A Black & White Halloween
Chapter 7: The Display of Power
Suspense Sex Story: Chapter 7: The Display of Power - 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 don’t flicker anymore. They pulse, steady and mean, painting every inch of the rug in bloody orange and electric purple. The fog machine doesn’t even bother hiding itself. No, it coughs out cold clouds crawling over boot leather, plastic skeletons, all the sticky patches on the coffee table’s legs.
Destiny and Jasmine don’t wait. They plant themselves on top of the table, boots loud on fake wood, Halloween haze circling their ankles.
Stan kneels first because Destiny’s glare says so.
With the cape stripped, his costume’s a disaster, shirt half gone, pants clinging with sweat and the aftermath of punishment. He bows, but the effort’s pathetic. Wesley follows, not trying to act like he has control.
The werewolf mask got tossed twenty minutes ago, and the fur at his collar’s stained with Jasmine’s wet. He sinks to his knees, shoulders slumped, red slap marks still shining on his jaw.
Destiny doesn’t even need to announce it, but she does anyway.
“This is what Black Power is,” she says, voice so pure and cold it cuts through their white privilege. Her gloved hand yanks Jasmine in with one flick. Jasmine answers with a smirk, splits her legs, letting the light hit everywhere the panther suit opens. Haze rolls higher. Stan’s knees vanish in the mist.
The women own the stage. Destiny leans Jasmine back, hands sliding up the inside seams, tearing at the zipper until the panther suit peels apart. Jasmine moans, but never loses grip—her hand claws Destiny’s leather, grinding her close. Stan watches, eyes glassy, fists clenched at the sides. Destiny catches the whimper, glances down, and grins.
“Don’t you fucking dare touch yourself,” Destiny spits. “You move and I’ll whip you worse.”
Unable to tell if he likes the threat or fears it, Stan shrinks, his cock swells, and he realizes it’s both.
When Jasmine rakes Wesley’s scalp with her fingernails and pushes him back on his heels. “You too, whitey boy. Jus’ watch.” The order lands.
The breaths come fast, shallow for Wesley. The memory of Jasmine’s latest slap glows on his face. Twisting inside, he nods, unable to hide how much the humiliation and the arousal cut in together. Neither man tries to cover up the way their cocks strain the ruined fabric.
Jasmine opens for Destiny. Each tug at the panther suit bares more skin—first the shoulder, the swell of her breasts, the gleaming stripe down between her thighs. Destiny’s eyes narrow. She digs in, mouth hot on Jasmine’s jaw, neck, chest. Jasmine arches, split between the pleasure and the urge to parade her win in Wesley’s direction.
The room bows to the action. Every decoration sags lower, forgotten. Lisa and Carol’s distant moans fade. Only the present counts. Destiny and Jasmine own the timeline, the men, and the air in the room.
Destiny drags Jasmine’s body flat on the coffee table, boots bracing at the edge. The fog swirls higher, hiding a thing. Destiny’s hand wriggles under the last strip of black, yanks the fabric so Jasmine’s pussy shines in the party light. Not even the Halloween haze dulls the wet on Jasmine’s lips.
Destiny glances at Stan, makes sure he’s locked in—ducks her head, tongue out, nose jammed straight into Jasmine’s slit. She works her jaw slow, mean, lips teasing the edge before diving in. Destiny never lets up. She glances at Stan every couple of seconds—half to punish him, half to make sure he’s ruined for good.
When Stan swallows, it’s loud. He can’t sit still. His hands bunch and release, not sure whether to brace or hide. The shame in his chest hurts worse than the bruises on his ass. Destiny loves the effect. She moans, letting the sound ride up Jasmine’s spine, never breaking focus on Stan’s face.
Jasmine plays right along. She rolls her hips into Destiny’s mouth, fingers tangling in the curls at Destiny’s scalp. Each pump is a warning to Wesley. Jasmine doesn’t smile—she bares teeth, lips curled, mean and hungry. Sometimes she leans forward, lets her own fingers roam Destiny’s neck. Sometimes she just drapes herself back, hair falling, body open and glowing.
Wesley tries to avoid her eyes. Jasmine won’t have it. She locks on, stares, doesn’t blink. Every time Wesley shifts, Jasmine follows, dragging his chin to face her. Each time, she works a little shudder out of him.
Destiny speeds up. She hammers her tongue into Jasmine, hands spreading thighs wide, thumb rubbing the clit slow, followed by fast, and punishing flicks. Jasmine squeals—high, keening, nothing like any noise Stan or Wesley ever made a woman give. The sound shreds the apartment.
Stan shakes. He can’t process the jealousy, the awe, the desperation, a raw yearning. Destiny makes sure he sees every move—each flick, each swirl, each time Jasmine loses it and rides Destiny’s face. The narrative is clear. Power has never looked this good or so final.
Jasmine rides Destiny’s mouth. She lifts one heel, plants it right on the edge of the table, and splits her knees farther. The wetness of her cunt shines in the orange light. With mouth buried between the other’s legs, Destiny grunts, drags her nose side to side, smothering herself in Jasmine’s twat. The joy is sick—every time Jasmine moans, Destiny beams up at Stan, forcing him to swallow the loss.
The men don’t move. They can’t. The urge is there, pulsing, but the threat of punishment—harsh discipline—paralyzes any hope of pleasure. All Stan can do is flex his fingers and try to hide the twitch. All Wesley does is pant, like a wolf with its neck snapped, and hopes Jasmine misses the next tremor.
Destiny rams her tongue in tight. Jasmine’s whole body bows, arching, wiggles back down, trembling. The hands on Destiny’s scalp yank her harder, but Destiny never breaks rhythm. She’s in charge, even with her mouth full.
Jasmine comes first. The orgasm takes over—her breath hitches, knees lock, her face contorts, and the scream rips the air. It’s bright, clean, never shamed. Destiny lets Jasmine ride it all the way out, tongue never pausing. She watches Stan crumble with every jolt. The sound—the shiver—the total collapse, destroys him.
Stan sobs. Not loud, but the noise is there. He can’t believe what’s happening, can’t make it hurt less. Destiny purrs, licking fill from Jasmine’s thighs. Finally, sits back, chin glistening, never breaks away from Stan’s eyes.
Wesley whimpers, can’t even look up. Jasmine grabs him, forces his face up, and lets her own juices drip out for him to see. She cackles, drags Destiny in for a kiss, swapping spit and slick right where both men can watch.
The makeup melts. The sweat glows. Destiny rips her own shirt open, exposing the dark gleam of her breasts. Jasmine barely waits—she feasts on Destiny’s nipples. Biting down until Destiny hisses, sometimes slaps, other times strokes. The power is fluid—each flick of the wrist, each snap of the jaw, all for show, never for the men below.
Stan’s body rebels. His dick aches, but touching brings the whip or hand. He wants to beg, but that’s beneath him. The world shrinks to the spectacle—two black queens devouring each other, never once acknowledging the need of the white men frozen at their feet.
Jasmine swings around and pushes Destiny back on the table. She spits on her hand, rubs Destiny’s cunt with three fingers, and licks the air, taunting Wesley with every move. Destiny’s thighs open, boots planted wide. Jasmine eats her—slow, fast, savage—never letting up.
A Destiny’s head rolls back. Her chest heaves. The pleasure is raw, loud, never faked. She moans deep into Jasmine’s curls, howls when Jasmine bites her clit. The sound cracks the ceiling. Stan nearly blacks out from the pressure in his gut.
Jasmine rocks Destiny through a climax. She pins Destiny’s hips, hammers her tongue, pulls back just to watch the aftershock. Destiny nearly faints from the force, body grinding the edge of the table, boots kicking cups and plastic bones across the carpet.
Stan and Wesley can’t speak, can’t breathe. The only things alive are the shame and the arousal, pounding in time with Destiny’s orgasm.
Jasmine lets Destiny up, mounts her, straddling Destiny’s waist, pussy riding the skin above Destiny’s navel. They trade kisses, wild and slick, hands grabbing hair, skin, whatever they want. Both women glow, every muscle flexing with the pleasure and the control.
Destiny sits up, shoves Jasmine onto her knee, fists Jasmine’s hair, and kisses her deeply. The two of them melt into each other, night unstoppable, sweat and glisten the only shine in the apartment now. Stan and Wesley sit broken, not daring to move, every sense tuned to the scent, the sound, the ache of knowing they’ll never touch pleasure like this.
Time stretches. The women trade off, sometimes eating, sometimes grinding, sometimes just mocking the men with a glance or a giggle. Destiny keeps the whip coiled at her wrist, just in case. With every second burned into memory, Stan and Wesley tremble.
Destiny finishes Jasmine twice. Each time, Jasmine rides the climax out loud, knees banging the table, hands gripping Destiny’s skull. Destiny basks, letting Jasmine’s slick shine down her throat, licking it off her own lips for Stan to see.
Jasmine pays it back, eating Destiny with slow, punishing slurps. She teases the tip of Destiny’s clit, swallows it, nips hard until Destiny’s breath comes ragged. The orgasms—pure, uncontested—leave Destiny sprawled, mouth slack, hair wild.
Every sound, every glance, every ripple in the fog taunts the men. The message is permanent: this is power, this is life now.
Stan folds. His spine kinks, head bowing. Tears track his cheeks, but he doesn’t have the energy to hide them. Wesley sweats through his ruined costume, jaw sagging, barely able to keep himself upright.
Destiny and Jasmine collapse together, tangled, wet, victorious. Neither woman even looks at the men until the last shudder fades. Then Jasmine slumps over Destiny, purring, while Destiny grins up at the ceiling, eyes blazing with conquest.
Nobody moves. Destiny and Jasmine ride the afterglow; Stan and Wesley kneel, hollowed out.
Fog climbs mid-thigh on everybody, swallowing the last pieces of dignity that ever lived in the room. Destiny and Jasmine never let up—they lounge, basking in each other’s grip, while Stan and Wesley stew, lost, bodies craving touch they’ll never get.
Halloween decorations droop. Lights pulse. Destiny’s hand drags through Jasmine’s hair, sometimes softly, sometimes with a yank. Jasmine kisses Destiny’s shoulder, sprawls across her lap. Both women painted with the evidence of pleasure, owning the moment in a way the men never imagined.
Stan’s hands twitch, hopeless. Wesley’s blank, lips open, but no breath comes.
Destiny and Jasmine don’t care. They laugh, savor the domination, kiss again, long and slow, letting the men watch every second.
Scene freezes there—two black women glowing on the coffee table, the men broken at their feet, and the apartment alive with only the sound of fog and defeat. Halloween will mean nothing else again.
Nobody notices the mess on the carpet. Destiny and Jasmine relax, tangled on the coffee table, glitter and sweat smeared across every inch of their skin. Stan and Wesley just kneel, heads empty, eyes locked on the fog swirling over their knees.
Then, the bedroom door opens.
Elijah walks Lisa into the living room, he doesn’t nudge or lead. Wrapping one palm around the back of her neck, he walks her, as if she’s a toy he picked up at a yard sale. Lisa staggers, nurse costume half gone, both tits exposed, dress torn up to the hip on one side, and a rip down to the waist.
The red splotches on her ribs match the marks on her thighs. Every step she takes is a performance. Hips wobbly, mouth soft, nothing behind her eyes but bliss and exhaustion. The woman’s been ridden well and hard. But there’s another ride in her.
Nobody says a word. Grinning, Destiny watches. Jasmine leans forward, ready for the next collapse.
Elijah doesn’t pause. He walks Lisa straight to the couch, slaps her ass, and folds her over the arm. Lisa’s knees buckle, but Elijah holds her steady, one hand digging into the base of her spine, the other guiding his cock into her already ruined cunt. The sound—skin, wet, the couch—makes Stan twitch.
Jasmine clocks Wesley’s effort to look away. She snaps a hand, grabs his jaw.
“Don’t miss it,” she says. Wesley tries to twist, but Jasmine grinds his face forward. “That’s your girlfriend now. Watch how a man takes a bitch.” Jasmine’s nails dig deep, daring Wesley to blink. He can’t.
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