NTR: Stealing wives in Another World

The heavy doors creaked open with a groan, and every scaled head that wasn't too broken to lift turned toward the sound. Allen didn't move. He stood at the center of the ruin like a beast after the kill, chest slick with sweat, cock still thick and dripping with cum. The steam clung to him like smoke rising from a battlefield.

Through the haze stepped the high priestess. She was taller than the others, draped in robes of silver and gold that trailed behind her like molten sunlight. Her horns curled elegantly from her temples, her crest of white hair cascading down her back in shimmering waves. Her tail flicked once behind her, slow and deliberate, as her glowing amber eyes swept the carnage before her.

The temple she ruled—her temple—was nothing but a pit of debauchery now. Broken idols lay shattered. The sacred bath frothed with filth. Her sisters—once proud guardians of purity—were splayed like offerings at Allen's feet, bellies distended from his seed, holes gaping and leaking down the cracked marble. Their voices, once hymns of prayer, were hoarse from moans and screams.

The high priestess stopped just beyond the edge of the ruined bath, her gaze locking on Allen. Her voice, when it came, was low and cold as a blade dipped in poison.

"…What have you done?"

Allen didn't answer. Not yet. He simply stepped forward, his bare feet splashing through the shallow pools of cum and holy water that coated the floor. His shadow stretched across the floor toward her, swallowing the glow of her sanctity.

"I asked you a question," she hissed, though there was a tremor beneath it. Her eyes flicked down his body—over the corded muscles slick with sweat, the dripping cock still hard as iron, veins bulging like living ropes. Her throat bobbed in a swallow she tried to hide, but Allen saw it. He smelled it.

"What I've done," Allen said finally, voice deep, slow, and heavy as stone breaking, "is burn your faith to the ground."

He stopped in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of musk and sex rolling off him like a tide. Her lips parted—maybe to speak, maybe to breathe—but Allen didn't let her choose. His hand shot up, wrapping around her throat with enough force to make her robes bunch at the collar. Her gasp cracked the silence.

"You walked in here thinking you still had power," Allen growled, lifting her onto her toes as easily as a child holds a doll. "But look around." He turned her head, forcing her to see her fallen priestesses lying in slick, twitching heaps, holes gaping, cum pooling beneath them. "This… is your temple now."

Her claws dug into his wrist, but it wasn't defiance—it was desperation. Her breath came ragged, her chest heaving beneath the tight fabric of her robes. Allen's eyes trailed down to where the silk clung to her curves, to the perfect swell of her breasts straining against gold embroidery.

With one savage motion, he tore the robes open from throat to navel. The fabric split like paper, baring scales so pale they gleamed like pearls, breasts full and tipped with dusky peaks that hardened in the open air. Her hiss broke into a gasp, then a sharp moan when Allen's teeth grazed her neck.

"You still think you're holy?" he whispered, dragging his mouth down over her collarbone, his tongue tracing the ridge of her scales. "You think you're untouchable?" His hand fisted in the remnants of her robes and ripped them away completely, leaving her naked and trembling in the steaming ruin of her sanctum.

The high priestess tried to speak—a denial, a curse, something—but Allen crushed it with a kiss that was all teeth and dominance. His tongue invaded her mouth like a conqueror razing cities, devouring her gasp as his free hand seized her ass, dragging her against the iron heat of his cock. She writhed, but it only ground her slickening slit along his shaft, coating him in her unwilling arousal.

Allen broke the kiss with a snarl, spinning her and bending her over the cracked altar that once held offerings to her goddess. Her palms slammed against the cold stone, claws screeching as she tried to brace herself. Allen didn't give her time. His cock pressed against her entrance, thick and throbbing, forcing her open inch by relentless inch.

Her scream shattered the air as his length split her wide, her tight walls gripping like a vice around the intrusion. Allen grunted, hips jerking forward until his balls slapped her scaled ass with a wet crack. He didn't stop to let her adjust—he drove into her again, and again, pounding her against the altar so hard it rocked on its base.

"Pray to me," Allen growled, his hand tangling in her white hair and yanking her head back so her scream arched to the ceiling. "Pray like they did."

"Never!" she choked out, but her body betrayed her—the gush of slick around his cock, the way her tail lashed in frantic rhythm, the broken moans tearing from her throat with every savage thrust.

Allen laughed—a low, dark sound that rolled through the chamber like thunder. "You already are."

He hammered her cunt until the sound of flesh on scales was deafening, until her tits bounced against the altar and her nails carved trenches into the marble. Her cries grew hoarse, breaking into sobs as her climax hit, ripping her apart in violent waves that left her shuddering and weak. Allen didn't stop. He didn't slow.

The other priestesses stirred at the edges, eyes glazed and worshipful as they watched their high priestess—the untouchable, the divine—reduced to a whimpering slut on the altar of a broken god. Some began crawling closer, their trembling hands sliding over Allen's thighs, their tongues tracing his hips as they begged for the taste of him even as he ravaged their leader.

Allen grabbed the priestess's throat again, hauling her upright while still buried to the hilt inside her. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered the death knell of her pride:

"You're mine now. Say it."

She shook her head weakly, tears streaking down her cheeks. Allen tightened his grip until her breath hitched, until the last fragments of her defiance splintered like glass.

"…I'm yours," she gasped, voice raw and broken. "I'm… yours."

Allen smiled—a dark, wicked curve of lips that promised no salvation. He slammed her down on the altar one last time, his cock plunging so deep her scream echoed like a hymn to a god that no longer existed. His climax roared through him like wildfire, spilling inside her in hot, endless surges that overflowed her, gushing down her thighs in thick rivers.

When it was done, he pulled out with a wet pop that sent his seed splattering across the stone. The high priestess collapsed bonelessly, cum pouring from her ravaged cunt, pooling beneath her in obscene offering.

Allen turned to the others—broken, eager, worshipping—and spread his arms wide like the god he had become.

"This temple," he said, voice carrying like prophecy, "is reborn. Not as a shrine to a dead goddess… but as my womb."

Their answering moans were the only prayer left.

And Allen wasn't finished. Not even close.

The temple air was heavy with incense and lust, the musk of countless lizardfolk still clinging to the stone walls like an unholy perfume. Allen's footsteps echoed as he strode across the desecrated chamber, his presence commanding, his body still glistening with the remnants of the chaos he had unleashed. The once-sacred floor now bore the stains of pleasure, slick trails left by priestesses and acolytes who had surrendered their bodies to his hunger.

Allen paused at the threshold of the inner sanctum, where massive obsidian doors loomed like guardians of some forbidden truth. Beyond them waited the final challenge—the High Priestess herself, the last pillar of defiance in a temple that had already fallen to his will. He could feel her aura, sharp and venomous like a blade poised against his throat.

He pushed the doors open.

Inside, the chamber was a cathedral of shadows, lit only by the green glow of phosphorescent moss climbing the pillars. At its heart knelt the High Priestess. She was magnificent in her fury—tall, scales gleaming like molten bronze, her twin crests crowned with obsidian jewels. Her body was draped in ritual silks that clung to her like water, leaving nothing to imagination yet everything to desire. Her golden eyes flared when they met his.

"You dare defile this place," she hissed, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. "You dare corrupt my people."

Allen smiled, slow and cruel. "Not dare. Did."

Her tail lashed the marble floor, claws curling. "Blasphemer. You think your flesh can conquer the divine?"

"I don't think," Allen replied, his tone like molten iron. "I know." He stepped closer, each movement radiating predatory calm. "Your god is dead in their throats. They moaned my name instead."

Her breath hitched, just barely, a crack in the armor. Allen's grin widened.

"You came to fight?" she asked, voice trembling between wrath and something darker.

Allen's fingers traced the edge of his belt. "Fight? No." He let the word drip like honey. "I came to make you kneel."

For a heartbeat, silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Then the High Priestess lunged—tail whipping, claws flashing. Allen was faster. He caught her wrist mid-swipe, wrenched her arm behind her back, and slammed her against the altar. Her snarl dissolved into a gasp as his weight pinned her, her silks tearing like paper under his grip.

"You're strong," Allen murmured against her ear, breath hot, voice velvet and venom. "But strength doesn't save queens. Obedience does."

She writhed, muscles coiling, tail lashing, but every movement only pressed her tighter against the cold stone. He ripped the last of her silks away, baring bronze scales that shimmered like a serpent in sunlight. Her body was a weapon of worship, honed and deadly—but now it trembled.

Allen's hand slid down her spine, slow, deliberate, until his fingers spread over the swell of her hips. He pressed forward, letting her feel the heat, the weight, the inevitability. Her breath shattered into shards.

"Say it," Allen demanded, voice deep as thunder. "Say you're mine."

"Never—!" The protest broke into a cry as his hand seized her tail and yanked it upward, arching her back, forcing her submission. He bent her low, his mouth grazing the sensitive ridges of her neck. She shuddered, torn between fury and a hunger she could no longer mask.

Allen laughed, low and dark. "That's what they all said."

His trousers hit the floor. The sound of leather sliding free echoed like a death knell for her defiance. When she felt him—hot, hard, monstrous—her eyes widened, her claws gouging the altar.

"Too big—" she gasped.

"Too late," he growled, and thrust.

The chamber rang with the sound of flesh colliding, wet and savage, the altar trembling under the force. Her cry was a broken hymn, echoing high against the vaulted ceiling. He drove into her without mercy, every stroke shattering the last fragments of her pride, grinding them into the stone beneath her knees.

Allen's grip tangled in her crests, pulling her head back so he could see her face—twisted, desperate, glowing with shame and ecstasy. He kissed her then, hard enough to steal the breath from her throat, and when he pulled away, his words branded her soul:

"You're mine now. Body. Faith. Forever."

Her answer was a sob. A plea. A surrender.

And Allen… smiled.

Because the temple wasn't just his now. The goddess was.