Erotic Stories: A Quiet Taxi to Zizkov

The driver turns the radio down the second I get in. He doesn’t ask why; he just understands some silences are agreements without words. Outside, Prague is wet and the drops on the glass are running races nobody started. This ride could become one of those erotic stories that learn their first sentence on the way. I sit behind you and still feel your glance in the mirror — just a second, but it’s enough. A smile that doesn’t need vocabulary.

Streets stretch like a cat. When we turn, the streetlights wrap us in amber, then let us go. We say nothing and still arrange everything: tea first, maybe the window later, and if we want, more.

“Good evening,” the driver says gently as he stops under the hill. “Beautiful night.”
“Even better up there,” you answer, taking my hand with an ease that doesn’t feel rehearsed.

Stairs remember other steps, but tonight ours are confident. Inside the building there’s that old city warmth that lives in walls. The door clicks like it closes the world outside. The light in the hallway is exactly right — nowhere too much, nowhere too little. I slip off my coat and feel every part of me arrive.

Two cups wait in the kitchen. Steam drifts in lazy loops. We sit at a table that’s seen more mornings than nights and talk about things that never parade: how long it takes to unwind after a long day; why a thumb over the back of a hand can mean more than a speech.

You touch me so lightly I wonder if it’s touch or air playing tricks — then it’s definitely touch. With it comes the thing we both wanted: not proof, not a display, but confirmation that we’re in the right place. Our chairs slide closer until there’s nothing between us to translate.

“May I?” you ask, though the answer is already in the room. I lower my eyes — my way of saying yes.
The kiss tastes of tea and patience. Not cinematic, just our tempo, our soft music without notes. Your palm moves along my forearm and I breathe a little deeper so you’ll notice. In that breath we have room for all that refuses to hurry.

Zizkov outside is the same and somehow different. The window remembers the rain that taps only sometimes now. We stand at the sill and look down as if the street were a scene set for two. A black umbrella carries someone home. We don’t need carrying — just a few steps back to the room with warmth and light.

The sofa bows a little when we sit. This silence is fed, not empty. Our hands meet in the middle and rest there, holding the certainty of here. Then they continue — slowly, very slowly. We aren’t chasing a finish line; we have a path.

I lean into your shoulder and see you smile into the air, not at me, not at anything specific — at the luxury of an uncomplicated yes. “Stay,” you say later, not for the story but for the calm. I nod. We dim the lamp just enough. The city still murmurs, but we’ve stepped into a smaller world where touch writes slower than words and lasts longer.

In communication there is tenderness. Ask, wait for yes, and the night becomes a safe place.