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By (user no longer on site) OP 23 weeks ago
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Prague, October – The Night She Earned the Ring
We’d been together eight months. Muffin was 25, all freckles and mischief, red hair longer than ever, wearing a tiny black skirt and a cropped leather jacket that barely met in the middle. I was 34, already certain she was the one, but I wanted the proposal to feel like us: filthy, impulsive, unforgettable.
We’d spent the night in a basement club off Dlouhá, shots of Becherovka and bass so loud we felt it in our teeth. By 2 a.m. we were properly pissed, stumbling through the cobblestone alleys of the Old Town, city almost empty, just the occasional d*unk tourist and the echo of her heels.
I stopped her under an archway, pushed her back against cold 600-year-old stone, kissed her hard. My hand was already up her skirt, finding bare skin (she’d left her knickers in my pocket hours ago).
I broke the kiss, voice low against her ear.
“If you let a stranger fuck you right here, right now, I’ll put a ring on this finger tomorrow morning.”
Her eyes went huge, pupils blown wide from the drink and the dare. She licked her lips, nodded once (tiny, eager).
I stepped back into the alley mouth, looked left, looked right. A tall guy in a dark leather jacket was leaning against the wall twenty feet away, lighting a cigarette, watching us with lazy interest. Early thirties, local, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
I crooked a finger.
He hesitated two seconds, then flicked the cigarette away and walked over.
I didn’t bother with Czech. Just switched to English, calm as anything.
“My girlfriend wants to be fucked against this wall. No condom. You in?”
He glanced at Muffin (skirt already rucked up, pale thighs trembling in the orange streetlight) and grinned like he’d won the lottery.
“ Ano. Jo, jasne.”
I moved behind her, gathered her wrists in one hand, pinned them above her head against the stone. With the other I flipped her skirt up over her arse, exposing her completely. She whimpered, breath fogging in the cold.
He didn’t waste time. Belt buckle, zip, cock out (thick, heavy, already hard). One hand on her hip, the other guiding himself in.
Muffin moaned the second he pushed inside, high and shocked, back arching. The alley swallowed the sound. He started slow, then harder, the slap of skin against stone echoing under the arch. Her cheek pressed to the ancient wall, eyes half-closed, mouth open in a silent O.
I leaned in close to her ear, voice steady.
“Look at you. Twenty-five years old, letting a stranger breed you in Prague because I told you to. Perfect.”
She came first, sudden and violent, whole body shaking, a broken cry that ricocheted off the buildings. He followed thirty seconds later, buried deep, groaning something in Czech as he filled her.
When he pulled out a thick trickle ran straight down her thigh. He zipped up, gave me a nod like we’d just shared a pint, and disappeared into the night.
I spun Muffin around, kissed her slow and deep, tasting vodka and sex and Prague air. Her legs were jelly.
The next morning we were hungover to fuck in the hotel’s little breakfast room overlooking the Vltava. Sunlight on the water, church bells in the distance.
I slid the black velvet box across the table between the croissants and coffee.
She opened it, saw the ring (white-gold band, single diamond, simple and perfect), and her eyes filled instantly.
“Yes,” she whispered before I’d even asked.
I slipped it onto her finger, still slightly sticky from the night before, leaned in and murmured:
“You earned that, love. And you’ll keep earning it every day from now on.”
She smiled, bit her lip, and spent the rest of the trip with a permanent wet patch on every pair of knickers she owned.
We still call it the Prague Rule: any city, any alley, any stranger (if I say the word, she spreads).
The ring’s never come off since. |
