I Walked Through Prague With His Cum on My Feet

The first sound I recognized was the heater in the room, that low, steady hum that almost makes you believe you’re at home. Tomás was asleep pressed against my back, one arm crossed over my waist. Outside, Prague was still dark, but dawn wasn’t far off. I lay still for a while, feeling his breathing against the nape of my neck, not wanting to move and break it.

We went down for breakfast once there was light. The hotel dining room was small and quiet: four tables, a window looking out onto the wet cobblestones of the street, the smell of freshly brewed coffee drifting through the cold air. We sat facing each other and stayed like that for a good while, eating without hurry, laughing at nothing, looking at each other. The kind of mornings when nothing important needs to be said for everything to be fine.

Then we went back upstairs. We agreed to shower in turns to save time. I went first: hot water, quick, no complications. I put on dark jeans, a thin T-shirt, and thick wool socks that I still hadn’t put on my sneakers. While he went into the bathroom, I flopped face down on the bed with my phone in my hand and my earbuds in. I had a playlist made for the trip, slow songs, no lyrics, and I gave myself over to it.

I didn’t hear the bathroom door open. I noticed it by the shadow.

I turned my head and saw him standing in the doorway, completely naked, dark hair plastered to his forehead from the water. He’d gone out to get the towel he’d left on the chair, but he’d stopped there, staring at me. I laughed. It was unavoidable: he was soaked head to toe, looking like he had no idea what had happened to him, and I was in the middle of a calm song with my earbuds in.

I took one earbud out.

—Did you forget the towel? —I said, still smiling.

He didn’t answer right away. He just kept staring. Then I looked down and understood: his cock was getting hard while he watched my feet. They were crossed in the air, soles upward, swinging slowly, relaxed. Something so simple, and his dick was getting thick just from seeing them. I bit my lip so I wouldn’t laugh louder.

—Come here —I said in a low voice, without moving from where I was.

He came up to the edge of the bed. He was half-hard, heavy, still shining with shower water. I propped myself up a little, grabbed his hips, and took him into my mouth without warning, all the way to the back. I felt him harden between my lips, growing and heating against my tongue. I pulled off with a wet sound, ran my tongue the full length of him from base to glans, and swallowed him again. I held him there, deep in my throat, looking up at him with watery eyes. One of his hands rested in my hair and his breathing got more and more ragged, almost silent, holding himself back.

I sucked him slowly, playing with my tongue around the glans, sucking just the tip and then taking him whole again. I kissed the base of his cock, ran my tongue over his balls, sucked one and then the other. A hoarse moan slipped out of him when I locked eyes with him while I went back to his cock and took it so far that I choked on it. Saliva dripped over his balls. I never let go of his hips, kept him pinned against my mouth like he was mine.

Then he told me, in the lowest voice I knew from him:

—I want to finish on your feet.

I pulled him out of my mouth with an obscene sound. I wiped the strand of saliva off with the back of my hand and looked at him. Then I pressed the soles of my feet together and offered them to him without saying anything, or maybe I said something like, “Do whatever you want, they’re yours.” The words didn’t matter much. What mattered was the look on his face when he saw them: focused, suddenly serious, teeth clenched, as if nothing else in the room existed except those two pale soles and the dark-painted nails.

He grabbed his cock with his right hand and started jerking off while looking at my feet, pressing the wet glans against the sole and rubbing against it, slowly at first, then with more rhythm. I felt the heat of his skin against mine, the firm, hot friction, his knuckles brushing my toes. The tip glistened. He squeezed my feet with his hands, rubbing them against each other with his cock trapped between them, and I got a tingle in my pussy just from watching him like that, lost, beating off onto my feet like nothing else in the world mattered more. It didn’t take long. He let out a held-back groan, almost a whimper, and came over my feet in several thick, hot spurts. His cum spilled between my toes, over the soles, over the arch, all the way to my ankle. It shone on the dark polish of my nails like white varnish. I stayed still, legs still in the air, letting him empty himself completely over me.

I looked at my own feet for a moment. The thick cum was starting to run slowly between my toes. He was leaning on the edge of the bed, catching his breath, with his cock still hard and heavy hanging between his legs.

—I’m going to get a cloth —he said, and headed for the bathroom.

—No —I said.

He stopped dead. He turned to look at me with an expression that wasn’t surprise exactly, but something closer to curiosity.

—Today I’m going out like this —I said—. I want to walk through Prague with your cum on my feet all day.

There was a second of silence. Then he smiled at me in a way I’d rarely seen.

I put on the thick socks carefully, one and then the other. I felt the semen spread as I pressed my feet into the fabric, still sticky and warm, smearing my toes, soaking between my knuckles. I tied my sneakers, put on my coat, grabbed my backpack. Before leaving I paused for a second in the hallway mirror: a normal girl in a blue coat and white sneakers. Nothing unusual. Only I knew what I had on me.

***

Prague in February has that clean cold that doesn’t wet you but gets into your bones. Charles Bridge was almost empty at that hour, with low fog over the river and the black statues outlined against the white sky. We walked slowly over the uneven cobblestones, hand in hand, with no fixed itinerary. We went through the Jewish Quarter, past a square with a craft market, down streets so narrow two people could barely pass. In one corner, a musician was playing something on the violin, a melody I didn’t recognize but that seemed perfect for that moment.

At first I was constantly distracted by the sensation. Every time I stepped hard, I could feel Tomás’s cum moving between my toes, still warm, marking me with each step. It was impossible not to think about it. No one knows I’ve got his semen smearing my feet. I’m walking through a strange city with his cum stuck to my skin, and if anyone could see me... The thought made me hot, made my pussy wet against the seam of my jeans, in a way that had nothing to do with the place or the cold. Tomás didn’t say anything. He looked at me from time to time with a discreet smile, as if he knew exactly what was going through my head, as if he could smell that I was wet.

As the hours went by, the feeling changed. The cum dried against my skin and the cotton of the socks, and it was no longer wet but a tight film, almost imperceptible. But it was still there. I remembered it when I crossed a bridge, when I climbed some steps, when Tomás pointed out a building and I nodded without really being there. I’m his. I’m walking through Prague with his cum stuck to my foot, I’m completely his, and no one knows it. It was a strange, sustained arousal that didn’t ask for anything immediate but wouldn’t go away either. I felt my pussy swelling against the seam of my pants every time I took a long step.

We stopped at a café near the castle. It was small, with a dark wooden counter and a few high tables by the window. We ordered two black coffees and sat watching people pass outside, bundled up and hurrying. Tomás had his hands around the cup and was looking at me with that calm expression that sometimes feels impossible to read.

—Do you still feel it? —he asked in a low voice, leaning a little closer.

I flushed instantly. I hadn’t been thinking about it for the last while and suddenly everything came back: the sensation, the image from the morning, his dried cum against my skin. I couldn’t answer him with words. I nodded and looked away, biting the inside of my cheek. He squeezed my hand over the table without saying anything else, and that was all there was to it.

We kept walking after the coffee, even slower. The afternoon fell over Prague little by little: the bridge lights came on, the river grew darker, the cold bit a little harder. We bought roasted chestnuts from a street stand on the corner and ate them as we walked, passing them from hand to hand. We stayed together, mostly silent, but it was one of those silences that sit well, that don’t need to be filled with anything.

***

When we closed the room door behind us, the arousal I’d been building all day finally found somewhere to go. Everything I’d been carrying, the feeling in my feet, the blush at the café, the sustained electricity of the hours, came out in that first kiss. I shoved him against the wall and kissed him hungrily, with tongue, biting his lip. I pushed his hand down to the bulge in his pants and squeezed it: he was already hard again, like iron against the fabric. He answered me the same way, with his hands on my face first, then in my hair, then on my tits, squeezing them through my shirt. We took our clothes off without order or care, throwing them on the floor, fighting with zippers and buttons. When he took my socks off and saw my feet still sticky, marked with the dried imprint of his cum, he groaned softly and kissed them.

I lay back on the bed. He knelt between my legs, spread them wide with his hands, and buried his face between my thighs. He licked my pussy slowly, with his tongue flat, from bottom to top, over and over, as if he’d been waiting for that taste for hours. I was already soaked from the whole day. I heard him swallow my juices, make an obscene sound with his mouth. Then he parted my lips with his thumbs and focused on my clit, sucking it like it was candy, working the tip of his tongue in small, firm circles. I arched against his mouth. I grabbed his hair with both hands and pressed him against me, not letting him breathe, almost riding his face. I didn’t care. Neither did he.

Then he opened me wider with his hands, sliding two fingers in first and then three, slowly at first, all the way in. He curled them against that spot he knew by heart, pulled them out and pushed them back in with a slow rhythm that made me moan louder and louder. He bent down again and went back to eating me whole, moving his tongue from top to bottom, putting it where I needed it most, sucking my pussy hungrily while his fingers kept going in and out. I dug my fingers into his hair and twisted on the sheets, legs spread as far as they’d go, heels braced against his back, feeling myself come apart piece by piece. I begged him in a low voice, not really knowing what I was asking for. Stop. Keep going. Put it in. Anything.

—Ask me properly —he said, pulling away from my pussy for a second, his lips shining with my wetness.

—Fuck me —I said—. Put it in me now.

He sat up, settled himself between my legs, and grabbed his cock with his hand. He dragged the thick tip along my slit, wetting it with my juices, rubbing against my clit until I let out a whimper. Then he went in slowly. First the glans, opening me centimeter by centimeter. Then more, until he filled me completely, stretching me inside with a delicious pressure that tore a hoarse groan from me. He stayed still for a moment, looking into my eyes, buried to the balls, breathing hard, as if we both needed to get used to that exact weight. Then he started moving, deep and steady, pulling almost all the way out and sliding back in with one hard thrust, his hands planted on either side of my head. Each stroke tore a different sound from me: a gasp, a whimper, a muffled curse. The bed hit the wall.

He kissed me on the mouth with tongue, on the neck biting me, on the collarbone, and then lowered himself with his tongue to my tits, biting my nipples, sucking them until they were hard and red, never stopping fucking me to the hilt. I could feel him hitting exactly the spot that made me grip his shoulders with my nails. He took both my legs and put them over his shoulders, folding me almost in two, and then I really felt all of him, all the way up, pounding into me at an angle that made me scream into the pillow.

—Tell me it’s mine —I heard him say.

—It’s yours —I said, out of breath—. It’s all yours, everything is yours, my pussy is yours.

He turned me over. He put me face down, lifted my ass by the hips and shoved back into me from behind, in one clean thrust that ripped a shout out of me. I buried my face in the pillow. He fucked me like that, grabbing my hair, pressing my face into the sheets with one hand and holding my hip with the other. Each thrust sounded in the room, skin against skin, wet, obscene. He slapped one ass cheek and then the other, just enough for the sting to reach my pussy and make me clench around his cock. I heard him tell me he loved me between one thrust and the next, mixed in with a filthy thing I can’t repeat, and I said it too because it was true and because at that moment nothing else existed except that, his dick opening me from behind, his hand in my hair and my face against the cotton. I got lost in the sensation, in the weight of his body over mine, in the warmth of his skin against mine.

The orgasm hit me from the inside out, like a wave spreading. He squeezed my hips with both hands, drove all the way in, and I came screaming into the pillow, clenching around his cock, shaking all over. He kept moving until I asked him to stop, that I couldn’t take any more, that I was too sensitive.

He pulled out slowly. I turned around and opened my mouth without being asked, still throbbing between my legs. It was natural between us, part of a language we’d built without ever speaking it aloud. I took him between my lips and sucked him as far as I could, feeling my own taste on his cock, savoring it, sticking my tongue out to lick his balls too. I grabbed his cock with my hand and jerked him toward my face, my mouth open and tongue out, looking up at him from below. It didn’t take long. He let out a deep groan and came: the first spurt hit me thick between my forehead and my eye, the next ones on my cheek, my lips, my tongue, my chin. It ran down my neck. I stayed still for a moment, feeling his warm cum on my face, not swallowing it, letting it drip, with him looking down at me, breathless, his cock still hard in his hand.

Then we went into the shower together. The hot water washed the day away little by little: the cold of the streets, the tiredness in my legs, the dried cum I could still feel between my toes, the fresh semen still running down my face. Tomás washed my face carefully, passing the soap slowly over my cheeks, cleaning with his fingers the residue that had stuck to my eyelashes. I leaned my back against the cold tiles and let him do it.

When we got into bed, he turned off the light and found me in the dark. I lay back against his chest and stroked his arm, tracing the shape of his skin blind.

—Tomorrow I want you to fuck my ass —I said softly—. I want you to fill me another way.

I felt him tighten his arm around my waist.

—Tomorrow —he said.

And we fell asleep like that, with Prague outside and the room silent.