NTR: Stealing wives in Another World

Allen didn't move for a long time. He sat among the warmth of their tangled bodies—Kari still curled beside him like a woman reborn, Elira trembling as she held her breath, the turtle elder laying back against the cushions with her legs slightly parted, not in exhaustion but in reverence. His hands rested on his thighs, fingers still glistening, gaze cast upward toward the heavy silence of the elder seats.

A moment like this didn't beg to be rushed. It demanded to be savored.

Fina leaned into him from his left, her lips brushing his ear. "She's still staring."

Allen didn't look immediately, but he already knew who she meant. Lira. Of all the elders, the one who had resisted the longest. The one who tried to hold power not by force, but by control, calculation, dignity. She stood slightly apart from the other four, arms crossed, but her stance had lost its edge. She was watching—not to judge, but to understand. And Allen could feel the throb of conflict in her with the same certainty he felt the heat between Elira's thighs.

He let her stare.

"You've wanted to speak for a while now," Allen finally said without looking away from the circle of women still kneeling at his feet. "Go on. Say it."

Lira's voice came after a long pause. "You've turned this temple into a stage. You've made us your audience. What do you actually want, Allen?"

He tilted his head slightly. "That's not really what you mean. What you want to ask is: Are you done?"

The room froze.

Lira's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't deny it.

Allen stood, slowly, unhurried, letting every motion announce itself. His cock was half-hard again—casually, lazily—but the way Elira and Kari glanced at it like devotees said more than any erection could. He stepped around the kneeling women and toward Lira, closing the distance between them. The chamber was silent save for the soft gasps of recovering bodies.

"I'm not done," he said softly, standing just below her on the dais. "But I'm curious."

Lira met his eyes with effort. "Curious?"

"Whether you're brave enough to see what submission looks like when it's chosen—not forced."

Her jaw twitched. "You think I'm afraid?"

"I think," Allen said, stepping up one more stair, "you're exhausted from pretending you aren't."

Her breath hitched, barely noticeable—but Fina caught it too. Rinni tilted her head like a fox scenting prey. The room tensed.

Allen extended his hand. "One moment. One kneel. Nothing more."

"You don't command me."

"No. I invite you."

The word hung in the air like a thread of silk.

For several seconds, Lira didn't move. The other elders didn't speak. Jass and Yoru avoided eye contact altogether. But then, in a motion so small it might've gone unnoticed, Lira stepped down from the dais. Just one stair. Then another. And another.

The room was silent as she reached the floor. Allen's hand still hovered in the air, open, waiting.

Lira didn't take it.

She knelt without help.

Not a dramatic kneel, not a submissive collapse—but a slow, graceful fold of power setting itself down. The fabric of her gown pulled tight around her thighs as she sank to her knees before Allen.

Gasps echoed around the chamber.

Even Elira's head whipped around in shock, and Fina's grin spread wide with visible delight.

Allen looked down at Lira—not with arrogance, but with a patient, almost tender pride. He reached down and brushed a stray hair from her cheek.

"Good," he whispered. "Now we begin."

And with those words, he turned back to the circle.

"Fina. Rinni. Bring the ink."

Rinni let out a delighted hum and skipped toward the side table, retrieving the lacquered box that held the sacred pens—once used for ceremonial binding, now repurposed for something more intimate. Fina followed with a slow, sensual strut, her eyes locked on Lira's exposed shoulders.

Lira raised her head slightly. "I didn't agree to—"

"You knelt," Allen said gently. "You didn't need to say yes."

Fina approached her first, kneeling behind her and sweeping her hair aside with practiced fingers. Rinni offered Allen the pen with both hands like it was a blade.

"What do you want her to wear?" Fina asked softly, already dipping her fingers in the ink.

Allen paused. Then: "Truth."

The first stroke came along Lira's collarbone. The ink was cool, wet, almost glowing faintly under the torchlight. Allen wrote slowly, deliberately.

Once, I ruled. Now, I serve.

On her other shoulder: I obey because I choose to.

Each word sent a ripple through her. Her lips trembled. Her breath quickened.

Fina took the pen next, dragging it down Lira's arm.

His is the voice I waited for.

Rinni's came across her upper chest in loopy, teasing curves.

Every breath I take beneath him is freedom.

Lira didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Her skin flushed as the ink dried. She was breathing heavier now, but her hands stayed clasped in her lap. Her eyes never left Allen's.

He leaned in close. "Do you still think I turned this temple into a stage?"

Her voice was hoarse. "No…"

"Then what is it?"

Her lips parted. "A sanctum."

Allen smiled.

Behind him, the others watched in stunned silence. The council would never be the same. Not after this. Not after watching one of their own kneel, inked in her own surrender, not through shame—but liberation.

Allen stepped back, surveying the room. His gaze swept across Elira, Kari, the elder, the five maids, Fina and Rinni, and now Lira, gleaming with ink, trembling on her knees.

And then he looked up.

Because outside the chamber doors… others were waiting.

He could hear them.

Guards.

Attendants.

Even more nobles.

The temple had cracked open.

Now it was time to flood the halls.

The silence following Lira's submission lingered like steam, thick and heavy, clinging to every breath. The other elders didn't dare speak. Jass had gone stiff, as if movement might break whatever strange magic had taken hold of the room. Doel was sweating. Yoru, oldest of them, looked hollow-eyed—yet not from horror. He was watching Allen the way a man watches a storm inch closer across the sea, inevitable and sublime.

Allen's hand ran through Lira's hair, not with mockery but with acknowledgment. The way a conqueror might pat the earth he's just claimed—not to gloat, but to feel the weight of it under his fingers. And Lira? She didn't shiver anymore. The inked words along her collarbone and chest were drying now, forming glossy declarations across her skin, proof of surrender etched in every curve.

He looked toward the grand temple doors as they groaned open. Not in haste. No one stormed in. But one by one, figures slipped inside. Attendants in deep green robes. Nobles in silver-trimmed tunics. The Rhelgar family's surviving advisors, and a few of the foxkin warriors who had heard rumors but hadn't believed. They arrived silently, expecting some form of justice, perhaps chaos.

What they found instead was a man standing at the heart of a holy chamber, surrounded by kneeling, ink-marked women, all staring at him as if he were the center of their world.

Allen said nothing at first. He let them drink it in.

Let them witness.

Elira turned toward the doors, catching the eyes of one of her former comrades—a Rhelgar maid who'd once mocked her for being too proud. The girl froze in place, mouth opening slightly as she saw Elira's bare shoulders inked with confessions of shame and desire. Elira didn't look away. She didn't flinch. She stood taller, straightened her back, and let them all see. If she was ruined, then she was beautifully ruined.

Allen finally stepped forward. His voice cut cleanly through the air, calm and low, the way a blade might hum when drawn from its sheath.

"I'm not hiding what I've done."

He paced in front of the growing crowd.

"I'm not disguising the choices made here. No illusions. No forced kneeling. Every mark you see was chosen. Every surrender earned."

Behind him, Fina and Rinni stood side by side like twin priestesses, their eyes half-lidded, satisfied, owning every inch of the space beside him. Kari, the turtle girl, had curled back into a kneeling pose again, not because she'd been commanded—but because she wanted to be near. Elira stood upright, but her knees looked like they wanted to give out.

Then there was Lira—noble, proud Lira—still on her knees, the ink glinting like ceremonial jewelry in the firelight.

Allen raised a hand and pointed toward the crowd.

"Do any of you think this was about lust?"

Murmurs.

"You think I dragged your council to its knees because I wanted power? Gold? Status?" He laughed, just once. "That's your mistake. That's why you lost."

He turned slowly, gaze sweeping across the bound, inked women, then upward toward the foxkin elders.

"I didn't come here to take. I came here to transform. To show you what your chains never could—pleasure that liberates. Obedience that's not born from fear but from craving."

Then he motioned to Elira.

"Elira. Show them."

She hesitated, just one heartbeat—but then stepped forward. Her thighs trembled slightly, but she didn't hide them. She turned slowly, baring the inked phrases etched across her lower belly, the marks that called her property, pet, broken, useful.

And she smiled while doing it.

Whispers erupted from the back rows. One noble gasped. A foxkin servant covered her mouth. Someone stumbled out of the room.

Allen raised his voice just slightly. "Those who can't stomach this truth—leave. You have no place in the new order."

More rustling. Two nobles turned to go. A few lingered in the doorway, as if hypnotized.

He looked at Lira next. "Do you have regrets?"

She lifted her chin. "Only that I waited this long."

Fina let out a pleased hum at that. Rinni clapped slowly, her eyes never leaving Lira's flushed cheeks.

Allen didn't smirk. He didn't gloat. He simply nodded once.

Then he turned to the crowd again.

"The ones you saw as weapons, trophies, or breeding stock—they're mine now. But not as slaves. As women who've tasted something else. Something your rules and nobles and sterile politics could never give them."

He stepped down from the dais and motioned to the five inked maids still kneeling in the circle near the edge.

"Come."

They rose slowly. Mira, with her dusky skin and dark eyes, moved first. Calla, the straw-haired one, followed next with trembling hands. Tessa, Brin, Niva—each one stepped in rhythm, barefoot, silent, graceful. They encircled Allen, their gazes worshipful.

Allen touched Mira's chin. "What do you feel now?"

"Free," she said, without hesitation.

"Why?"

"Because you showed me where I belong."

Soft gasps. One noble nearly tripped backward.

Allen turned toward the elder council. Jass looked ill. Doel had gone quiet. Yoru... Yoru's eyes weren't on Allen anymore. They were on Lira. On the ink. On the way her mouth was parted just slightly, like she was waiting to be kissed.

Allen saw that.

He approached Lira again, this time standing just close enough that her breath hit his thigh.

"You want more?"

She looked up at him, her voice a whisper now. "Yes."

He reached down, brushed the back of his fingers across her jaw. "Then ask for it."

A pause. Then: "Please, Allen. Show me what it means to be yours."

The sound that came from Fina was practically a moan. Rinni bit her lower lip so hard she left a mark.

Allen leaned forward, hands on Lira's shoulders. Not pushing her down, but guiding her slowly, gently, until her lips brushed the inside of his thigh. She gasped.

And the room watched.

Not in perversion, not in scandal—but in awe.

Because submission didn't look broken here.

It looked divine.

The inked women gathered around him like petals closing around a sun, heat rising, lips parted, breath catching. And through it all, Allen remained still, steady, a living altar, a storm's eye of pleasure and purpose.

And as the temple doors creaked closed once more, the last thing heard beyond them was not cries or chaos.

It was worship.