Erotic Stories: Balcony over the Vltava

Prague after rain smells like stone and grass. From the balcony over the Vltava there’s a quiet that isn’t only the absence of sound — it’s a space between words where a breath, a smile and an unspoken yes can fit. I lean into the railing, the coolness rising into my palms just enough to make the warm parts of me more alive. City lights draw golden paths across the river while the last drops glitter on the edge of the roof. Tonight could live among our erotic stories — slow, tender, unafraid of silence.

“Are you cold?” you ask softly, as if you didn’t want to disturb the river’s reflection.
I shake my head, but you still place a blanket over my shoulders. It smells like laundry and safety, the kind that tidies up whatever the day forgot to take away. I know this evening won’t begin with a touch. It will begin with feeling held.

Inside, one lamp does exactly what it should — no show, just a pool of time. Two glasses wait on the table; you don’t hurry to fill them. I sit on the edge of the bed, let my fingers slide over satin and listen to that quiet rustle. It’s a little arrow saying: this way.

“What do you want tonight?” you ask — a question that can be taken lightly and still land true.
“Just to slow down,” I say. “And let everything breathe for a while.”

You sit close enough that I feel the warmth of your hands before they touch me. In another story there might be thunder right now, but I know the sweetest thing is the inhale before a kiss.

We talk about nothing and everything: the smell of rain in different cities, the places we’ve called home even for a few hours. I watch the corners of your mouth move when you smile, knowing I only need to close the distance by the width of a breath.

“May I?” you ask with your eyes.
I answer by nodding. The first touch is light as a whisper. Your fingers trace my cheekbone, pause behind my ear where warmth lingers longer. The kiss tastes like quiet. It promises nothing and somehow promises everything.

We leave small gaps on purpose — rooms to return to. Your hand over satin is like air above water; beneath it lies depth, but for now the reflection is enough. You draw me closer and I know tonight is about approach, not arrival.

“Let’s go back to the balcony,” you suggest. The blanket stays over my shoulders as we step into the damp night. The rain is finishing itself, a few last drops finding their way down. I set my hands on the rail and you wrap me from behind, just where the room’s warm light spills across my neck. The river lifts its surface like it understands.

“Will you stay?” you ask. A simple word with plenty of room inside.
“Yes,” I say, and that yes spreads across my skin like something I’ve needed to hear for a while.

Inside, the wine finally meets the glass. I like the first moment best — when it touches my tongue and the warmth climbs my throat. We sit facing each other, our ankles brushing at the edge of the bed, and I notice the way you set your glass down — carefully. Care is generosity. Not caution from fear; consideration from presence. I wish people said that out loud more often.

When you reach for me, I don’t feel a gesture so much as a question, and my answer is to meet your palm halfway. You hook your fingers into mine so I have something to cross by, and I cross it. Everything we’ve said tonight finds a place in that touch, along with what we’ve kept for later.

We lie back into the satin but don’t switch the lamp off yet. We let the room remember our shapes. You kiss my forehead; it’s exactly where I want warmth to stay the longest. Silence isn’t empty; it’s full. It refuses explanation because none is needed.

Outside, the city returns. Funny, how once a door is closed and a single lamp is lit, you only hear what belongs inside. Your hand moves along my arm, leaving a small pause after every slow stroke. The pause is mine. I fill it with breath.

You smile into the space — not at me, not at anything, just at the simple fact of being here. It’s not a victory, it’s peace. I pull the blanket over our hips, lean closer and let our heartbeats find each other. People think big gestures make romance, but the biggest is when it feels easy to breathe together.

When we finally dim the room, we don’t disappear. Darkness doesn’t hide us; it lets us be where we don’t need to manage every word. I find your hand and kiss the center of your palm. My voice is quiet: “Good night.”
“Not yet,” you say, and I know the “not yet” isn’t about time — it’s about the moment asking not to end just now.

So I stay. I allow myself to be nowhere else. Somewhere down in the river, the night will be written — two bodies, one calm, no rush. In the morning the window will fog, and we’ll laugh like it’s our first inside joke.

Slow is an art. With consent, breath and gentle signals, the body remembers more than touch.