Suck off the fake dementor

She tried to find a rhythm, to make the act mechanical, but the creature was unyielding. The cold seeped into her jaw, making her muscles ache and contract. She could feel the phantom drain on her magic, her mind growing foggier, her happy memories becoming even more distant and gray. The only things that were real were the pain in her nipples, the heat of Tlyer's body against her back, and the icy phallus filling her mouth.

"That's it, my little slut," Tlyer groaned, his voice thick with a perverse pleasure. "Choke on it. Show me how much you love the cold."

The words were a catalyst. A wave of heat, unwanted and shameful, washed over her. Her body was learning this new, twisted language of pain and pleasure. Her pussy, already slick with her traitorous arousal, clenched in response to the degradation. She was getting off on this. The realization was a bitter pill, a final nail in the coffin of her old self.

With a renewed sense of desperation, she began to suck in earnest. She took the obsidian cock deeper, the cold a constant, burning ache. Her tongue flicked against the smooth, unnaturally hard surface, trying to find some semblance of warmth, but there was none. She could feel the dementor's skeletal hands tighten on her shoulders, its rattling breath a constant reminder of her powerlessness.

Tlyer's hands left her nipples, and she felt a moment of relief before they were on her hips, pulling her up and positioning her. She was on her hands and knees now, her ass in the air, a position of utter submission. The dementor moved behind her, its cold presence a looming threat.

"Time for the main event," Tlyer said, his voice a cruel whisper. He moved in front of her, his own cock out, hard and angry. He grabbed her hair, forcing her to look at him. "I want to see your face when it fucks you. I want to see the fear."

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