NTR: Stealing wives in Another World
Chapter 174: Fourth conviction (Heavy smut 18+)

Chapter 174: Fourth conviction (Heavy smut 18+)

The hall stank of sweat, oil, and justice. The scent of ruined nobility clung to the air like perfume gone rancid. Allen hadn’t moved from the dais. He stood still, bare-chested, cock sheathed in the remnants of his authority, surrounded by gaping women and shattered legacies.

The nobles still seated along the walls didn’t speak. They barely blinked. They weren’t watching a man—they were watching a force of nature.

And the storm wasn’t over.

"Next," Allen said simply.

The doors opened.

Two guards entered, dragging a regal woman between them—Lady Resha Varnholt, Duchess of Eastmarch, once draped in pearls and velvet, now stripped down to her shift, wrists shackled, hair disheveled, cheeks flushed with something between rage and disbelief.

She was older than the last three, but no less striking. Her cheekbones sharp, lips darkened with rouge, her thighs thick with decades of privilege. She stumbled once, catching herself, and hissed at the guards.

"Unhand me! This is a farce. I am Varnholt blood. I have sat beside queens and kings—"

"You’ve bathed in the blood of servants," Allen interrupted, voice sharp as steel. "Your bloodline means nothing here."

Resha’s mouth snapped shut at the sound of his voice. Her eyes flicked toward the ruined noblewomen at his feet. She saw Valea, still twitching. She saw Halene’s gaping womb. She swallowed.

Allen’s tone never changed. Cold. Even. Unrelenting.

"You are not here for defense. You are here to be displayed."

She tried to raise her chin. "I am a mother. I’ve raised daughters of courtly grace. I’ve—"

"You’ve raised executioners," Allen cut her off. "You bred hate. Taught cruelty. Used beastkin as your playthings. You orchestrated a hunt."

Resha flinched.

Gasps echoed from the beastkin in the gallery.

"Yes," Allen said, stepping forward. "You ran an event where beastkin women were set loose in your private woods—naked, drugged, hunted by dogs and noble sons for ’first time pleasures.’"

A low growl vibrated through the air. The kind only beastkin could make—rage buried deep in their chests, surfacing now.

"You called it ’The Wild Culling.’"

"I—I didn’t—" Resha stammered. "I never touched them myself—I only arranged—"

"You profited," Allen said, stepping closer. "You charged gold per girl. Let guests bid on who got to fuck the ’prey’ first."

He looked to the side.

Two beastkin women stood there—scarred, twitching, arms around each other.

One spoke, voice soft but steady.

"She laughed while they took turns. Said our screams were a fine harmony."

Resha turned pale.

Allen snapped his fingers.

"Strip her."

Her shift was torn away. Her body, pale and plump with age, was revealed. Her breasts sagged but held defiant shape. Her pussy, surprisingly smooth, glistened from fear. She tried to cover herself, but the guards yanked her arms wide and shackled her wrists to a standing post in front of the dais.

Allen didn’t gloat. He didn’t leer.

He turned and took something from a nearby tray.

A branding iron—long, thin, wickedly curved at the end.

It glowed orange.

Resha’s eyes widened.

"No—no, please—please not that, please don’t mark me—"

Allen held it in both hands, turning it slightly so the beastkin could see the letters at the tip.

W H O R E

"Your legacy," Allen said coldly. "Boiled down to truth."

He stepped forward and without ceremony, slammed the iron into the soft, trembling flesh just above her belly.

SSSSSSKHHHHHHHHHHH

Resha howled.

Her entire body bucked. Her thighs slammed together instinctively. But the burn took root. Deep. Permanent.

Allen pulled the iron back.

The word was crisp.

WHORE.

She slumped in the shackles, sobbing already.

But he wasn’t done.

Allen turned and took the second iron.

This one was smaller. Shaped for her mound. The letters, bold and cruel:

FREE HOLE

Resha lifted her head, gasping.

"No—please—I’m not—I’ve never—"

"You are now," Allen said.

He dropped to one knee, spread her legs wide.

"No—don’t—my daughters—they’ll see—they’ll know—"

"That’s the point."

He pressed the iron just above her slit—onto her mons pubis—right where pubes would normally grow.

HHHHSSSSSKKKKTTTTT

The smell of scorched skin filled the room. The sizzle was louder than her screams.

Her legs gave out. Piss sprayed from her body, sizzling on the stone. Her thighs shook as the word carved itself into her flesh.

When he pulled it away, the skin above her pussy was red, puffy, branded.

FREE HOLE.

It wasn’t just degradation.

It was identity theft.

Allen stood, eyes like daggers.

"You’re not a duchess. You’re not a lady. You’re a hole. A branded one. A symbol of your own crimes."

Resha hung there, twitching, her legs spasming.

One of the beastkin survivors stepped forward—an oxkin girl, her horns curved, her belly marked with old lash scars.

Allen looked at her.

The girl nodded.

She approached Resha slowly... knelt between her thighs... and spit directly onto the branded skin above her pussy.

Resha sobbed harder.

The beastkin turned, didn’t speak, just walked away. Justice didn’t need words.

Allen motioned again.

Two male beastkin approached, hard already, slick and ready. One lined up with her pussy. The other with her mouth.

"Please," she whispered. "No more—I’m—I’m sorry—I swear—I didn’t know—"

Allen grabbed her chin.

"Open."

She obeyed.

The bear-kin pushed into her mouth while the other speared her twitching cunt.

SLAP. SLAP. SLAP.

Resha gagged. Her thighs twitched. Her branded mound squelched audibly with every thrust.

Allen watched from the dais, cold, unmoving.

This wasn’t about pleasure.

It was punishment. A rewriting of flesh and history.

The thrusts grew harder. Her lips stretched. Her hole opened wider, soaked in her own fluids. Her orgasm hit fast and humiliating—coating the oxkin’s cock as she squirted beneath the brand.

She moaned into the cock in her mouth.

Then another wave hit her.

Her body wasn’t resisting.

It was betraying her.

Allen leaned in close, whispering into her ear:

"You were proud of your legacy. Now, it’s carved into you. You don’t get to forget."

The oxkin grunted—spurt after spurt of hot seed pumped into her ruined cunt. He didn’t pull out. He pushed deeper, stuffing her full.

The bear-kin pulled from her mouth and came across her face, painting her cheeks and lips.

Resha just twitched, dripping from every hole.

Branded. Used. Redefined.

Allen spoke to the audience.

"Let this be known. Lady Resha Varnholt, Duchess of Eastmarch, will be known by her true title now."

He turned back to the woman, hanging by the chains.

"Whore. Free Hole. Used goods."

A pause.

Then the command:

"Hang her in the square. Pussy facing the sun."

The guards dragged her away, her legs dragging limply behind her, cum leaking down her thighs, the brand still steaming faintly.

And the crowd?

They didn’t cheer.

They just watched.

Silent. Reverent.

Because Allen hadn’t just destroyed another noble name.

He’d given pain its language.

And shame its permanence.

Another lesson burned into flesh.

And the war on nobility’s sins continued.