ForcedMTF - Harry Potter and The Forbidden Forest’s Halloween Claim

The Forbidden Forest had never felt this loud before.

Every twig snapping under my boots sounded like a gunshot, every owl hoot like a laugh directed at me. Halloween night, and I was twenty-three years old, an Auror with a wand and a badge, wandering the treeline alone because a stack of cursed artifacts had gone missing from a raid two weeks prior and every lead pointed here. To her. The Lust Witch of the Hollow — some forgotten crone who'd allegedly served Voldemort in his early years, trading flesh-magic for protection, until the Dark Lord himself found her appetites excessive and sealed her into the earth beneath these trees.

My wandlight cut a thin cone through the fog. I found the stone circle just past midnight — seven leaning slabs arranged around a depression of black, oily mud that shouldn't have been liquid in October. In the center, half-sunk in that muck, sat a purple crystal the size of a fist, pulsing with a slow, obscene glow. Like a heartbeat. Like something aroused.

"Cursed object, likely a focal anchor," I muttered to myself, flipping open my field notebook with one hand, wand trained on the crystal. "Removal should be simple—"

I should have used a levitation charm. Every protocol in the Auror handbook said: don't touch. But the thing was pulsing, and the frequency was getting under my skin, and my gloved fingers were reaching for it before my brain caught up, and the moment my fingertips grazed the wet surface—

Heat. A bolt of it shot up my arm, through my chest, down my spine, and it didn't stop. It unwound.

"Augh— fuck!" I dropped my wand. My knees hit the mud. The crystal dissolved into my palm like sugar in hot water, and its magic spread through me like ink through water, and the first thing I felt was my center of gravity shifting.

My hips. Merlin, my hips. I felt bone move — felt it, a grinding, stretching agony-and-pleasure hybrid as my pelvis widened beneath me, flaring out soft and round. My belt cinched tight, then snapped, the leather whipping away into the dark. My trousers split at the seams with a series of wet rips, fabric tearing across thighs that were thickening, softening, skin going smooth and pale as milk in the moonlight.

"N-no — stop —" My voice cracked mid-word and came out higher, breathier. Wrong.

Then my chest. Oh gods, my chest. Pressure bloomed behind my ribs, and my shirt tightened, buttons straining, and then the top two popped off entirely as weight poured into me — heavy, impossibly sensitive flesh swelling outward, my nipples hardening against the ruined cotton as two full, heavy breasts settled onto my frame, bouncing with every panicked gasp. They were big. They ached. The cold air hit them and they tightened further, and the sensation of it — the sheer volume of feeling in my body now — made my head spin.

Between my legs came the worst and strangest of it. A slick, hot pull, like something being unmade and remade. I clutched at myself through the shredded remains of my trousers and my hand closed on nothing familiar — only softness, heat, a cleft that was already embarrassingly wet. My cock was gone. In its place, swollen folds, a throbbing clit, a virgin cunt that clenched on emptiness and gushed at the touch.

I scrambled backward on hands and knees, breasts swinging heavily beneath me, dragging through cold mud, and my hair — still short, still brown, still mine — fell across eyes that were still green behind the same round glasses fogging with my own ragged breath.

And then my clothing began to squirm and shift.

It wasn't fabric being summoned. It was the curse dressing me. Purple silk wrapped my waist of its own accord, a corset cinched tight enough to force my tits up and together into obscenely deep cleavage, the tops of my areolae nearly peeking over the lace. Matching garters snapped around my new plush thighs, sheer stockings sliding up like liquid. A thong — a tiny thong, nothing more than a string and a scrap of lace — settled into the groove of my new pussy, the fabric immediately darkening with how soaked I'd become, digging between my folds every time I moved. And last, perched on my head at a jaunty angle, a pointed purple witch's hat, classic as anything from a Muggle storybook.

I looked like a Hallowe'en joke. A man-faced witch, tits spilling out of a costume, trembling half-naked in the Forbidden Forest.

I got one foot under me. One. Then the ground pulsed.

The mud around the stone circle bulged, split, and erupted.

They came up out of the earth itself — thick, glossy, green tentacles, wet and veined and twitching, each one as big around as my forearm. Not vines. Not beasts. Just magic, the Lust Witch's prison-magic given muscle and hunger and intent, and they moved like they'd been waiting.

The first two caught my ankles before I could scream. Cold, slick muscle coiled around my stockinged legs and yanked, dragging me flat on my back into the mud, my hat tumbling off, breasts bouncing violently as I hit the ground. I clawed at the earth, nails raking furrows, and got exactly nowhere.

A third tentacle slapped across my mouth, then forced its way in — thick, smooth, tasting of earth and something muskier, stretching my jaw wide, muffling my scream into a wet gurgle. My eyes went huge behind the fogged lenses. Drool spilled down my chin immediately, my body traitorously producing it, mouth watering around the intruder as it pushed deeper, pinning my tongue, pumping shallowly against the back of my throat.

More coils found my wrists and pinned them above my head in the mud. One wrapped my waist — my tiny, cinched, corseted waist — and squeezed, lifting my hips off the ground, and I felt my thighs being forced apart, felt the cold night air hit the soaking scrap of my thong.

Then the thong was ripped aside.

I knew what was coming a heartbeat before it did and my whole body arched in denial, muffled shrieking around the tentacle gagging me— and then a thick, blunt, dripping tip pressed against my virgin entrance and pushed in.

The sound that came out of me wasn't a scream anymore. It was a moan — deep, warbling, humiliatingly wet. "Mmm— mmmngh!"

It was tight. Gods, it was so tight, my brand-new pussy stretched around invading girth that had no business fitting, slick walls parting inch by agonizing inch. The curse had made me wet — ruinously wet — and the tentacle used every drop of it, sinking in to the hilt in one long, slow, unstoppable thrust until I felt it press against something deep inside me that made my vision white out.

Then it started to move.

Long, deep, deliberate strokes. Out until just the tip kissed my fluttering entrance, then slamming back in, and every thrust sent shockwaves up through my belly, made my heavy tits jolt and bounce against the corset, made wet slapping sounds echo off the stones. Shlap. Shlap. Shlap. My hips began to rock back into it, out of my control entirely, chasing the friction like my body had been built for exactly this.

Another tendril curled up over my stomach and slid under the corset's lace, finding a breast, enveloping it in slick coils. It squeezed, and the sensation shot straight down to my clit like a lightning rod. A thinner tendril flicked across my stiff nipple, back and forth, back and forth, until I was squirming, until my back arched off the mud and my muffled cries turned rhythmic, "Mmh— mmh— mmmh—" in time with the fucking.

Then the thickest one — slick, ridged, pulsing — slid up between my spread thighs and dragged across my clit.

My mind broke a little.

"MMMMGH!" I bucked so hard the coils at my wrists creaked. The pleasure wasn't like anything I'd known as a man — it wasn't localized, it was everywhere, radiating from that swollen little pearl through my whole soft body in rolling waves. The tentacle circled it, pressed down, rubbed in tight wet spirals while the one inside me picked up its pace, thrusting harder, deeper, angling against that spot inside that made my toes curl in my stockings.

A second tendril joined the first at my mouth, not pushing in but pressing, smearing my drooling lips, sliding across my cheek, leaving trails of glistening wet that the cold air turned to gooseflesh. Another coiled around my free breast, and now both tits were bound and milked, squeezed in slow, kneading pulses, nipples pinched and tugged between slick muscular tips, the heavy flesh bulging through the coils with every stroke.

And still the main one fucked me. Harder now. Wet, obscene squelching filled the stone circle — my pussy was making sounds I'd never admit to, gushing around every thrust, slick running down my thighs to pool in the garters. The friction was building in my belly like a tide, coiling tighter and tighter, and I could feel my face burning behind the glasses, could feel my body climbing toward something enormous, my thighs trembling, my cunt fluttering around the pumping girth—

"MMMH— MMMPH—"

I came.

It hit me like a Bludger. My whole soft body seized, back bowing in an arc, breasts straining against their slick bindings as wave after wave of climax ripped through me — my pussy clamping down on the tentacle, milking it in fluttering contractions, clit throbbing against the tendril still circling it, and the curse just kept going, kept thrusting, kept rubbing, dragging the orgasm out impossibly long until I was a sobbing, drooling, jiggling wreck in the mud, glasses askew, hat long gone, corset soaked with my own spit and sweat.

But the tentacles weren't finished. They never got to be finished — twenty years of hunger in the earth.

The one in my cunt pulled out with a wet shluck, leaving me gaping and clenching at nothing for one dizzy second — and then pressed back in alongside a second tendril, two of them stretching me wide at once, and the stretch alone forced a second orgasm out of me almost immediately, my toes pointing, my cries muffled wetly around the gag as my virgin pussy was opened beyond what it should take, stuffed full, fucked in alternating strokes that never gave me a moment of relief.

On and on. Under the crescent moon, in my stolen witch's costume, the forest took its offering. My body — soft, round, female, mine but not mine — bounced and jiggled and came until I lost count, until the pleasure and the humiliation fused into something I couldn't tell apart, until the last thing I registered before consciousness thinned was the tentacles wrapping tight around my waist and thighs, lifting my limp, dripping body off the mud entirely, cradling their claimed witch like a prize—

And carrying me deeper into the dark.

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