NTR: Stealing wives in Another World

By the time dawn cracked over the new capital—its skyline now etched with smoke, passion, and a very audible thumping from the throne room—the beastkin elders had already arrived.

Not with robes and pride like last time. This time, they came barefoot and bowed, with their daughters in chains. Not the heavy kind—no, Allen didn't need metal to bind someone. These girls were shackled in ribbon, lace, and shame. Their eyes were painted in hopeful humiliation. Every step jingled with bells attached to nipple clamps, or woven into the decorative strings tied between their thighs. Foxkin, rabbitkin, and even a rare lioness hybrid—all offered up with downcast gazes and quivering inner thighs. It was submission as diplomacy. And Allen? He was ready to negotiate.

The temple was ready too.

Where once had stood an ivory shrine to the gods, now rose a towering obsidian cathedral. Carved straight from the bones of the old faith and glazed in oils, cum, and defiance, it was a sanctuary reimagined. The altar was no longer for bloodless prayers—it was where Fina now bent trembling maidens backward over plush crimson cushions, scrawling degrading symbols on their bellies in glowing ink. Rinni danced between pews, snapping her fingers at kneeling nuns-turned-sluts, her voice chiming: "Open wider! He doesn't like half-assed offerings!"

Allen entered last, flanked by two temple guards who used to be knight-priestesses. Now, they were bare-chested, blades sheathed, dripping with arousal, marked by thick bands of ink that read "Temple Bitch" across their ribcages.

The crowd quieted. Lustful, reverent silence.

Allen walked straight up the aisle, boots clicking. A line of beastkin girls kneeled on the sides, backs arched, lips parted, their holes already lubed and fluttering from anticipation. Some wept—not from fear, but from joy. One rabbitkin whispered, "I prayed he'd take me in my sleep. This is better."

He stopped before the main altar. Yssira was already splayed across it, her stomach swollen with last night's seed, her eyes glazed and mouth open in a silent, endless moan. Fina stood beside her, gently brushing her hair, whispering "You did good, my Queen," while sliding a plug into her used ass.

Allen spoke, loud enough to shake the stone pillars.

"The gods demanded virgin sacrifice. I offer corruption instead."

A wave of moaning approval echoed through the cathedral. Bodies pressed forward. Whimpers. Wet smacks. The floor became slick with leaking arousal from dozens of beastkin and nobles desperate to be seen.

He pointed to the lioness hybrid—tall, toned, with golden eyes blazing. "You," he said. "Name."

She growled low in her throat. "N-Nashara."

He snapped his fingers. Kael, ever nearby, tossed him a carved wooden ring inscribed with Allen's personal rune—brand of the claimed. Allen walked to her, lifted her chin, and slid it onto her clit.

It pulsed. Glowed. She gasped and came immediately, thighs shaking, tongue lolling.

"You're first," he said.

Nashara was dragged to the altar by Rinni and Elira, both giggling. They bent her over Yssira's swollen form, making her hump the Queen's belly while Allen climbed up behind. His cock, already hard, was dripping power now. Not magic. Just raw, dominant presence. He grabbed her hips, parted her cheeks—and sank in hard enough to make the candles flicker.

Her scream echoed, blending with Yssira's whimpers. Allen didn't fuck gently. This was ritual. Every thrust a decree. Every slap of hips against her fat ass a new law written into the world.

As Allen pounded Nashara into a religious frenzy, Fina began selecting the next girls, whispering into their ears with wicked sweetness. "He might let you beg. He might not. Don't cry too loud—he likes the pretty ones to break slow."

Behind her, Rinni poured oil over the backs of two kneeling foxkin sisters, then dragged her tongue between them, prepping them for a shared spitroast. She giggled when one of them bit her lip to muffle a sob. "Aww, are we nervous? Good. That makes the gushing better."

Allen came inside Nashara without warning. Her body seized and spasmed, juices spraying across the altar as her tail went stiff. He pulled out and smeared his still-dripping cock against her lower back like he was signing his name.

"Next," he said.

And so it went.

Hours passed, and the temple turned into a theater of submission. Each girl brought forward was more desperate than the last. Some begged to be filled. Others begged to be broken. A dragonkin noblewoman begged to be pissed on—Allen granted that, right on the temple floor, making her drink it from a ceremonial chalice. The crowd clapped.

The ritual climaxed—literally—with Allen seated on the high altar, five girls suckling his cock, balls, and thighs at once. Nashara, Yssira, and the foxkin sisters lay collapsed at his feet, twitching, their holes still twitching from the aftershocks.

Fina stood atop the altar stairs and addressed the masses.

"This is the new prayer," she declared. "Not whispered. Moaned. Not offered. Given. Your minds, your holes, your faith—all belong to our lord."

The congregation—dozens of nobles, priestesses, and warriors—rose as one and chanted:

"ALLEN."

"ALLEN."

"ALLEN."

The name no longer meant man. It meant master. God. Breedfather.

Allen stood once more, cock twitching as his body dripped in girl-sweat and power. His voice rolled through the stone chamber like thunder dipped in cum.

"Prepare the council chamber," he said. "Tomorrow, we rewrite the laws. Naked. On their knees. Or not at all."

The temple roared.

And behind him, Yssira came again—just from hearing his voice.

Mira stepped forward with her thighs already trembling, the heat of Allen's command rippling through her like lightning through soaked parchment. Her eyes never left his cock—thick, glistening, still stained with the shame of elders' bloodlines and the nectar of their heirlooms. She was already panting, already leaking. Her pussy dripped down her thighs, each step leaving a trail like a silken signature on the velvet floor.

Allen didn't speak. He just held out his hand.

She took it, gasping as his fingers closed around hers—rough, calloused, authoritative. He guided her into the center of the pit, where the rug was soaked and warm with prior seed. Elders knelt at the rim, silent and spellbound. Fina sat cross-legged behind him now, casually sipping wine poured down a trembling slave's spine. Rinni dangled from a swing overhead, her mouth stuffed with a nobleman's cock, her own pussy riding another face while she giggled mid-moan.

Mira's breath caught as Allen pulled her against him, one hand sliding up the small of her back, the other gripping her ass and spreading it. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, pressing her flushed, flushed body against his chest as he looked down at her soaked cunt rubbing against the head of his cock.

"You ready to be the next council seat?" he growled low against her ear.

Mira whimpered, nodding furiously. "Breed me, Master—breed me, please, oh fuck—"

He didn't wait. He slammed into her in one brutal thrust that sent her head snapping back, a strangled cry spilling from her lips, echoed by gasps and shudders from the surrounding council and servants. The force of it sent her body bouncing, tits slapping against his chest, her toes curling in midair.

Allen didn't let her adjust.

He fucked her.

Hard. Relentless. Deep.

Wet, filthy smack after smack echoed through the chamber like war drums. Her cunt squelched loud enough to drown out the moans around them, cream already frothing out of her as her legs kicked helplessly in the air. Allen's hands dug into her ass, spreading her wide with each punishing thrust, forcing her body to open for him—over and over—like her only purpose was to take him, drown in him, carry him.

The crowd was hypnotized.

Niva, one of the Rhelgar's disgraced maids, had crawled up beside the pit and was furiously rubbing herself while watching, moaning into the plush of a bound elder's stomach. Tessa was licking the seed from the floorboards like a starving beast. Even Lady Rhelgar's mouth hung open in disbelief, forced to kneel beneath the table while her back read Allen's Cum Dumpster in thick, black, permanent ink.

Mira was sobbing now—broken, blissed out, her voice cracking mid-beg as Allen slammed her into the rug.

"I-I'm gonna cum, I can't—Master—I'm—!"

Allen grunted, lifted her again by the throat, and spun, flipping her in midair and bending her over a bound priestess. He shoved her face into the girl's tits and entered her from behind, this time grinding in slow, deep strokes, his cock dragging against every soft, overstretched inch of her used hole. She screamed into the priestess's breasts, her back arched to breaking, as her orgasm exploded from her in a spray that splattered the priestess's legs and soaked the rug anew.

And Allen kept going.

Each thrust now came with a declaration.

Thud! "This is your seat!"

Squelch! "This is your womb!"

Smack! "You exist to be bred!"

He reached down, grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanked her head back, and spat into her mouth. She swallowed instantly—no hesitation. Her eyes were glassy, barely conscious, drool mingling with Allen's spit as her body trembled in a post-orgasmic haze.

And Allen, with a deep growl, grabbed her hips, thrust forward one final time—and came.

Hard.

His cum flooded her.

Mira's eyes rolled back as her belly expanded visibly, the sheer volume of it packing her full until it leaked around his cock and down her legs. Her body sagged onto the priestess beneath her, twitching, as Allen finally pulled out with a slick, shlorrrrp and a hiss of satisfaction.

He turned to the elders.

"That is how you govern."

None of them spoke. Couldn't. Most were openly stroking themselves now, eyes locked on the ruin of Mira's stuffed cunt, watching it twitch and leak like a temple fountain of new law.

Allen didn't stop.

He turned to Calla—the youngest, still freckled, still flushed with guilt and heat.

"Come here," he said, voice like thunder draped in honey.

She stepped forward, her legs wobbling, her nipples hard enough to pierce glass. She was crying already, her hands shaking as she reached out, her thighs glistening. "P-please… I want to be good, I want to serve—"

Allen sat back, spreading his legs and letting his half-hard cock rest against his thigh, thick and glistening.

"Then clean her."

Calla dropped instantly. Her mouth found Mira's flooded pussy, her tongue scooping up the overflow and licking her clean while Mira whimpered softly against the floor. The sight of it sent a wave of moans through the court—nobles gasped, daughters clawed at their restraints, the air stank of lust and sweat and raw, primal reverence.

And Allen?

He just smiled, resting his arms along the backs of two chained maids kneeling beside him.

The kingdom was no longer ruled by law.

It was ruled by desire.

And Allen was its god.