staring?” Her voice teased, but her eyes had a spark, and Bobby’s grin grew bold. He set the syrup bottle down with a little clink, stepping right up to her, hands resting on her knees and easing them apart. “I’ll do you one better,” he said, voice low and easy, and before she could toss back a quip, he grabbed the bottle, tipping it over his fingers. Sticky red syrup dripped out, and he rubbed it playfully over himself, the cherry smell cutting through the air.

Lila laughed, a wild, happy sound, sliding off the desk and dropping to her knees on the linoleum with a soft thump. “You’re a nut,” she said, but her voice softened as she leaned in, licking the syrup off him with a grin, the sound loud and messy in the booth. She kept at it, ponytail bouncing, and Bobby let out a groan, leaning back a bit, one hand on the desk, the other in her hair, just guiding her enough to feel her energy. “Wow, Twist,” he said, voice rough, hips shifting as she pulled back, cherry syrup smudged on her lips.

She stood up, wiping her mouth with her hand, and grabbed the root beer, taking a quick sip before pulling him in by his shirt. Their lips met in a messy, sticky kiss, and she splashed some soda into his mouth mid-kiss, bubbles fizzing as he laughed and swallowed. “Like that?” she mumbled, and he nodded, hands slipping under her skirt to lift it, grabbing her thighs. “Tastes like fun,” he said, spinning her around and leaning her over the mic stand, the metal shaking as she held on. Her dress bunched up, and he pressed in close, sliding into her with an eager move that made her gasp, the sound slipping out over the air.

“Geez, Suds!” she yelped, but it turned into a laugh, loud and real, echoing in the booth as he moved fast, the mic picking up every bit of it. Her giggles, his low chuckles, the quick rhythm, it all went out live, whether Cloverdale knew what they were hearing or not. Lila pushed back into him, one hand on the stand, the other knocking the syrup bottle over, a sticky puddle spreading as they kept going. “Don’t stop,” she said, breathless, her voice rising like a song, and Bobby held her hips tight, the fun building fast between them.

Then she spun around quick, facing him with her dress all crumpled, eyes shining with mischief. “My turn,” she said, pushing him against the desk and grabbing him, her hand moving fast and sure, sticky from the syrup. She laughed like it was a game, and Bobby groaned, leaning back as he hit his limit, finishing with a mess that splashed her polka-dot dress, white streaks dotting the yellow fabric. She stepped back, grinning at the chaos, still holding him as he caught his breath.

The booth hummed, static buzzing as the mic stayed live, the air thick with syrup and sweat. Lila grabbed the root beer, took a big sip, then flopped onto the desk, her dress a wreck, smiling at Bobby as he steadied himself. “That’s one for the record books,” she said, voice scratchy but bright, and he laughed, wiping his forehead. “Top ten for sure,” he said, pulling his dungarees back up, the syrup bottle rolling off the desk with a thud.

The speakers crackled, the broadcast still going, and out in Cloverdale, a trucker stared at his radio, a kid gawked under her blanket, and the night rolled on, sweet and wild. The booth held their messy little adventure, a mix of sugar and static where the airwaves carried their tune.