Lean over to suck the obsidian cock while Tlyer gropes her nipples

Harry bent at the waist, the movement stiff and unnatural. The air grew colder as she neared the creature's robes, the scent of damp earth and decay filling her senses. The obsidian phallus pulsed before her eyes, a thing of nightmare and perverse fascination. Her mind recoiled, every instinct screaming in protest, but Tlyer's hands were on her, guiding her down. His rough fingers pinched her nipples, twisting them hard, sending a jolt of sharp, stinging pleasure straight to her aching core. The pain was an anchor, a grounding point in the sea of her terror.

"Take it," Tlyer commanded, his voice a harsh breath in her ear. "Taste your fear."

Her lips parted, and she hesitated for a fraction of a second. In that moment, she felt a profound sense of loss, not just for her body, but for the boy named Harry who had faced real dementors with a Patronus. Now, she was just Cleo, a whore about to perform oral sex on a magical mockery of her deepest trauma.

She closed her mouth around the tip of the dementor's cock. The cold was immediate and excruciating, a pain that was not a burn but a deep, penetrating frost. It felt like her tongue was freezing to the smooth, black surface, her teeth aching from the sheer, unnatural temperature of it. The dementor's rattling breath grew louder, a sound that seemed to vibrate through her skull, leeching her thoughts.

Tlyer's hands were relentless, kneading and abusing her breasts, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He watched her, his green eyes alight with a fiendish glee, drinking in the sight of her degradation. The combination of the searing pain in her nipples and the soul-freezing cold in her mouth created a disorienting, sensory chaos that short-circuited her mind. A tear escaped the corner of her eye, not of sorrow, but of pure, overwhelming sensation.

"Isn't it funny? The dementor suck the soul from it victims, but here you are sucking it soul from him." The man tease.

She began to move, her head bobbing in a slow, uncertain rhythm. She tried to imagine it was just a piece of cursed ice, a task to be performed.

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