Stroke the dementor cock with a quickness

Harry's mind screamed at her to let go, to run, to do anything but comply. But her body, conditioned by Ezra's rough initiation and Tlyer's menacing presence, betrayed her. Her fingers, trembling uncontrollably, began to move. The motion was clumsy, mechanical at first, a desperate attempt to placate the man who held her life in his hands. She stroked the obsidian cock with a frantic, jerky motion, her wrist aching from the cold that seeped into her bones.

A strange, guttural sound emanated from the dementor, a cross between a rattling breath and a groan. It wasn't a sound of pleasure, but of a deep, ancient hunger. The creature's skeletal hands moved to her shoulders, its grip like iron manacles, pulling her closer. Harry felt the breath being stolen from her lungs, the last vestiges of her happy memories, Ron's laughter, Hermione's smile, the feel of flying on a Firebolt, flickering and dying like embers in a storm.

Tlyer's groan of approval was a stark contrast to the dementor's chilling sound. He ground himself against her, his arousal a fierce, hot thing that seemed to burn right through her. "That's it," he encouraged, his voice thick with lust. "Show it what a good little whore you are. The fear will become your addiction."

The words were a poison dart, but they hit their mark. A wave of heat, sharp and humiliating, flooded Harry's core. Her pussy clenched, a slick warmth spreading between her thighs that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with the twisted response her body was learning. She was a whore. Ezra had said it. Tlyer was proving it. And now, she was pleasuring a monster, her greatest fear, while another man got off on her terror.

Her strokes became more fluid, less a panicked reaction and more a practiced, willing, caress. The cold from the dementor's cock seemed to draw the heat from her core, creating a bizarre, unbearable sensation of being frozen from the inside out while her skin burned with shame and arousal.

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