A Black & White Halloween
Chapter 4: Separation and Conquest
Suspense Sex Story: Chapter 4: Separation and Conquest - Stan and Lisa throw a Halloween party, inviting half the school. At first, only their best friends, Wesley and Carol, show up about the time the foursome thinks the party’s a bust, four blacks arrive. Justus, Elijah, Jasmine, and Destiny soon take control and introduce the whites to a BNWO Halloween.
Caution: This Suspense Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Horror Cuckold DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Interracial Black Male Black Female White Male White Female Cream Pie Oral Sex
Ride of the Valkyries plays, and swells—Destiny’s fingers twist the volume knob. Cranking it enough to rumble the living room walls. The fog machine coughs through another round, white clouds crawling at the legs of the table.
Working their way inside every shoe, sock, and boot. Red and orange light from the pumpkin candles warps the shadows. Making Destiny’s face a mask of molten and midnight as she steps into the center of the rug. Her whip slaps the side of her leather outfit, and it bounces off the window glass.
Everybody watches, because nobody wants to miss what happens next.
With poor, useless Stan still limp on the couch, cape bunched at his thigh, fangs crooked in his mouth. Having lost track of her climaxes, Lisa clings to the cushion next to him. The white nurse costume rides high, and her cheeks burn red with lust.
Sneaking looks at Stan, Lisa shifts attention to Elijah, and back again. Caught between waning loyalty and burgeoning devotion. But feckless Stan can’t glimpse her for more than half a second. The old rules are dead, but he doesn’t understand how to live inside the new ones.
Destiny tilts her chin. One heel plants in front of Stan, the other points to the middle of the room. Eyes narrow, collecting every detail. She doesn’t need to yell. The words hit harder when she keeps it cold, keeps it clean.
“Here’s what’s happening,” she says, voice slicing. “Lisa, you’re going with Elijah. Bedroom. Carol, Justus takes you to the guest room. These cracker, fag, white boys—” Her whip flicks, snaps at Stan and snaps again at Wesley, “—y’all stay here. With us. Ya get it?”
Pause. Everyone gets it.
Lisa’s mouth opens, maybe to object, more likely to beg for more. When her eyes dart to Stan, searching for rescue, they find only the empty slack of his will. Not waiting for her answer, Elijah’s hand scoops the small of her back, gently. But the strength in his arm says there won’t be arguments.
Elijah’s gold skin glistens in the weakening party candles. With shoulder pressing against his chest, Lisa’s whole body bends toward him, lips parted. The gown creeps higher, revealing soaked panties.
Near the drinks table, Carol chokes on her breath. Witch skirt ripples over her knees, hands trembling on the edge of the counter. Justus doesn’t have to push. He plants his palm at her waist, flexes his grip once, and guides Carol out of the kitchen, an owned bitch ready to be bred. With her legs already moving on their own, Carol doesn’t fight.
She glances at Wesley, only once, and her eyes close halfway, pulse visible through her throat. Mouthing, “Sorry,” but she isn’t, not one teensy-weensy bit.
Then Wesley’s hand snaps up, and the foil claws on his werewolf glove crumple. He ought rise, to get in Justus’s way, but Jasmine’s already there—panther suit stretched tight, flicking her tail across his nose. Thumb digging into his cheek, Jasmine grabs Wesley by the jaw, nails pressing at the corner of his mouth.
The woman’s not soft. Not tiny bit.
Jasmine brings Wesley’s face within inches of her own. The panther ears wobble, but her intent doesn’t.
“Your girlfriend needs something you can’t give her,” Jasmine hisses, voice velvet and mean. “Accept it, whitey.” Using her eyes, she pins Wesley in place.
Sweat beads below his fake fur, and the headband slides down his brow. Wesley swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. Doesn’t flinch or try to argue. Jasmine’s fingers go tight—she owns every muscle in his face.
Stan gropes for his last piece of dignity. He sits forward on the couch, cape sagging, lips struggling around the plastic fangs. He aims a word at Destiny—maybe a plea, perhaps a noise to prove he’s alive, and Destiny cuts him off with a single touch. Her leather glove presses one finger under his nose, straight against his lips. She doesn’t smile.
“Shh,” Destiny tells him. “You’ll have plenty to focus on right here.”
The words kill his protest.
Every ounce of resistance melts out, and Stan’s face twists. His fists clench the ends of the cape, but he doesn’t even try to get up. Destiny’s finger lingers and pulls away slowly, leaving Stan ruined.
the balance of power irrevocably shifts with the women guided to their blackening, John Williams ominous Duel of the Fates from Star Wars: Episode I – The Phantom Menace, swells dramatically in the background.
Fearful, Lisa tenses at the threshold. Elijah’s hand dwarfs her wrist. He guides her forward, not rough, but giving no room to double back. Lisa’s head hangs, but she can’t hide the way her body vibrates with nerves, or how her knees nearly knock together from the buildup. Elijah tips her chin, brushes the edge of her jaw, and steers her past the door.
Yielding, Lisa lets him.
Carol gives up faster—Justus pins her to his side and walks her straight across the carpet. When her witch hat slips backward, it bounces off her shoulder, but she doesn’t reach for it. All her focus lands on Justus’s fingers, possessive at her waist, and the way his armor hugs her hip. Almost dragging as they cross the room, she can barely keep her legs in place.
Wesley tries to track Carol with his eyes, but Jasmine yanks his face back. Each time Wesley resists, Jasmine squeezes harder, thumb working his jawbone. Wesley’s body caves—shoulders slumping, lips parting, helpless in Jasmine’s hold. The werewolf costume doesn’t look scary now. Childish, almost. His eyes keep watering, but he stares straight into Jasmine’s gaze, like she’ll let him off easy.
Silly fool, she doesn’t.
Destiny circles the two men left behind, boots ringing off the floor. She makes a show of watching Stan’s face—each twitch, flush, swallow. Broken and afraid, Stan won’t meet her eyes, but Destiny never stops staring at him. The whip dangles from her hand. She taps it once against her own thigh, a warning.
It’s not understated.
Lisa’s nurse shoes vanish beyond the bedroom door. The giggle that spills out is high and panicked, but Elijah’s answering rumble kills it quick. Only the faintest pop of laughter makes it back through the wall—Stan hears every syllable. His teeth dig into the fangs, jaw set like he’s bracing for an earthquake.
Carol’s witch ensemble goes limp as Justus leads her toward the guest room. The hand at her waist stays unyielding. Carol shoots a last, hopeless glance at Wesley. Her eyes fill with guilt, but also something else—something bright, a thing she won’t name. She lets herself get led away.
Wesley watches, frozen. His neck muscles bunch; his hands shake under Jasmine’s grip. Each time he starts to shift, Jasmine slaps his jaw back into line. She never lifts her gaze from his eyes. The energy between them sizzles. Wesley doesn’t break, doesn’t beg, but the surrender already lives in his face.
Destiny plants herself between the couch and the kitchen. The angle blocks Stan’s view—he can’t see Lisa, can’t see Carol. He slumps smaller, cape a puddle, fangs biting in. Sweat crawls down his neck. He needs to move, but Destiny’s presence cages him in.
The living room air thickens. Decorations sag, ignored. The skeletons on the ceiling tangle in their own web. Popcorn on the counter turns more stale by the second. None of it matters. Stan and Wesley get all of Destiny and Jasmine’s attention now.
Jasmine straddles Wesley’s knees, panther tail looping around his wrist for extra humiliation. Wesley doesn’t fight it. He could, but he won’t.
“Come on, Wessie boy, Carol’s gone. She’s happier there. Just watch.” Jasmine’s words cut deeper than the claws on his glove.
Stan’s throat works—he chews down the next protest, can’t process the blend of rage and excitement that crawls through his bloodstream. Destiny senses every flicker. She dips low, mouth past his ear, so only Stan hears.
“You’re not here to talk. Watch and learn, shrimp vampire.”
Whip snaps the couch. Stan jerks and folds farther, hands balled tight. Destiny straightens, arms crossed, gaze measuring the room like she’s already counting her wins.
Beyond the walls, muffled sounds: Lisa’s voice, higher than before. Stan squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t hide the tremor in his thighs or how his own body betrays him. The wet patch at his crotch grows with pre-cum as he micro-cock tends up. Destiny lets him soak in the defeat of his powerlessness.
Finally, Wes’s jaw goes slack. Fingers mapping every ridge of his face, Jasmine holds him.
“You lost, wolfy-child,” she whispers, letting every syllable land. “Better realize who’s in control and who’s not.” Broken, Wesley’s shoulders fall as all the tension slips from his frame.
For a few beats, Destiny and Jasmine examine their new territory. The fog thickens. Halloween sweats through every pore in the rug. Stan breathes hard, face flushed, body coiled but with nowhere to jump. Wesley trembles, panther-branded, eyes never leaving the guest room door, like hope might march right back in if he stares long enough.
Destiny’s boots scuff the floor—slow, deliberate. She looks at Jasmine, and Jasmine nods. Their plan settles in the air, unbreakable.
Wesley tries again—one single twitch toward the hallway. Jasmine yanks him back and wraps her whole palm over his mouth. Wesley sags. Jasmine leans in, voice pure warning:
“Sit. Down.”
The theme from the original Friday the 13th plays, “ki, ki, ki ... ma, ma, ma,” Wesley obeys, spine folding, eyes gone hollow. Instead of what’s sung, Wessie hears ‘ch, ch, ch ... ah, ah, ah,” feeling as if a knife has thrust into his heart.
Stan watches every second. Lisa’s laughter—then a muffled moan—trickles through the wall. He tenses, tries to suck in air, but Destiny never lets the pressure drop. Every time Stan flinches, Destiny grins wider.
Jasmine perches on Wesley’s thigh, never letting up. She wants him to memorize the lesson. Destiny stands over Stan, whip draped across both palms, smile sharpened for the hunt.
Stan and Wesley exchange glances. The recognition passes without a word: nothing will ever be the same.
Destiny lets the new rules settle. She doesn’t need to repeat herself. There’s not a single man in the room who doesn’t get it.
Stan and Wesley sat, silenced, bodies wrecked, Halloween lights making monsters of their captors. Destiny and Jasmine soak in every second. Nobody’s ever snapped the spell this tight.
The music thud as John Carpenter’s Halloween theme floods the room. Fog swallows ankles. The living room shrinks to the four of them, the victors, and the conquered.
Michael Myers has become a superior, undefeatable black man, stabbing the white out of his victims.
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