After The Morning Afters

May 3, 2016

She watched him get dressed. "You come here almost every night, make love—"

He cut her off mid-sentence. "Fuck. We fuck," he turned to her, smirking.

"Well, I feel loved every time we fuck. You call it whatever you want, hun," she replied, her voice was silky. She returned the smirk.

He made a face at her, unable to form a decent retort.

"So, why?" She insisted, her head tilted a bit to the left, the smirk re-appeared.

"It's morning. I need to get going," he won't meet her eyes.

"I'll change the lock," she intoned.

A harsh sigh escaped his lips, he stared at her in disbelief. He stood, she's taller by a couple of inches, she looked down at him, her own lips expectant, "You're my Scheherazade," he whispered, kissed her tenderly and left before she can answer.

May 4, 2016

"Scheherazade, huh?" She murmured sleepily against his neck. He felt her smile and knew she understood.

"Hrmmn?"

"So every morning you want to kill me?" They both chuckled, "Of course, not kill me literally," a pause. "That's why you leave? Why, you don't want to name this, what we have?" Her hand, resting against his waist, went tense for a few moments then relaxed again.

He allowed a few seconds to pass before answering, "I'm afraid," now it's his fingers' turn to tense, grasped her hip. "I don't want to want you too much," he caressed her hip and felt the marks his fingernails just made.

"Fucktard," she sighed, "You kill me, you know?" She kissed his neck, "Every time you leave, a small part of me dies."

"Yea?" He traced small circles on her hips.

"In a way, it's good," she nibbled his earlobe then whispered, "Every time you return, I am resurrected."

May 8, 2016

Panic seized him as he entered her unit. Everything was in utter chaos. A gentle sobbing was echoing throughout the apartment. He didn't stop to stare at the carnage but he recognized the gutted carcasses of his books.

"Hun…?" He briskly went to her room and found her slumped at the foot of the bed; surrounded by more torn pages; murdering A Murder She Wrote. Gripping the book tight, ripping the gripping pages into shreds. "Hey… hun…" He gently pried her fingers off.

"Where were you? Where were you? Where were you?" She whispered, words running into each other.

He gathered her withering frame in his arms, "I'm here now, hun…" Kissed her tear-stained cheeks. "I had to work. I'm here now, hun…"

She struggled and stilled. Sobs subsiding. He sighed and kissed her forehead. She pulled him down and kissed him hungrily, teeth and tongue dancing against his. He tasted blood, whose? He did not care, he wanted more. She tore his shirt open, buttons adding to the mess upon whence they sat, she pushed him and his head bounced against the floor, scattering the pages of the books.

He grabbed her breasts through her tear-stained shirt and roughly mashed them. He pinched and pulled at her nipples. She growled and ravaged his neck, biting and licking; sucking and scratching. He tore her panties off and fuck, she was wet, way more than ever before. She struggled with his belt but was able to pull it off, his slacks went next then his boxers. His cock was stiff and standing at attention. She took his length in her mouth and gagged when it hit her throat.

Grunting, he grabbed her head and fucked her pretty little mouth, she stared at him while he was pumping, he loves it when she does that. Tears form in the corners of her eyes, she gagged but he was relentless. She gave him teeth and he let her go, hair tangling with his fingers.

She positioned herself on top and slowly, ever so slowly, sat down, impaling herself against him.

"OH, FUCK…" he groaned. She began riding him, grinding her sweet, warm, leaking pussy, against his cock. He reached for her nape, pulled her close and kissed her, bit her lower lip, let go, "Mine," he whispered. She just moved faster and faster. He reached for her breasts and pulled and pinched her nipples the way she wanted them to be abused. She let out a moan, "Yesss, more, more…" she was tireless. He was nearing the abyss, he grabbed her hips and thrust against her grinds and they came together.

He pulled her up to cuddle with, he wanted to feel her warmth, her sweat; to feel her wildly beating heart.

She jerked and a sharp sting on his ribs snatched a strangled gasp from his lips. He sought her eyes and found them full of hatred.

"This. Is. Mine." She said and pushed the object further in, piercing his heart.

She pulled the ice pick from his heart, "And this," placed it over hers, "is yours." A mighty thrust.

And there they lay, staining the corpses of their books, ending their story. Scheherazade's final tale.

I first posted this publicly on 28.7.2017, kaya kung nabasa mo na noon, kilala mo na sino ako lol. Edited some, added some.