A Black & White Halloween
Chapter 6: Complete Possession
Suspense Sex Story: Chapter 6: Complete Possession - 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
Halloween lights burn at the window. Orange and purple, plastic bats taped to the glass, a pumpkin lamp flickering on the dresser. The master bedroom feels bigger with the door closed. Unsure if she’s floating or shaking, Lisa drifts along the edge of herself. Elijah owns every inch of the room the second he enters.
His hand dwarfs the doorknob, her back, the curve of her neck. The difference in their size stuns her. She never saw herself as tiny until Elijah grabs hold.
The white fabric bunches under his fist, pulls tight across her ribs, and rips. The sound—more like a snarl than a tear—makes her heart bang out of rhythm. Her nurse costume isn’t anything anymore.
With her voice gone, she wants to ask him to slow down. Her legs tremble, and she listens to her own breathing, quick and too high. Elijah never hesitates, never even looks up. He bends her over the foot of the bed with a single shove at her spine. Her knees collapse without permission.
Lisa’s hands catch the sheet, clutch it until the knuckles flush white.
“Look at you, Snowflake.” Elijah pushes the skirt higher. The nurse cap drops, forgotten. His palm spreads between her shoulders, pins her flat to the mattress. The dark of his skin against her back glows in the light, not subtle at all.
“Never seen a better white, fuck-toy in my life.” He grins wider than any man she’s known—hungry, not kind.
Lisa gasps. Her chest seizes; lungs won’t fill. She wants to sob, but the heat in her groin drowns out every other signal. Elijah’s grip bruises—the good sort of pain, she never knew existed. Stan never pulled hard enough to hurt. Elijah doesn’t ask what she wants; he takes.
Without warning, he throws her once, flipping her as if she weighs nothing. And Lisa lands her on her back. The bra snaps. Elijah tears the fabric clean, no regard for what she wants. Ripping from her so hard she flinches, his fingers sweep across her hip, but the pain lands sweet and wild.
He’s mean with his hands. Lisa craves it.
Her brain splits. Old Lisa tries to talk.
“We’re cheating, this is wrong, Stan will never forgive me.” For a second, Lisa believed her relationship meant something to her. But need drowns her guilt out. Every inch of skin lights up—Elijah’s hands, the cold of the air, the rough edge of the torn dress.
She can’t stop staring at the flash of his muscles in the candlelight. The way the outline of his cock bulges through his costume, already harder and larger than anything she’d ever seen with Stan.
Elijah hooks her knees, drags her toward the edge. The nurse dress shreds up to her waist, panties gone in a flick of his wrist. The top is in tatters. Louder than she means, Lisa whimpers. Elijah jams her knees apart, uses his hips to wedge her wider.
“Better,” he laughs. “I like my girls tight, but not scared. You’re not scared, are you, baby?”
She shakes her head. Tongue won’t find words. Lisa’s whole body hums; her thighs, her chest, her scalp. The hair on her arms stands up. She braces for pain but wants everything else more.
Elijah pins her ankles, grabs her wrists, and yanks her arms overhead.
“Keep ‘em there,” he snaps, voice extra deep. She obeys. He doesn’t ask again.
The bedframe creaks. The mattress sags under their weight. Lisa hears her own breathing—Elijah’s, nothing else. The world holds its breath for the next second.
At least for a second, she expects him to be gentle. After all, Stan always tried to start slow. And always asked if she wanted it. Elijah jams himself into her. The force rocks the bed. Sheets rip at her fists; her jaw tries to unhinge. Lisa moans, sharp and crazy. She can’t close her legs—the pressure of Elijah’s hips pins her open.
Stretching, splitting open, he invades her. As the theme of Star Trek VI: the Undiscovered Country drifts into the room, Elijah thrust into where no man has gone before, sending her into a strange new world.
“Oh, God, it hurts,” she screams, and in a hushed voice adds, “so, fucking good.”
He growls, bends over her ear.
“You’re a little, white, whore toy, nothing else. I’ll break you open if I want.” The words don’t scare her. They slam through her, spark the heat inside higher.
A half whimper—Lisa manages a sound—half plea. Elijah seizes her waist, re-positions again, flips her on her side, one knee up, one leg hooked off the mattress. The torn skirt drags behind. Halloween lights splash across her stomach, making her skin look translucent next to his gold and black.
For the moment, she focuses on the contrast—his hands on her breasts, his mouth on her neck, the deep throb inside her. Nothing like Stan. Nothing even close.
Each time she sought to adjust, Elijah’s hands drag her somewhere new—bent over the bed, flat on her back, side to side, sometimes both knees yanked to her chest so her hips hang off the edge. The pressure never stops, shifts angle, always more. Her bones feel hollowed, joints loose. She loses even the urge to question what’s happening.
The bedframe whines under the abuse. The headboard slams into the wall. For a few seconds, Lisa’s cries get stuck, snap loose, stun her with the volume. Using every inch, Elijah works her, splits her with a rhythm that bruises up through the small of her back. Thoughts of Stan make her arch up harder as she wonders if she’ll ever walk straight again.
Not sweaty, not out of breath, he leans in, like he lives for this. Elijah’s hands hook under her thighs, the small of her back, her shoulders. He doesn’t notice the way her body slackens, the way her resistance jams and stops. He only cares about using every piece of her.
Thrusting deeper, she stretches to take him, and he hammers into her, splitting her.
She hears herself beg. She’s horrified at first—nobody ever made her do that, not Stanley. Stanny used to pause if she got too loud, worried she’d break. Elijah wants the noise; he eggs her on.
“Oh, God, you’re so fucking big. Give me all of it, make me take, please, please, please.”
He pulls her off the mattress, bends her over the footboard, and presses her face into the tangled sheets. The nurse costume barely holds on; her breasts spill out, nipples dragged across the blanket. His palm covers her skull, rams her forward.
“You getting it yet?” Elijah hisses. “Your man can’t fuck you like this. Nobody ever did, huh?” He pumps harder, groin slamming against her ass.
The sound—cotton, skin, bone, the metallic whine of the bed. Lisa’s teeth bite the sheet. She gasps for air, can’t get enough.
Every motion shatters her memory of Stan. He never left bruises. He never twisted her hips, so she shook with the effort to hold on. Elijah fucks her right through the guilt, ignores her whimpers, and punishes with praise instead of mercy.
“You’re a good cheating whore.”
Lisa realizes she wants to cry, but not from shame. The orgasm crawls through her—slow at first, mean, sudden, impossible to control. She comes with a scream, fist ripping the sheet, her whole body arching up. Elijah laughs, slaps her ass so hard she yelps again. The pain makes the pleasure ricochet.
He drags her back on the bed, flips her over, and bends her knees to her chest. All the blood rushes to her head. The nurse skirt’s gone. Only the scraps of the costume and her fishnets survive. When he lines up and fucks her again, Elijah doesn’t hesitate—deeper, slower, but the base is twice as thick.
The pressure blooms—she can’t take it, she can’t bear not to.
Her breath hitches on every thrust. The ceiling blurs. She watches the shadows of the fake bats flicker over the walls. Elijah’s hands blanket her thighs, squeezing so tight she feels blood vessels popping. She wants to say something, but only manages a moan.
“Open wider. You’re taking it like a champ, but you’ll do better with my help.” He wedges her knees apart, pins them with his arms, and grins in her face. Sweat beads his forehead, but Elijah never lets up. To her, his cock is her only focus—every other detail in the world fades.
Lisa’s head spins. She isn’t even sure if she’s awake anymore. The pain’s there, but it sweetens every second. She loves the way her body yields, the way her tongue lolls, the way no part of her belongs to herself.
First, Elijah licks her collarbone, then bites down, marking her. Each new mark makes her whimper. He fucks her harder, stops, and slams back in with zero warning. Lisa’s body loses control—pussy squeezes, legs quake, she comes again, this time with a guttural cry, nothing left but pure, white surrender.
Now, he keeps going and doesn’t praise her. Slamming her hips up, bends her over his wrist, sometimes lifts her so only her head and shoulders touch the bed. The force stuns her. Lisa’s never even heard of sex like this, never mind done it.
She wants to say “stop,” but if she did, she’d regret it instantly. No, she wants to be used. Needs it now.
Elijah knows. He lets her ride the edge—sometimes slow, other times so brutal she sobs—but never lets her go back to easy. The rhythm turns savage, sweet, savage again. Lisa’s toes curl in her socks, lose feeling altogether.
“Good girl.” The words snap. “Knew it from the second I saw you. All you need is a real man to show you what you’re built for.” He wraps her in both arms, slams home, fucks her through the aftershocks.
Lisa’s body goes jelly. The orgasm detonates—she can’t even describe what’s happening, only that she wants it to never stop.
He laughs at her, flips her again, this time face down, ass high, cheek mashed into the cool cotton. Elijah puts both hands on her ass, spreads her, fucks her even deeper. The pressure crushes her brain. She drools a little, giggles at the insanity, and cries again when the next wave hits.
Nothing with Stan ever lasted this long. Stan cared—he touched slowly, asked questions, stopped every time she tensed. Elijah never needed asking. The man did what he wanted, and Lisa’s body accepted it.
“Tell me what you are.” Elijah’s voice. She wants to answer, but her jaw is slack.
“I ... I’m your white, whore toy,” she gasps. The words shock her. Stan could never have made her say it, not as a joke, not if her life depended on her saying it.
“Damn right.” Elijah buries his cock to the hilt and holds her there. Every muscle in her body shakes, gives up.
She sobs, but it’s all pleasure now. No shame, the violence of how easy it is to need this.
Elijah finishes in her, waits for the last convulsion before pulling away. He spanks her again—
“So you never forget”—drags her up on the mattress, gropes her breast. Lisa shudders, but she’s all gone, pulse a mess, body limp.
He leaves her sprawled, legs open, panties ripped, hanging around one ankle, hair stuck to her sweaty cheek. The costume’s a scrap; the skin underneath glows under the purple Halloween lights. The whole room smells of sex, victory, and something electric that will never wash out.
Lisa’s chest heaves. She can’t move yet. The memory of Stan—the way he used to stroke her hair, the way he’d ask if she wanted a glass of water after—none of it matches the heat in her core now. She wants to feel ashamed, but the body can’t support shame. Only the dizzy, raw need to be used. Taken.
Elijah lounges against the headboard, cock still hard, sweat shining. He watches her soak in the aftershock. She can’t meet his eyes. She doesn’t want to—afraid she’ll beg him for more.
The sound from the living room bleeds in—Destiny’s voice, shrill laughter, the slap of flesh against flesh. Lisa wants nothing more than to be used again. The guilt tries one last gasp, but it’s too weak, too late.
She collapses into the mattress, broken, happy, nothing left but the memory of Elijah inside her and the pulse, still strong, between her thighs.
The living room’s a graveyard. Skeletons hang overhead, plastic bones rattling like they want to laugh. Streamers sag off the lamps, sticky in the sweat-thick air, and the fake cobwebs tangle with the real dust by the couch.
Destiny owns it.
She sprawls on the cushions—thighs wide, black leather glowing, legs braced for the next round. A good slave, Stan kneels where she puts him, cape crushed under his knees, fangs crooked, and eyes glassy. He trembles, but not from fear. The urge to please is bigger than anything else.
With her fingers fisting in Stan’s hair, Destiny jams his face up.
“You’re not here to rest,” she says, voice a slap.
Tongue frantic, Stan tries to keep up—lips numb, jaw sore from the last time she made him work. He needs to breathe, but Destiny never lifts off, not to be kind, not for his safety. She grinds his nose against her clit, hips rolling in time with The Time Warp. Each time he hesitates, the whip cracks his shoulder—a flick, but the sting lingers.
Across the rug, Jasmine owns Wesley the same way. She’s got the panther suit peeled down enough to bare everything that matters, her spine arched, boots planted. Wesley’s neck strains—he wants to pull away, but Jasmine squeezes his skull, grinds him back in place. Her tail wraps his neck. Every time his tongue slows, Jasmine rocks his head until he gets the message.
The weirdest part—Stan knows it, Destiny knows it, they never have to say—is how much it turns him on. His cock aches, pushes at the costume. Every pulse of Destiny’s body triggers a wave of heat, and the humiliation only makes it worse. He wants to hate himself, but the taste of her, the pressure of her thighs, the sound of Lisa moaning through the bedroom wall—he can’t stop.
Destiny leans forward, nails digging into his scalp.
“Now you listen,” she purrs. “Your girlfriend’s getting properly fucked. Elijah’s got her, you can hear it, even from here.” Stan tries not to listen, but every slap, every moan, every cry, melts through the drywall. His hands shake. He works his tongue faster, desperate to distract himself from the pain.
Destiny’s hips never stop. The couch squeaks beneath her, slick with sweat; the sheet is bunched around her knees. Stan laps at her, face shiny with her essence, and the more she rides, the harder she laughs at his collapse.
Both white boys have cum in their costumes so many times, they’re soaked, their cocks are red and raw. The defeat is delicious.
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