NTR: Stealing wives in Another World

The council chamber was colder than usual, as if the air itself recoiled from what was about to happen. The morning sun poured in like a judgmental eye, throwing sharp shadows across the polished stone floor. Elders filtered in with stiff backs and wrinkled brows, their expressions carefully composed—but that thin veil of decorum was already cracking.

At the center of it all stood Allen.

He wasn't dressed like royalty. He wasn't armored like a general. He stood in a loose robe, open at the chest, the hem brushing bare feet. He looked unbothered. Relaxed. Dangerous.

And then the doors opened again.

Fina led them in—his five marked maids.

Calla, Mira, Tessa, Niva, and Brin. All of them fully nude except for the thick, black ink declaring their sins. They walked in two by two, then Brin followed last, chin high, ass cheeks clearly inked with NOTHING in bold letters. Their shame wasn't hidden—it was celebrated. Like tattoos of devotion.

Gasps filled the chamber.

One elder muttered a curse. Another clutched their staff tight enough to whiten their knuckles.

Allen let the silence stretch just a bit too long before speaking.

"Let me guess," he said, tone conversational, "you're all wondering what I've done."

More silence.

"You should be wondering what I undid."

The girls knelt behind him, forming a neat half-circle. Their heads were bowed, but not in fear. It was obedience. Purpose.

"I didn't break them. The Rhelgars did," Allen continued, stepping forward. "I simply gave them back the pieces. And let them decide how they wanted to be remade."

Lira's voice cut through like a dull knife. "You parade them like trophies."

"I parade them like truths." Allen turned to her, expression unreadable. "Every house in this city is built on secrets. On bodies. I'm just the first one honest enough to put them on display."

Elder Yoru's old voice rumbled. "This is a mockery of decency. Of civilization."

"Decency?" Allen laughed once—sharp. "These girls were pissed on, beaten, degraded, before they met me. And you call this a mockery? I gave them choice. I gave them identity. You gave them holes to fill."

Rinni sauntered in from the side, lips glossed with something obscene, and perched herself casually on the arm of Allen's chair.

"You should've heard what they confessed," she purred, clearly relishing the unease.

Fina joined her on the other side, hands behind her back, poised but smug.

Allen gestured casually to the girls. "Go ahead. Stand. Show them."

The five maids rose, not in sync, not in some perfect military form—but in raw, trembling truth. They turned to show the ink. Every shameful phrase. Every confession turned brand.

Calla lifted her hands behind her head. I RUBBED MY SLUTTY CUNT ON RHELGAR'S TOWELS.

Mira arched her thick thighs. FURNITURE SLUT.

Tessa showed her smooth back. PISS SLUT.

Niva pulled her arms behind her to display her chest. DOG TOY.

And Brin? She just turned around and bent forward slightly. NOTHING.

There were more than just elders watching now. Guards. Scribes. Even a few invited nobles. The room had become a theater of power and sin, and Allen was the playwright, the director, and the star.

Elder Dael stepped forward, shaking with restrained anger. "This... spectacle does nothing but degrade them!"

"Then let them speak for themselves," Allen shot back. "Calla?"

The freckled girl stepped forward without hesitation.

"I used to cry myself to sleep thinking I'd die without ever being touched by love," she said, voice cracking. "Now? I'm touched every day. Not with pity. With purpose."

Allen nodded. "Mira."

"I hated my body," she said quietly. "They used it like a chair, so I became one. But Allen taught me that submission isn't weakness. It's choice. Now I kneel because I want to."

One by one, the others echoed. Tessa spoke of punishment. Niva of depravity. Brin of surrender. But none of them wept.

And when they finished, Allen faced the council.

"You call this depravity," he said, voice low and growing colder. "But your sons—your heirs—raped them in basements. Beat them behind closed doors. Covered it with coin and silence."

Gasps and outrage rippled again.

"You don't get to judge me. I didn't create this system. I simply took control of it. If your world runs on slaves, then I'll be the one who owns them all."

Lira stepped forward now, her voice trembling not from fear, but something darker. "And what about consent? Choice? Ownership doesn't grant you morality."

Allen turned to her slowly. "Then watch."

He stepped aside.

"Elira."

The former Rhelgar maid stepped out from behind the columns. She still bore her own shame markings, but now they looked different—like banners instead of scars.

She looked directly at Lira. Then knelt before Allen, unbidden.

"I was Lady Rhelgar's dog," she said, loud and clear. "Now I'm Allen's slave. And I've never felt more human."

Allen smiled softly and rested a hand on her head. "You see?"

The council was reeling. Some outraged. Some stunned. A few silent.

Then Elder Fenlo, quiet until now, finally whispered, "...he's turning shame into religion."

Allen looked up sharply, grinning. "No. I'm turning it into truth."

And truth, in this room, was more terrifying than any god.

The air in the council chamber had shifted—charged, volatile, suffocating. The elders had no words. Their eyes darted between Allen and the kneeling girls as if struggling to decide whether they were witnessing blasphemy or revelation.

Allen didn't wait for permission to keep going.

He raised a hand and gently stroked Elira's hair. She shuddered under his touch, the kneeling posture no longer punishment, but ritual. His fingers trailed down her inked cheek, smearing the dried remains of "I LIVE TO SERVE" that had been written in crude black across her jawline.

"Elira," he said quietly, "what did I tell you after you marked your body?"

"That I'm never going back to being a hidden shame," she whispered, voice shaking but proud. "That my filth is mine now. My body, my guilt, my choice."

A murmur rippled through the council.

Allen didn't look at them. He focused only on her. "Good girl."

Elira trembled visibly, her eyes fluttering shut. It wasn't humiliation anymore—it was faith. She was basking in approval, in clarity, in the strange and twisted grace of being seen exactly as she was and still being accepted.

Then Allen turned, lifting his gaze to the gathered elders. His voice came out calm, but cold.

"You fear this because it exposes you. You've all used slaves like tools. Broken them for convenience. Hid the stains with silks and coin. I just did it publicly—and they still came back to me."

Rinni chuckled from her seat, swinging one leg over Allen's lap. "And we don't even have to pay them. They beg for it now."

Fina smirked, arms crossed. "We should start charging for devotion."

That drew a snarl from Elder Jass. "You twist pain into spectacle. These girls are not free—they're brainwashed."

Allen's smile didn't falter. "Is it brainwashing to ask them what they want and let them speak? You never gave them that. I did. And they came crawling—not because I made them, but because I told them they could."

Behind him, Calla leaned forward on her knees and nuzzled against his thigh. Mira crawled next to her, wrapping her arms loosely around his leg. The others followed like pieces falling into place—forming a living throne of flesh and reverence.

Allen's voice softened, almost like he pitied the elders.

"You never understood what loyalty built on desire looks like."

Then his tone hardened, voice rising like a judge delivering a sentence.

"But now you will."

He lifted his hand, and the door creaked open again.

Kael walked in—flanked by two turtlefolk girls, heads down, bound in ritual silks. The older one was the elder, already visibly changed by the rejuvenation pill. No longer shriveled and hunched, her skin gleamed with restored youth, curves proud and legs steady. Her hair flowed down in a curtain of glistening black-green, and though she tried to maintain composure, her flushed cheeks betrayed the truth: she wanted to be seen.

The younger girl—Kari—was trembling. Not in fear, but anticipation. The shame ink was fresh on her thighs, glowing slightly. She had volunteered for the ritual purification.

Allen met the elder's eyes. "Have you taken your pill?"

She nodded, swallowing. "The changes… were swift."

"Do you still intend to complete the rite?"

"I do," she said, throat dry. "As per our agreement. You cleanse us, and you will have the support of the southern marshlands."

Allen turned back to the council with a deadpan smile.

"You see? It's not just submission anymore. It's diplomacy."

Then he looked at Kari. "And you, girl. You ready to be purified?"

She didn't speak. She only knelt and bowed her head, her shell twitching slightly as she exposed her marked body to the room. Her thighs were inked with symbols in the old turtlefolk dialect—but Allen had already had them translated.

Breed-me. Use-me. Break-my-shame.

The turtle elder approached next and, with practiced grace, disrobed before him. Gasps echoed through the room as her fully restored, voluptuous body was revealed—ripe and glistening with scented oils.

Elder Fenlo stumbled back, nearly dropping his staff. "You're turning diplomacy into... copulation!"

Allen grinned.

"Correction: I'm turning diplomacy into devotion."

He held his hands out, beckoning both turtlefolk women forward. They obeyed without question, pressing themselves to his legs, to the floor, to the warmth of submission that pulsed from him like a godhead.

"Watch closely, council," he said. "Because this is the future of your politics. Consent, power, and desire—unified."

Fina whispered to Rinni, "They're not ready for the religion of shame."

Rinni giggled. "Doesn't matter. The prayers have already begun."

Allen lowered himself to the throne, his girls flanking him like a pantheon of sin and worship, the turtlewomen now part of the spreading tide. The chamber didn't feel like a council hall anymore—it felt like a temple. A sacrilegious, wet-mouthed, breathless temple of flesh and submission.

And Allen?

He wasn't just the high priest.

He was the doctrine.