A Black & White Halloween
Chapter 8: The Black New Order
Suspense Sex Story: Chapter 8: The Black New Order - 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
Nobody moves. Stan’s knees creak in the fog, toes curling against the cold patch of wet carpet. Destiny’s boots slam down inches from his thigh. She slides off the table, knees to the ruined rug, yanks his chin up with a fist full of sweat-soaked hair.
She waits—a beat, maybe two. Her breath lands against his jaw—hot, moist, metallic, totally in control.
“Next weekend,” Destiny mutters, voice so steady it hurts. “You’ll host us again. Get the place ready and don’t fuck it up. You prep yourselves, too. There’s no second warning, Stan-da-man, if you wanna stay a man.”
She grabs his balls, twisting them.
When Stan tries to nod, her grip locks him in place. The torn edge of his vampire collar tries to fold over itself, but Destiny’s hold stretches his sack with one hand and his neck with the other. Until the bite marks show—jagged, purple, some even shaped like her teeth. Stan’s jaw trembles. He wants to thank her, but the words die at his lips. He accepts it.
“Yes, Mistress,” Stan says.
Across the battlefield—crushed snacks, cracked plastic, puddles of spilled punch—Jasmine owns her space. She straddles the back of the ruined armchair, one knee pressed at Wesley’s side, the other bracing her thigh in his lap. Jasmine’s bodysuit glows perfect, not so much as a scuff. She loves it. Jasmine grabs Wesley’s face with both hands, palms locking his jaw so hard he can’t move.
“Same rules, wolf-man,” Jasmine growls. She doesn’t lean in; she drags him close. “Next party, you serve me naked as jaybird. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Wesley doesn’t flinch, not anymore. He’s hollowed out. The only thing left is memory—Carol’s scent, Jasmine’s fingernails, the whiplash of humiliation and need beating a tattoo along his raw neck. Jasmine’s words aren’t a threat anymore. They’re the law.
At the far end, by the front door’s battered frame, Elijah and Justus stand shoulder to shoulder. The phone glows in Elijah’s hand; he flicks through screens, never glancing down, and passes it across to Lisa. Her fingers miss, almost drop it, but Elijah smirks. Lisa grins back, a wild, shamed smile. The nurse costume is missing half its buttons—her nipple flashes, vanishes behind the tangle of red hair falling across her chest.
Justus and Carol—he doesn’t say a word, shares his number, waits while Carol’s trembling hand types it into the phone. The witch hat is a memory; the ribbon and brim lie mangled in the foggy puddle by the doorway. Carol’s collarbone shines with wet teeth marks, smeared lipstick, and a mascara streak that never got wiped away.
Elijah pockets his phone, tucks the warrior helmet under his arm, and stares back at the room. He doesn’t blink.
“These bitches belong to us now,” Elijah says. The words land like furniture crashing, final and definite. Nobody argues. “We’re gonna knock ‘em up, and the four of you will raise our kids. We own y’all.”
Destiny drags Stan’s face up for one more look. “Don’t let us down, vampire,” she hisses, lets go all at once. Stan sags, air rushing out. The glow from deflated Halloween pumpkins ghosts over his skin, painting the wounds purple and sickly.
Jasmine releases Wesley, but only after she’s sure the lesson’s home. She trails one nail along his jaw—right over the crescent where her teeth sank in.
“Get ready, loser,” Jasmine purrs, spins, flicking the tail at his cheek as she stands.
The four dominators gather. Destiny wipes the dust off her skirt, glares at the apartment like it’s prey, and she’s already planned the next kill. Jasmine snaps her hair back, not a drop of slick out of place. Elijah and Justus bracket the women, boots crunching on broken chips, couch stuffing, and the drag of a ruined party.
The door draws them together. Streamers, ripped and flattened, dangle from the hinges, bright orange slashed with leftover blood from a prank that barely survived the night. Destiny doesn’t glance back—she zips her jacket, leads the exit. Jasmine steps over the crushed witch hat without smiling. Elijah and Justus blink once at the carnage, vanish into the fogged hallway. The sound of their boots carries, booms, and is gone.
Nobody breathes for a second. The room shrinks. Fog hugs the carpet; every puddle glows with blue and red light. Stan collapses to the floor. Wesley follows. Both men fold—shoulders caved, jaws soft, eyes blank as the dawn that isn’t ready to show yet.
Lisa crawls first. Her knees hook through the puddle by Stan’s feet; her hands shake, fishnet stockings shredded into long, curling vines against her thighs. She buries her face in Stan’s lap, props herself up enough to say it:
“I’m sorry. I need this.” Lisa’s eyes stutter, close, and her fingers—tender, almost—trace the bruises left on her thighs. Each print the shape of Elijah’s hand.
Stan wants to comfort her, but the body says no. He wraps his arms, gently, but lets her do what she needs.
On the other side, Carol crawls over the couch, drops into Wesley’s lap, not caring about the mess or the stains or the way her own makeup leaks down pale cheeks. She presses her lips to the hollow between Wesley’s chin and shoulder, rocks against his chest, slow and numb. Carol’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Wesley stares at the deflated pumpkins. Can’t look away from the broken-toothed smile slumped in the corner, plastic jaw sagging, glitter dusted across the floor like a coffin cloth. He pets Carol’s head—awkward, a little lost—but never says a word.