NTR: Stealing wives in Another World

The scent of sex still hung faintly in the domed chamber when Allen stepped out into the corridor, buttoning the last clasp on his coat. Fina and Rinni followed behind him, Velka left slumped against the marble wall inside, her dress pooled around her hips, glassy-eyed and trembling, whispering filthy words to no one.

But Allen didn't look back.

The corridors of the palace were quieter now—too quiet. Word was spreading. It wasn't just rumors anymore. What he did in the council hall was spectacle. What he did to the temple priestesses was heresy. But Velka? That was the crack in the dam. She had been untouchable. And now her lipstick was smudged with cum and shame.

Whispers danced along every hallway Allen passed through. Maids peeking out from behind curtains, guards gripping their weapons tighter—not to fight, but to resist. He could see it in their eyes. Curiosity fighting discipline. Their hearts pounding louder than their boots.

"Think they'll throw another knight at us?" Rinni asked with a skip in her step.

Fina grinned. "Let them. Allen's balls haven't been drained nearly enough today."

"I could help with that," Rinni said, fluttering her lashes with mock innocence.

"Ladies," Allen said with a smirk, "control yourselves. We've got company."

Down the next corridor, Lord Helvar Rhelgar was waiting.

Broad-shouldered, draped in a red and gold robe stitched with power and ego, the man radiated aristocratic disgust. His long gray hair was slicked back like he'd drowned it in oil, and his bejeweled fingers tapped a cane he clearly didn't need.

"You think seducing a half-withered noble makes you a threat?" Helvar sneered, voice echoing too loud. "You think turning that frostbitten bitch into your whore means you've earned respect?"

Allen didn't stop walking until he was face to face with him.

"I'm not here for respect," he said. "I'm here to gut the rotting corpse of your house and watch what crawls out."

Helvar's cane slammed down between them. "You insolent little—"

Allen caught the cane before it hit the floor. No magic. Just force. His fingers clamped over it like iron, and the wood cracked in his grip.

"Say one more word," he murmured. "And I'll show the entire court how fragile your pride really is."

Helvar's sneer faltered. Just a flicker—but it was enough.

Fina leaned in beside Allen and licked her lips. "Tell me, Lord Rhelgar, did your house ever truly care for its maids? Or were they always just holes with aprons?"

Rinni added, "Because the five we've got kneeling on Allen's throne didn't seem to miss you."

Helvar's jaw clenched so tight Allen swore he heard molars crack. "You disgrace the legacy of kings—"

"No," Allen interrupted. "I disgrace you."

He stepped back, made a subtle motion with his fingers—and from the side hall, Elira stepped out.

Once proud. Now obedient. Her collar gleamed. Her skin still bore faint writing in permanent ink: filthy declarations of her new truth. She walked on trembling legs, not because she feared, but because she was already wet from the anticipation of being displayed again.

She dropped to her knees in front of Allen without a single word.

Helvar turned pale.

"Elira," Allen said, loud enough for every lingering ear to hear, "what was the filthiest thing Lady Rhelgar ever made you do for her sons?"

Elira opened her mouth slowly. Her voice was a whisper, but the words cut like glass.

"She made me hold them open... while the youngest lost his virginity in me. He cried the whole time. Said it hurt. She slapped me when I bled on his sheets."

Helvar turned a shade of red not even wine could match. "You lie—"

Allen didn't let him finish. "No, she doesn't. And I don't care if she did."

Then he turned to Elira and cupped her chin gently. "Now tell him what you begged me to call you after."

She smiled, broken and radiant. "Your cumrag."

The silence afterward was deafening.

Guards shifted. Maids gasped. A noblewoman at the end of the hall fainted.

Allen stood tall. "This isn't just rot. It's theater. And you're all front row."

He turned his back on Helvar, walked away with Fina and Rinni beside him, Elira crawling behind on all fours like a chained pet. He didn't need to run. He didn't need to fight. The court was no longer resisting him. It was crumbling. Like a dam waiting for that final push.

He entered the grand atrium with its glass ceiling and sunlight pouring in. A cluster of beastkin girls were already gathered there—daughters of minor houses, foxkin, catfolk, one wide-eyed badgerkin maid who'd clearly followed the rumors all the way from the kitchens. All of them flushed. Curious. Some kneeling already without a word.

Allen raised his hand.

He didn't give a speech. Didn't chant. He didn't need theatrics now. He just unbuckled his belt.

The sound echoed.

Dozens of gasps followed.

Fina stepped forward and whispered in that dangerous, sultry voice, "This is the new court. And there's only one crown."

And one by one, they came forward to kneel.

To taste.

To moan.

To belong.

And as the atrium filled with the sounds of slurping, whimpers, slick-wet friction and feral pleasure, somewhere in the highest chamber, the Queen clutched the arms of her throne with trembling hands… and whispered to no one:

"Bring him to me."

The Queen's summons came before Allen had even finished. Her words weren't shouted, but the moment they echoed through the mouths of trembling servants and hastily dispatched messengers, a silence fell across the atrium. Even the hungry mouths still suckling at his cock paused, lips slipping off with wet pops, unsure whether to be terrified or jealous.

Allen looked down at them, a dozen beastkin girls still panting, flushed, their tongues hanging out, slick thighs trembling. One of them, the badgerkin maid, reached up again to stroke him out of reflex, but Fina gently caught her wrist.

"Not yet, sweet thing," she said with a knowing smile. "Royalty's calling."

Rinni tilted her head, tail flicking. "Think it's a trap?"

Allen cracked his neck. "If it is, they better pray it's a good one."

He cleaned himself slowly, deliberately, and buckled up with the kind of casual power that made even the guards stiffen—though not in a combative way. His footsteps echoed across the marble as he walked, the weight of everything he'd done settling like a crown on his shoulders. Fina followed at his right, Rinni at his left, and Elira still crawled behind them, her inked skin visible under the sheer veil she'd been given to wear.

The palace changed the deeper they went. The air grew cooler, the architecture grander, like stepping from a den of animals into a museum of divine ego. Everything gleamed—white marble, gold filigree, etched murals of ancient monarchs and victories long turned to ash.

At the highest point of the palace, guarded by twin archways shaped like curved wings, the Queen's throne room loomed.

The doors opened without a sound. Of course they did.

Queen Yssira stood before her throne.

Not seated. Not hiding.

Waiting.

She was tall—taller than expected. Graceful in that surreal way only the old blood nobles could be, like her spine had never known the burden of failure. Her gown was black and cut like a shadow; it clung to her hips, draped over one shoulder, and shimmered with a faint iridescence that seemed woven from moonlight and lies.

Her eyes locked onto Allen's with no fear. But they didn't carry judgment either.

No, Yssira was curious.

"So," she said, her voice a silken blade, "this is the man who made the gods blush and the nobles piss themselves."

Allen stepped into the room like he owned it. "I've made worse blush. And better cum."

Yssira's lips twitched. A smirk? Almost. "Your arrogance is legendary."

"And earned," Fina said, chin high.

"Proven," Rinni added.

Elira said nothing—just knelt at Allen's heel like she was born there.

The Queen descended two steps from her throne, the train of her gown whispering across the floor. She circled Allen slowly, her fingers steepled. "You've broken lords. Shamed priestesses. Turned Rhelgar's matron into a drooling toy. Yet you haven't touched the crown. Why?"

Allen turned to face her fully. "Because I'm not here for your throne."

Her brows rose. "Then what are you here for?"

He leaned in just enough. "To break you."

Silence. A moment that stretched, cracked, then shattered when Yssira laughed. Not coldly—not cruelly. She laughed like a queen who hadn't felt anything in decades and just remembered what blood in her veins felt like.

"You think you can?"

"I know I can."

She stepped closer. Close enough that the scent of her perfume—jasmine and ice—wrapped around him. "And if I let you try? If I gave myself over, just once, to see what the wolves howl about in the halls—what then?"

Allen reached up, fingers brushing a strand of her white-blonde hair behind her ear.

"Then I'll ruin you so sweetly," he murmured, "you'll beg me not to give the throne back."

She stared at him. No fear. No retreat. Only heat. Then she turned her back, walked toward the throne, and unfastened the first clasp of her gown.

"Dismiss the guards," she said to no one in particular.

And the guards vanished.

Yssira didn't face him when she dropped the gown.

It pooled at her feet like black silk oil, revealing smooth, pale skin marred only by the tattoos of royal binding—magical runes inked along her spine, pulsing faintly. Her body was elegant, yes, but starved. Not of food, but of touch. Of indulgence. Of filth.

Allen approached like a storm.

When his hand gripped her hip, she exhaled like she'd been holding it in for years.

Fina and Rinni said nothing. They knew what this was. The Queen wasn't just another noble to conquer. She was a ritual.

Allen bent her over the throne without a word. Her bare breasts pressed to velvet. Her hands gripped the gilded arms like they might burn her. When he spread her legs, she gasped—but didn't resist.

And when he pressed the head of his cock against her, slow and deliberate, she whispered:

"I haven't been touched... since my coronation."

Allen smiled against her ear. "Then let me baptize you in sin."

The first thrust punched the breath from her lungs.

She arched.

The throne creaked.

And Allen fucked her like a usurper, like a god reclaiming stolen land. Every stroke buried deep, angled just right to make her cry out—not like a queen, but like a woman. A hungry, aching, forgotten woman who suddenly remembered what it was to feel.

Fina watched, gently stroking Elira's hair as the kneeling girl rubbed her thighs together.

Rinni licked her lips and whispered, "Guess she'll be calling him Majesty by morning."

And above it all, the Queen gasped out Allen's name—not in command, but in surrender.