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The first thing you should know about the Oneiros Spindle is that it doesn't come with a manual. Or a warning label. One moment, I was standing there, staring at this elegant, humming artifact like it might politely explain itself. The next, reality folded like an overused map, and I was the mapper.
The Lecherous Shrine didn't just lock into place; it yanked me inward, as if my soul had signed up for an extreme sport without reading the waiver. The world dissolved into an endless, glowing mindscape, with the Shrine at its center, pulsating like a seductive heartbeat. Threads of light exploded outward, tugging me into connections I'd barely realized were this alive. Every thread hummed with dreams, desires, and lives—and I wasn't just watching. I was in them. Like being handed a backstage pass to the collective consciousness of everyone I'd ever claimed.
The first thread burned brightest—my Lilims. Anantasia Greengrass, Narcissa Black, Hestia Jones, and Emmeline Vance weren't just dreaming; they were reveling in something golden and intimate. Each was different, yet underlined by the same undercurrent of desire, a yearning for the connection that only I could provide. Anastasia wandered through a misty forest, searching for something unknown; Narcissa stood by a shadowy sea, the waves whispering secrets; Hestia was locked in a dance with shadows that moved with an almost human grace; Emmeline wandered a crumbling cityscape, her eyes searching for a beacon of light in the darkness.
With the Spindle acting as my conduit, I tapped into the lingering sensations of our last collective encounter—an orgy of senses and emotions so intense that the memory alone could ignite the rawest of passions. I channeled these sensations, these echoes of ecstasy, into the dream threads connecting us, weaving them into the fabric of each woman's dream.
Instantly, the atmosphere in their dreams shifted. The forest around Anastasia lit up with ethereal fire, the trees whispering my name as she found what she had been searching for—a vision of me, waiting in a clearing, an embodiment of her deepest desires. The sea before Narcissa calmed, reflecting a moonlit sky as I emerged from the waves, calling to her with a voice that promised endless pleasures. She rushed into the waves, and it is amidst that, that we made love. Hestia's shadow dance transformed, the figures morphing into multiple reflections of me, each one embracing her in a dance that was more than physical. With every step, her clothing dropped, and the many me's began touching and groping her all over, until she was lost in a sea of hands and fingers. Emmeline screamed in delight as I pulled her against one of the half-crumbled walls, lifted her leg up, and started fucking her while strangers watched her with their lustful gazes.
As their dreamscape realities morphed under my influence, the feedback was immediate and intense. Their pleasure, their fulfillment, echoed back through the Spindle, magnifying and intertwining with my own senses. It was a symphony of shared ecstasy, each note resonating perfectly with the next, building a crescendo that threatened to overwhelm even my vast capacity for control.
But the Spindle wasn't done with me. Hermione's thread tugged me next, vibrant and wild. Her dream dragged me into a moonlit forest, the air heavy with the primal energy of her werewolf nature. She prowled through the shadows like a huntress, her amber eyes blazing with feral hunger. And there I was, not as myself, but as my Animagus form: a towering, bestial yenaldooshi, my every movement rippling with raw power.
She stopped when she saw me, her head tilting slightly as though testing the air for my scent. A low growl escaped her throat, but it wasn't a threat—it was an invitation. When I stepped forward, her lips curled into a dangerous smirk. She closed the distance in a heartbeat, her hands pressing against my chest, her breath hot and electric.
The forest seemed to hold its breath, the air alive with the rhythm of her heartbeat and the raw connection thrumming between us. This wasn't Hermione the intellectual, the rule-follower. This was her untamed self, wild and unapologetic, claiming me with a ferocity that left me reeling.
Then came Amelia. Her thread pulled me into a neon-lit bar, its bass-heavy music thrumming through the air. And there she was, Amelia Bones, but not the Amelia I knew. Gone was the austere head of the DMLE. This Amelia was on the counter, dancing like she owned the place, her coat discarded, her shirt tied up to reveal a toned midriff that would have scandalized the Ministry.
Her hair, usually pinned back with militant precision, spilled untamed over her shoulders, catching the colorful lights as she swayed. Her sharp, no-nonsense gaze softened when she saw me, replaced by something smoky and inviting. With a grin that was half challenge, half promise, she crooked a finger at me and stepped down, her hips swaying exaggeratedly.
"Took you long enough," she said, her voice dripping with mischief as she looped her arms around my neck. "Care to join me?"
This wasn't the Amelia Bones who wielded justice like a hammer. This was a woman unbound, electric and daring, pulling me into her orbit like gravity itself. The world outside her dream ceased to matter. There was only the music, her laughter, and the fire in her eyes.
The threads spun faster, each one tugging me into a new dream. Susan Bones's dream unfolded into a golden meadow, serene and sunlit, her laughter ringing out as she swung beneath a massive oak. But as I stepped into her dream, the swing slowed, her gaze locking onto mine. The meadow warmed, the light shifting to amber as she stepped forward, her fingers brushing my chest. Her touch lingered, tentative at first, before becoming bolder as the dream turned electric.
Hannah Abbott's dream was a carnival of color, her laughter bright and musical as she twirled beneath the glow of spinning lights. But the carnival faded as I approached, the stalls and rides melting into the background, leaving only the two of us beneath a Ferris wheel. She reached for me, her eyes wide with anticipation as the world around us stilled. Tracey's silly nightmare about missing pants at her workplace turned into an epic revisit of our time at the loo, only with an incapacitated Narcissa glaring at her for having the audacity to fuck someone so far above her station. And on and on. Ginny Weasley. Cynthia Abbott. Romilda Vane. Hundreds of nameless and faceless women, all of which had been subjected to mere moments of my allure at the World Cup. At one point, I think I saw the Irish Minister of Magic excuse herself from an important meeting with the Minister of Finance, to step into her bathroom to satiate the growing wetness between her legs. I wasn't merely observing; I was with them, meeting each thrall where they were, giving them what they needed, pulling them closer to me in ways that defied explanation.
The threads pulsed and hummed, a living web of connection that blurred the line between us until I couldn't tell where I ended and they began. Their thoughts, their feelings, their lives—they weren't just linked to me. They were me.
But I searched. I searched for one particular thrall.
Grasping her thread, I followed. The dreamscape shifted as I approached, the edges of her world crystallizing into focus.
A roaring crowd greeted me, an electric symphony of sound and light. The Weird Sisters commanded the stage, their music alive with bursts of flame and magic. At the center of it all, she stood. Nymphadora Tonks. Her hair glowed electric blue, her leather jacket slung carelessly over her shoulders, and her grin was pure exhilaration. She was utterly unguarded, lost in the music.
I lingered on the edge of her dream, waiting. Dreams were delicate, easily twisted but prone to breaking if handled roughly. I stepped forward, letting the dream fold around me like a second skin.
This was going to be fun.
The roar of the crowd was deafening, a symphony of cheers and raw energy that pulsed through her veins. The Weird Sisters were on fire tonight, their music weaving magic into every note. Flames erupted from the stage in rhythmic bursts, their glow illuminating the enraptured faces in the audience. Nymphadora Tonks stood near the center of it all, her electric blue hair catching the light like a spark of wildfire. Her leather jacket clung to her like armor, a barrier between her and the thrumming chaos.
The music surged, and Tonks let herself go, her movements fluid and untethered. Her feet found the beat as though it was etched into her very bones, and she spun, arms raised, letting the sound wash over her. The crowd blurred around her—a sea of indistinct faces, each lost in the magic of the night. There was something intoxicating about the anonymity, about being part of something so vast and alive. This was freedom. This was exhilaration.
The band launched into her favorite song, and her grin widened, her whole body vibrating with the rhythm. The air around her shimmered as fireworks exploded above the stage, the sparks falling like stars. Each note felt tangible, a thread of sound she could almost grasp with her fingertips. The world narrowed to the music and the pounding of her heart, a perfect harmony that carried her away.
Yet, something faintly off lingered at the edges of her awareness. She shook the thought away. The thought floated away, lost in the pulse of the music, as she let herself fall deeper into the thrall of the moment.
The Weird Sisters reached a crescendo, their instruments conjuring waves of light that rippled through the crowd. Tonks's chest heaved as she shouted the lyrics along with the band, her voice raw and free. The ground beneath her feet seemed to hum, the magic of the performance blending seamlessly with the dreamscape. The night stretched on, endless and surreal, a perfect blend of chaos and joy.
Her grin didn't waver as she leaped in time with the music, her hair flashing under the shifting lights. A flicker of something unusual—a barely perceptible distortion in the corner of her vision—caught her attention. She turned her head instinctively, but nothing was there, only more dancing bodies lost in their reverie.
Shrugging it off, she dove back into the music, her movements unrestrained. This was her night, her moment. Whatever oddities the dream conjured were merely that: harmless fragments of her imagination. The magic, the crowd, the music—they were all she needed. For now, that was enough.
And then someone grabbed her arse.
Nymphadora almost turned, startled, but changed her mind. She had been groped in crowds before and continued on dancing. She was grabbed again and this time it wasn't just a quick squeeze, the hands lingered, kneading her firm arse. She tried to turn and tell him to fuck off, but the crowd was too thick, having suddenly pressed in around her.
Scowling, Nymphadora instantly shifted her form into a large, ruddy, bulking man. As a metamorphmagus, shifting to another human form was child's play to her. Whoever was attempting to have some fun would immediately be repulsed.
So imagine her surprise when her morph refused to work, leaving her just how she was.
Startled, she attempted to turn around, but couldn't, given how thickly the crowd was pressing against her. Much to her distress, she felt the hands slide down to her bare thighs and then back up the insides of her legs. She attempted to get her wand out, but remembered that it was tucked inside her belt, and she wasn't even able to lower her arms to push his hands away. She couldn't even let out a yelp — her lungs were paralyzed around her terror-chilled heart. the man pawed her inner thigh, over her taut belly, down her back — petting her whole transfixed lower body through her clothes.
Merlin! What is he doing? Tonks panicked. Whoever it was, his hand was so hot, and the way he was pinching her arse and massaging her arse-cheeks so forcefully, so eagerly. She tried to cross her legs, but powerful fingers pried her tightened thighs anyway.
"Stop!" She cried out. "Get off me!"
Her protest fell on deaf ears. Her assaulter had found his toy, and he was about to have his way with her.
"Don't lie to yourself," said her assaulter, his voice sending shivers down her spine. It was cool and sultry, having exactly the same effect as his hands that slowly trailed upwards until he cupped her pussy in his palm. How he was doing this when she was surrounded with people from all sides, she had no idea.
"You want this more than you're ready to admit."
Something about that voice was familiar, and yet for the life of her, she could not ascertain the name. It was like every time she attempted to recognize this mystery person, the name would slip away from her thoughts.
He stroked her anting slit, and her knees nearly buckled as she let out an involuntary moan.
"N-no! Get away from me!" Tonks began to struggle, to break free from her assaulter. But he was too strong for her, and it goaded him on. He lifted her arms, and slowly peeled off her T-shirt. Tonks gawked, stuck between the sheer audacity of this person to do this to her, her own helplessness, and the utter surreality that this was happening amidst a massive crowd with no one the wiser. Maybe if she had thought a little more, she would have recognized that such a setting couldn't possibly happen in real life.
But this was a dream. And while one always recognized that something was odd in the dream, it never quite felt like that when the dream was occurring.
The next thing she knew, her skirt slid down her legs and pooled on the floor. Tonks stood there, amidst the dancing crowd, trapped there in just her lacy bra and pink thong to protect her. Their rough hands touched bare skin as she vainly tried to cover up and push them away.
"I can feel how pent up you are."
With a click, her bra went slack and fell to the ground. Her assaulter cupped her bare tits from behind before she could cover them herself.
Mmm, that feels so good... Tonks thought, despite her fear. Her alarmed gasp turned into a moan as those rough fingers toyed with her hardening nipples... NO! she mentally screamed, What am I thinking!? I won't let him! Her heart pounded in her chest, but she couldn't tell if it was from terror, or excitement.
"You're not going to fuck me! Whoever you are!" She yelled, her heart jolting at the thought of this man, who for some reason, reminded her of Harry Potter. She redoubled her struggle, trying to land a kick on the person behind. But right then, the crowd somehow pressed even more.
What is this? What's going on? This can't be —
"But of course it is happening, Tonksie..." He said, his rough fingers sliding under her tiny thong strings. The fabric clung to her sex before peeling away and dropping to the ground at her kicking feet. She felt his hand between her legs, and despite her attempts to lock her thighs, he could feel just how wet she was.
She was wet.
She knew it.
He knew it.
And he knew that she knew it.
Nymphadora knew she should have made an attempt to run. Or transform. Or scream. As if reading her thoughts, a hand snaked across her bare waist, and pulled her back at him.
"No, no, you can't just leave midway," he taunted, and shivers ran down her spine. She didn't even attempt to wrestle, knowing how futile it would be. Something about the crowd was horribly wrong. It was like they were all ignoring her, bending with the tune of the music, yet they were all watching her from the corner of her eyes. Watching her get debased in public and enjoying what they saw.
They were enjoying her debasement, her humiliation, her becoming a whore.
It should have frozen her, made her dash, made her scream and make a grab for her wand and blast her way out.
Instead, her thighs loosened and she let his pressing touches in.
"Ah, yes. That's a good decision. You know, I have been waiting for a long time to breed you."
Her heart stopped. Breed?
As if to explain his point, he grabbed her hand and put it on his cock, and all thoughts of resisting vanished from her head.
That thing was….
Immense.
To call it a cock would be an understatement. Her assaulter was hung, like a bull, his cock thick and heavily veined with testicles hanging like stones beneath it. As she gripped it, images of Harry Potter swam into her head. The memory of watching Hermione Granger unzip his pants, pull out that beastly weapon and fondle it, before brazenly fucking herself on it. Big, thick, meaty and capable of drilling her through countless orgasms like a well-oiled machine. So many nights had gone in her just endlessly fingering herself, imagining that taut weapon rushing her through several pussy-clenching, world-shaking, mind-bending orgasms.
It probably said something that Hermione Granger's words and actions created a far more dangerous psychic trap than anything Harry Potter, Incubus had ever done to her. Even with her Unspeakable training, just something about that particular memory refused to vanish from her mind, despite her most sincere attempts.
Then her assaulter slipped a single finger into her eager cunt, and Nymphadora gushed, her pussy overflowing with juices. She knew this was wrong, that she should be horrified at such blatant public violation.
Instead she just felt pleasure.
Her struggles halted. Her knees weakened, ready to give out any moment. She couldn't help herself. Her resistance was falling. Despite herself, she ground her pussy against his hand as he slipped a second finger inside her eager folds. She cried out loudly this time, her scream lost in the yells and shouts of the excited party crowd while the concert raged on.
Then he put in the third finger, scratched her insides and pulled them out. Nymphadora felt a pang of disappointment, and groaned, before the consequences of her actions hit her hard.
What are you thinking? She asked herself. You should be happy this is over. The very fact that she was missing the fingers was deplorable. As she chastised herself, she never even noticed how she had pushed her arse out, inviting her touch.
He didn't disappoint. Only instead of his fingers, his thick, meaty cock pressed against her. Gasping, Tonks was powerless to stop him as he slid all the way in, filling her, spreading her pussy with his girth.
It began slowly, pumping in and out, sending waves through her. She couldn't believe this was happening — she was standing there, stripped in public, and being fucked like a whore. She easily could have screamed that she was being violated, but the only sounds that came from her throat were cries of pleasure as another orgasm tore through her. Soon, she was grinding her hips against this stranger behind her, matching his thrusts.
"Oh, yes! Yes! Yes!" She cried loudly this time, as he slammed into her. His thick shaft kept pushing into her tight pussy, her own ability rendering it tighter than ever. She was no virgin, but her tightness could make virgins go green with envy. Her assaulter shoved the entirety of his weapon all the way into her, and Nymphadora nearly passed out, heart racing and mind spinning. Metamorph or not, she couldn't just twist the emotions coursing through her at that moment.
SLAP!
She practically fell over, landing on her hands, her arse raised up in offering. Her pussy clamped down the hard member inside her. Her cunt pulsed and pulled, tightening like a vice around the ever-thrusting cock. She could feel it pulsing inside her — strong, fast and thick. Her cum oozed down her thighs, coating his already sopping member in a layer of hot grool.
"No —ooo. Please! Ugh — Stop! No! Uhm!"
But her pleas were betrayed by her lusty groans. Hard hands possessed her breasts from behind. The hot fingers slid over her nipples, which she was sure could cut glass right now. Nymphadora threw her head back and screamed as yet another orgasm coursed through her, but her shouts were lost in the roar of the crowd, and the deafening symphony of music and magic. The Weird Sisters were mid-performance, their instruments alive with enchantments that sparked and pulsed to the rhythm of their song. The crowd surged around her, a sea of faces blurred with motion and noise.
"Ugh! Merlin! I'm cumm- cumming!" She wailed, bending in half."I — I can't! I can't get pregnant! I can't —" Her voice quavered, icy fear spilling into her hot waves of pleasure. " I — No, please — ugh!"
Her mouth hung open, the intensity of his cock being shoved into her innards shaking her core right then. It washed over her resistance, clouded her thoughts, and smothered over her fears. Her mystery man had just cum inside her, but instead of stopping, he just kept pounding her harder and harder. She barely responded when he pulled her hands behind and cuffed her wrists, her breasts smashing against the ground. The slap that followed echoed through the room, and she whimpered, her eyes swelling with tears at the force of his spank.
"Ah, did it hurt?"
His fingers touched her naked arse again, and Tonks winced, expecting another blow. Instead, he rubbed it gently, soothing the sting slightly.
It was almost relaxing, the way his fingers massaged her. Tonks was almost lulled into a false sense of serenity.
SLAP!
The devastating blow came right after, and she yelled in shock, pain and pleasure shooting up her spine. Her pussy exploded, splattering juices all over his thighs.
"Merlin, this is a nice arse." said the voice, and Nymphadora hated the surge of pride she felt. The bastard was violating her. He had no right to comment on her arse, much less spank it like that, with her nude form bent in front of him. Her face burned with shame. He gave her another spank, grabbing her again, and she whelped, her pussy getting even wetter.
Slap!
Slap!
Slap!
Nymphadora squealed and squealed, feeling the juices gather at her folds and dripping down her thighs. The vibe was rumbling and she bit her lip. He had begun to push his cock deep in, and she was feeling the monster pushing against her stomach.
"Damn. This slut is getting even wetter. What a whore!" He snorted, rubbing her arse soothing the blow, his thumb tracing the inside of her arse crack. Tonks shuddered, hips bucking and back arching as his finger neared her arse slit. Kneading the cheeks with his other hand, he pushed the finger in, and a searing pain shot up her spine.
Nymphadora was no stranger to sex, but she had yet to take someone — anyone up her arse. The pain of the finger was searing. She had never had anything in her arse.
And then a pair of hands grabbed her boobs.
And yet another, her legs, and a third pair, her hands, pulling her up. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide.
All the color drained out of her face. Nymphadora Jibbered out some incoherent rejoinder.
"Well then," came the voice of Harry Potter. "How would you like to be bred, Nymphadora?"