Felt bare before the fake dementor and the man

Harry nude body trembled, a mixture of the unnatural cold and the hot, suffocating presence of Tlyer behind her. Her skin pebbled, every nerve ending alight with a terror that was quickly morphing into something else, something darker. The sheer vulnerability was a new kind of horror. She had been stripped before, but never with this audience, never with her deepest fear given form and lust.

The fake dementor glided closer, its skeletal fingers tracing a line down her arm, leaving a trail of icy numbness in their wake. Harry flinched, a strangled gasp escaping her lips. The touch was just as she remembered from her encounters with the real things, a draining, soul-sucking cold that leeched the warmth and fight right out of her. But this was different. This cold was punctuated by the scorching heat of Tlyer's body pressed against her back, his erection a hard, insistent line against her buttocks.

"You see that, Cleo?" Tlyer murmured, his breath hot and moist against the shell of her ear. "That's what fear looks like. And it's beautiful." He took her hand, his grip like a vise, and **** it down, wrapping her fingers around the dementor's unnaturally cold, rigid phallus. The shock of it made her cry out, a raw, **** sound that was swallowed by the oppressive silence of the room.

It was like gripping a block of dry ice, a cold so profound it felt like it was burning her very flesh. The surface was smooth, unnervingly so, and it seemed to throb with a slow, rhythmic pulse that resonated deep within her, a discordant counterpoint to the frantic beating of her own heart.

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