NTR: Stealing wives in Another World

The High Priestess lay draped over the shattered altar, her bronze-scaled body glistening under the emerald glow. Her breath was ragged, her spine arched like a bow under the relentless rhythm Allen had set. Each thrust reverberated through the temple's foundations, as if the stone itself trembled at his audacity. Her claws scraped furrows into the marble, desperate to anchor herself against the storm consuming her.

Allen didn't slow. He couldn't. The heat coursing through his veins was no longer mortal—it was divine theft, a hunger so vast it could swallow gods whole. He had tasted her defiance, her venom-laced pride, and now he was turning it to ash with every punishing surge of his hips. The sound of their union was obscene, wet and raw, echoing like a war drum announcing the death of sanctity.

"You feel that?" Allen's voice was low, dangerous, his lips grazing the ridges of her ear as he slammed into her again, harder, deeper, tearing a strangled cry from her throat. "That's the sound of your faith breaking."

"N-no—" she gasped, but the word dissolved into a whimper as his grip tightened around her tail and yanked, forcing her back to meet his thrusts. Her body betrayed her with every shudder, every slick pulse clenching desperately around him.

Allen's laughter rolled dark and rich. "You're dripping," he mocked, his free hand sliding beneath her belly, fingers finding the slick heat between her thighs and circling without mercy. The High Priestess jerked, a choked sob ripping from her as he toyed with her like a puppet on strings. "You hate it, don't you? Hate that your goddess is silent while you drown on my cock."

Her voice broke into a shattered moan, the kind that carried centuries of devotion crumbling into dust. Her hips bucked against him, wild, pleading for more even as her words strangled on denial.

Allen bent lower, his chest crushing her against the cold stone, his breath searing her neck. "Say it," he growled, every syllable a chain tightening around her soul. "Say you're mine."

The High Priestess shook her head, teeth gritted, tears streaking her scaled cheeks. "I—"

He slammed into her with a brutal force that made the altar groan and crack. She screamed—raw, guttural—and Allen didn't stop. Again. And again. Until her protest became a broken litany of sound.

"I can do this all night," Allen whispered, cruel and tender at once, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "But you? You'll break long before I do."

Her tail thrashed like a dying serpent, but her strength was faltering, melting under the heat of him. Allen knew it. Felt it. The war was over. All that remained was surrender.

And then it came—soft as a prayer, fragile as glass.

"I'm yours," she choked out, the words trembling but undeniable. "I'm yours—please—just—"

Allen froze. A slow, predatory smile curved his lips. "Good girl."

Then he claimed her mouth in a savage kiss as his thrusts deepened, slower now but relentless, grinding her into submission with every roll of his hips. His hand slid from her tail to her throat, fingers curling just enough to make her gasp, her eyes going wide and glassy as her body convulsed around him.

The climax hit her like a divine curse—violent, shuddering, unstoppable. Her scream tore through the sanctum, echoing against pillars carved for worship long before her birth. Allen followed, his roar mingling with hers as he spilled deep inside her, heat flooding the womb of a priestess who had once vowed her body to gods.

Now it belonged to him.

When the last tremor faded, Allen didn't release her. He dragged her against him, lips brushing her ear as he spoke with the weight of law.

"Your temple is mine. Your people are mine. From this moment on, you worship me."

The High Priestess sagged in his arms, trembling, defeated—but in her silence was no defiance now. Only breathless, shame-slick acceptance.

Allen straightened, towering over her as he lifted her by the chin, forcing her golden eyes to meet his. "Say it loud enough for the gods to hear."

Her voice was hoarse, broken—but it carried.

"I worship you."

And with those words, something in the air shifted. The emerald glow darkened to crimson, pulsing like a living heart. The carved idols along the walls cracked, faces crumbling as if consumed by an unseen flame. The sanctum trembled, shedding centuries of faith in seconds, replacing it with something rawer, hungrier.

Allen stepped back, watching with cold satisfaction as the temple remade itself in his image—altars twisting into thrones of bone and obsidian, braziers flaring with carnal fire. From the shadows, priestesses crawled forth, their silks torn, eyes glazed with devotion and lust. They had heard. They had felt.

One by one, they bowed—foreheads pressed to the stone slick with their own sin.

Allen sat upon the shattered altar, now his throne, and pulled the High Priestess onto his lap, her body limp but pliant, her head resting against his chest like a lover's. His hand stroked her crest with mock tenderness.

"Your goddess is dead," he murmured to the kneeling masses. "But do not mourn. You have a new god now."

Dozens of voices rose in fevered whispers: My lord… my god…

Allen's smile was slow, sharp, and full of hunger. "And gods," he said, fingers curling under the High Priestess's chin as he tilted her face to his, "demand worship."

Her lips parted on a soft, broken moan as his mouth claimed hers again, sealing the pact in fire and flesh.

The temple roared with the sound of chains shattering—faith unmade, remade, bound in the name of one man.

Allen had not just conquered them.

He had crowned himself their god.

The High Priestess whimpered against Allen's mouth as he kissed her again, not tender but claiming, teeth dragging her lower lip until it bled. She didn't resist—her body melted, shivering against him, trembling in shame and worship all at once. Around them, the temple pulsed like a living thing, the crimson glow swelling with every beat of Allen's heart.

He stood slowly, hauling her up with him like she weighed nothing, and turned toward the gathered priestesses who knelt in a trembling crescent. Their silks clung to sweat-slick scales, breasts rising and falling in shallow breaths, thighs pressed tight in a futile effort to hide the slick sheen between them. They had watched their High Priestess break, and now they knew there was no salvation—only surrender.

Allen walked among them with the High Priestess draped in his arms, his steps echoing like judgment in the hollowed sanctum. He reached the center of the cracked mosaic floor and dropped her onto her knees with a thud that rang like a gavel. She stayed there, head bowed, hands limp, body shaking with aftershocks.

"Lift your heads," Allen commanded, his voice low but edged with steel.

They obeyed as if dragged by chains, eyes lifting in unison, wide and fever-bright.

Allen let the silence stretch, savoring the taste of their fear and their want. Then he spoke, slow and deliberate, every word a blade carving into their souls.

"Your goddess is dead. You felt it when I broke her." His hand curled in the High Priestess's hair, jerking her head up to expose her tear-streaked face. "This was your vessel, your voice of divinity—and now she kneels like a pet."

A ripple of shame and arousal coursed through the gathered women. Some looked away. Others bit their lips hard enough to draw blood.

Allen's smile was cold. "Do you understand what that means?"

No one spoke. The silence reeked of fear and anticipation.

"It means," Allen said, stepping forward and letting his fingers trail down the High Priestess's jaw, "that your faith belongs to me now. You belong to me."

He turned his gaze on the nearest priestess—a young acolyte with pale green scales and trembling hands clutching the remnants of her robes. Her lips parted on a shaky breath as Allen crooked a finger.

"Come here."

She hesitated for half a heartbeat, then crawled forward, the slap of her knees against stone loud in the charged air. When she reached him, Allen grabbed her chin, tilting her face up. Her eyes shimmered like wet emeralds, terror and hunger swirling together.

"You watched," Allen murmured, voice dipping low enough to make her shiver. "You listened. Tell me—did you feel it?"

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. "Y-yes…" The word was barely a whisper.

Allen's smile widened. "Show me."

Her breath hitched, but she obeyed, trembling hands reaching for the knot at her hip. The silk fell away in a whisper, pooling around her knees like shed skin. Naked now, she knelt before him, scales glistening in the crimson light, thighs slick with proof of her betrayal.

Allen stroked her jaw with a thumb before gripping the back of her head and forcing her forward until her lips brushed the length of him. She gasped at the heat, the sheer size, her breath catching in a strangled sob.

"Worship," Allen commanded, voice like a whip crack.

And she obeyed.

The first press of her mouth was tentative, reverent—then Allen's hand fisted in her hair and shoved, dragging a wet choke from her throat as he buried himself deep. The sound echoed, obscene and slick, saliva spilling down her chin as her body convulsed with every brutal thrust.

Around them, the other priestesses shifted, whimpers breaking from their throats as the sanctity of their temple dissolved into raw, carnal chaos. Allen looked up, meeting their wide, hungry eyes—and smiled like a god.

"Strip," he said softly, and the word fell like a blade.

Silks slid from trembling bodies. Jewels clattered to stone. Soon the sanctum was a sea of naked scales and flushed faces, breath fogging the crimson air, thighs slick and quivering as they waited, desperate and doomed.

Allen dragged the acolyte off his cock with a wet pop, strands of spit clinging between her lips and his shaft. She sagged against his thigh, choking on sobs and arousal, her face glazed with tears and saliva.

"Good," Allen murmured, patting her head like a favored pet before turning his gaze on the rest. "But I'm not done. Not even close."

He pointed to two priestesses—a tall one with burnished bronze scales and another with deep sapphire hues. "You. And you. On the altar. Now."

They scrambled to obey, clawed hands gripping the shattered stone as they bent forward, tails twitching in frantic submission. Allen stalked toward them like a predator, stripping away the last of his own restraints until he stood naked, every inch of him carved with dominance, his cock hard and slick with the acolyte's devotion.

The others watched with wide, starving eyes as Allen mounted the bronze-scaled priestess first, slamming into her with a force that made the altar shudder. Her scream tore through the sanctum, sharp and sweet, drowned in the wet slap of flesh on scales. Allen gripped her horns like reins, dragging her head back as he pounded her open, his breath a snarl against her ear.

"You were meant to guard this place," he growled between thrusts, "but now you're just another hole for your god to use."

Her answer was a broken moan, high and keening, her claws raking the stone as her body convulsed in helpless surrender.

Allen didn't stop when she came. He didn't even slow. He pulled free with a slick, obscene sound and slammed into the sapphire-scaled priestess beside her, tearing a guttural cry from her throat. The altar ran slick with their mingled lust, the air thick with heat and the musk of bodies surrendering to something greater—and darker—than faith.

The others couldn't stay still. They crawled closer, hands between their thighs, lips parted in fevered panting as they watched their sisters taken, broken, remade. Some whispered prayers—not to their goddess, but to him.

Allen rode them until their voices were hoarse and their bodies quaking, until the altar cracked and bled dust beneath the rhythm of his domination. Then he rose, looming over the kneeling, trembling mass of priestesses like a god of ruin, his chest heaving, his cock slick with their sin.

"Line up," he ordered, voice rough with hunger. "Every. Last. One."

They obeyed without hesitation, forming a trembling procession of naked flesh and gleaming scales, eyes wide with devotion and dread. Allen sat back on the shattered throne, spreading his legs, his cock jutting like an idol, and crooked a finger.

"Worship," he said again—and the temple fell into madness.

Mouths opened. Tongues worshipped. Bodies writhed in a frenzy of submission as priestesses fought for the chance to taste him, to feel him, to be claimed. Their moans rose in a hymn of corruption, echoing off walls that once heard only prayer. Chains of faith shattered, replaced by bonds of flesh and heat and surrender.

And Allen, at the heart of it all, leaned back with a smile sharp enough to cut gods.

This was his temple now.

And this was only the beginning.