A Black & White Halloween
Chapter 5: Oral Servitude
Suspense Sex Story: Chapter 5: Oral Servitude - 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
When Stan doesn’t move at first, Destiny’s legs split open in front of him. Bracing her boots wide, black leather shining at every seam. Her hand yanks the skirt aside, exposing the gleam under the costume. And she doesn’t care if the fresh air hits her or if the fog machine blows smoke around her thighs. She wants Stan on his knees, mouth open, shame written all over his face.
As if on cue, The Beginning from Bram Stoker’s Dracula swells to life.
The command drops from Destiny’s lips: “Show me how that vampire mouth works.”
The words hit Stan like a slap. He flinches. His knees thud the rug—cape bunches, fangs bite the inside of his cheek. Making sure he doesn’t wobble backward, Destiny drags the cape collar to keep him close.
Waning red light from the pumpkin’s pools under her skirt. Stunned, Stan breathes it in. Didn’t think the night would end like this. Didn’t think he’d tremble, lower his chin, and stare right at the darkness between Destiny’s thighs. The fangs catch his tongue again. Copper floods his mouth—he swallows it, tries not to show the shake.
Destiny sees the struggle. She grabs a fistful of Stan’s hair, not kindly, and crams his face up tight.
“Like you mean it,” she says, flat, calm, expecting nothing but obedience. Grinding her boot into Stanlee’s back through his through cheap cape. Pinning him to the floor so escape isn’t even a dream. The heat and scent from her pussy hits his nose first—acrid, not like Lisa, not like either of the other two he’d tasted.
All the aromas in the room submit, collapse into Destiny’s own fragrance.
Across the carpet, Jasmine owns the kitchen chair—she straddles it reverse, thighs gleaming in the panther suit, tail flicking over the vinyl seat. Unzipping the crotch, her smile is all teeth, not lips. Twisting Wesley’s hair, forcing his face between her thighs.
The damaged werewolf gloves make his hands seem broken—foil claws fall apart, costume fur peeling. Jasmine loves the effect.
“Lick like your manhood depends on it,” she breathes, not a pretense of politeness. “Because if you don’t get me off, we’ll snip them nuts.”
Wesley’s face folds, crumples on impact. Jasmine rams her hips forward, smothering his mouth with her sex.
“This is where you want to eat, son. So Fucking eat,” she purrs, voice pure threat. His tears slide out right away, cut trails through the fog, and land on Jasmine’s bare skin. Jasmine grinds harder. She rocks back and forth, unforgiving. Each time Wesley tries to pull away, Jasmine fists his head, shoves him deeper into her.
The room’s hot, air thick, party haze rolling lower. Even the taste of it burns. Stan’s nose chokes on vodka punch, sweat, musk, latex, and something wild from Destiny’s body. He hesitates, an instant, but Destiny doesn’t allow weakness. She slams his mouth tighter to her slit, lets the fangs cut a warning against her inner thigh.
“Don’t even think about biting, unless you want to make me mad. Work it, bitch,” Jasmine says.
Lost, Stan’s tongue trips, but his hunger betrays him. The shame in his skull battles the ache in his crotch, and as he inches closer to Destiny’s body, it makes it worse. He can taste the salt, the bitter, the raw spike of her skin against his mouth. She glances down, catches his eye, and refuses to blink.
“Do it. Now,” Destiny says.
Stan’s lips tremble. Cape drags the floor, bunches under Destiny’s heel. She never lets up—if he tries to move, the boot pins him again. He tastes her, flicks his tongue where she chooses, but he’s too nervous about the fangs. The panic almost drowns him, but the arousal wins out. Tongue searching for approval, he digs in.
Destiny’s laughter is shallow, demeaning, and callous. She lets her hands roam Stan’s scalp, tracing the shell of his ear, and slapping his jaw to keep the rhythm steady.
“Oh, baby cracker, already better than I thought,” she mocks. The words make him burn.
Jasmine pulls Wesley to the side, yanking his jaw open.
“Don’t be a wimp,” she taunts. “That’s it—get your tongue in there.” The panther costume glows, friction on Wesley’s cheeks, the zipper steel scratches. Jasmine rides it hard, gasping when Wesley fumbles and whimpers. The noises Stan makes blend right in—a different version of wrecked.
The Aliens soundtrack pounds out Ripley’s Rescue, and both men have the image of a face-hugger spring to them.
Wesley’s body shakes. He struggles to use his hands, but Jasmine stomps them down, trapping the fingers on her thighs. The ruined claws tangle in the panther’s sheen, ridiculous and pitiful. Jasmine leans in, her whole weight crushing the air out of Wesley’s lungs. His body doesn’t fight anymore. It accepts his defeat, his position.
Tears streak his face, salt, shame, and spit, but Jasmine’s juices smear over everything, drowning him. She cackles, tightens the grip in his hair, humping his mouth so every breath belongs to her.
“You’re blacked now, nothing but my pet whitey,” Jasmine says.
On the other side, Stan’s palms jam into the carpet. Destiny’s thighs clamp his skull. She holds the hair so Stan’s chin can’t shake loose.
“This is called technique,” Destiny purrs. She watches him struggle. Every flick, every wet lap, she grades out loud—
“Good, but not enough. More, pussy.”
Fangs biting blood from his own lip, Stan’s eyes water, but he can’t stop. Not for a second, not one heartbeat.
The plastic cups on the floor scatter at Destiny’s boots. She pushes harder. Stan’s tongue slips, but Destiny snaps the boundary back—”Not teeth, dumbass. Tongue. Get it?” Every muscle taut, she jams him full face.
The shudder in Stan’s groin is impossible to hide. A thin stream of cum surges, tiny, useless surges of white semen.
Across the rug, Jasmine rides Wesley like a theme park ride. She leans back, panther tail lashing, while Wesley’s mouth works overtime under her. The snot, the tears, the hot panting—it washes with Jasmine’s wetness, makes a mess nobody could clean up. She sees Stan over Destiny’s thigh, smirks, and doubles down on Wesley. Bouncing hard, using both fists to steer his mouth.
The cum further soils Wes’s pants.
The party decorations crumple against the chaos. Skeletons clack overhead. The fog machine dumps another cloud, cold ribbons curling around the two men’s knees. Stan’s head swims. He wonders if Destiny will ever let him breathe again. He almost hopes not.
Destiny grinds down, suffocating every objection. She knows exactly how to break him. Each time Stan gets the rhythm wrong, she slaps his face, hisses a taunt, or pins the cape tighter to the ground.
“That’s it. Prove you’re not useless,” Destiny says, her tone edges past disrespect.
Jasmine laughs, hiccupping with pleasure.
“See, that’s how you do it, wolfy-baby. You put those fangs to use.” She strokes Wesley’s jaw, making sure the fur and the foil scrape her skin. Tears and spit mix everywhere. Jasmine pulls the mask off his head, for fun, and lets it dangle from his arm.
Desperate to please, Stan’s thirst kicks up a gear. Talent challenged tongue searches for anything that’ll make Destiny ease the grip he licks deeper. Trying to use the fangs as she wants, gentle, not too sharp—like the threat matters, but not the bite. Destiny notices the effort. She cackles and jams his face tight.
Cumming again, he moans, but it’s barely noise. The taste, the sweat, the heat—everything collides in his throat. Stan accepts it, and he feeds on her. Humiliation coats every neuron, but so does the thrill. Hands shake on the carpet. He can’t untangle the feelings.
Wesley’s head bobs under Jasmine. She rocks, relentless, punishing him for every mistake.
“Don’t stop, fucking, white loser,” Jasmine says.
Answering her, his voice muffled by twat. He gasps, but Jasmine shoves him right back in. The panther tail teases Wesley’s fingers—he clutches it, desperate for anything to anchor himself.
Again, he climaxes, but the friction on his prick keeps him hard and needing.
Diligently, Destiny monitors Stan each second. When he makes an effort to retreat, she claps a boot to the cape and keeps him on all fours.
“No. You stay and finish,” she says, not a request, but a command. With the moans coming down the hall, her voice warps through the pounding Highway to Hell, and fills the static air with electricity. Every cell vibrates under her glaring gaze; Stan’s face flushes.
The drinks table collapses under the mess—plastic spiders, fake blood, spilled chips. Nothing distracts from the center of gravity: Destiny’s body, Stan’s tongue, the hard snap of defeat.
Jasmine and Destiny swap smirks, eyes as sharp as knives. They ride their men without blinking. Stan gags, once, but Destiny fists his hair and pulls him right back to sucking.
“You’re learning,” she says, almost sweet, the way a threat sometimes is.
Wesley’s sobbing now. The tears stream, but Jasmine only grinds harder, wetter, until her own thighs shine. She presses her clit right against the tip of his nose, shoving him deeper, drowning every sense. Wesley can’t see straight—he’s a toy, nothing more, nothing less. Jasmine makes sure he never forgets.
Stan collapses into it. Fangs drag slow, tongue flicks frantic, lips numb from Destiny’s slickness. The humiliation circles, never leaving. His dick throbs, but nothing could ever compare to the ache of knowing Destiny’s got him—forever.
Destiny lets the pleasure show now—she shudders, clamps tighter, thighs shaking against Stan’s ears. She laughs, grunts, and yanks Stan’s face up hard.
“Don’t you dare quit, you little fucker,” she says. Stan obeys. He’s past obedience now; he lives for worshiping her black body.
Jasmine writhes, locks Wesley’s skull in both hands. She hammers his mouth against her, riding out every pulse, every wave. The tail chokes Wesley’s fist; he doesn’t even try to fight. His tongue and mouth turn automatic—trying to keep up, but never can catch up.
Stan’s head pounds. Destiny’s hand shoves his nose up, her fingers prying his jaw wider, making the fangs and tongue fight for space. She even laughs—
“I think you like this, vampire. Remember, Black Pussy Maters.” Stan can’t answer. He’s drowning her cum.
Fog climbs higher; the air’s all heat, surrender, sex, and vodka. Destiny grabs Stan’s skull, rides his face until her own body spasms. Having no option left, Stan goes with it. His hands flop on the carpet like dead things.
Voice going sharp, Jasmine screams, and chokes Wesley with her hips. He needs to breathe, but Jasmine intends to use all of him—tongue, nose, mouth, even his throat. The tears run, but Jasmine rubs them into his skin, claiming everything.
Destiny lets up only when she wants—never before. Stan’s mouth is a mess of spit and slick, his tongue numb, fangs stained pink. Destiny grins down, radiant, never kinder than at the peak of cruelty.
For the rest of this contest entry you need a
Registration + Paid Premier Membership
If you have an account, then please Log In
with a Free Account (Why register?)