NTR: Stealing wives in Another World
Chapter 185: Breaking of dignity(18+)

Chapter 185: Breaking of dignity(18+)

Time passed.

How much, Soreya didn’t know. Hours, maybe. Or days. The collar distorted things—it was like being submerged in warm water that never let her surface. She remained in the frame, locked and bowed, arms numb, throat dry, pussy leaking a trail of Allen’s cum down the inside of her thighs that had cooled, then warmed again with each fresh humiliation.

They didn’t stop using her. Not in the traditional sense, no. Allen had said she was to remain untouched—by cock, by fingers—but that hadn’t meant spared. Fina returned with brushes. Paint. Ink. Runes. Words.

She dipped the brush into black ink and began to write across Soreya’s back, slow and measured.

"Crownless."

"Owned."

"Flesh to be filled."

Each time the brush touched her skin, Soreya tensed. But she didn’t flinch. Not anymore. Her mind floated, broken somewhere between exhaustion and ecstasy. Rinni sat nearby, chewing on dried fruit, giggling as she offered translations of the runes to the few onlookers still too curious to leave the throne room.

Allen watched from above.

He hadn’t touched her again since the first public claiming. He didn’t need to. His silence weighed more than his cock now. The absence of him, the knowledge of his control, settled deeper than any slap or thrust ever had.

Kael returned with reports—messengers from the other beastkin kingdoms were already reacting. Some with horror. Others with curiosity. But none dared challenge the man who had shattered a queen and mounted her soul like a trophy.

At dusk, Allen finally descended again.

The room dimmed as firelight replaced sunlight. Shadows played across the marble floor, and the iron of Soreya’s collar glimmered with soft pulses of magic. She didn’t lift her head when he approached. She couldn’t. The restraints bit into her limbs like they belonged there now.

He unlocked only one thing—her mouth.

The gag slipped out with a soft pop, a line of drool clinging to her bottom lip.

"Speak," he ordered.

She coughed softly, then rasped, "I... need you."

His hand slid down her spine. "You had me. But you haven’t earned me again."

Her lip quivered.

Fina set down the brush and wiped her hands. "She’s done. Every word is sealed. The ink won’t wash off unless you command it."

Allen examined the runes along Soreya’s back, hips, and ass. She was a living scroll now, a canvas of shame and obedience. Words glowed faintly beneath the surface—magical, binding, unremovable without his touch.

He reached beneath her, cupping her chin and tilting her face up toward him.

"Tell me what you are now."

"I... am yours," she said softly.

"Wrong."

His grip tightened just enough to remind her.

She whimpered. "I’m not a queen. I’m not even a slave. I’m a... hollow. I exist to be filled. Written on. Used."

He released her and smiled coldly.

"Good."

He reached down, guiding the tip of his cock to her lips. "Now show me that hollow has a purpose."

She didn’t hesitate.

Her mouth opened, soft and eager, and he pushed in slowly—just enough to feel the warmth of her submission wrap around him. Her tongue worked on instinct now, lips sealing around him as she moaned softly, her voice low and needy.

Allen leaned against the frame, holding her head in place, using her mouth like a tool carved for him and him alone.

Every wet glrk, every slrp echoed off the walls like music.

He used her slow. Deep. Letting her feel the rhythm of ownership through every inch of her throat. Her eyes fluttered, tears brimming again as her cheeks hollowed, her whole body trembling from the effort of pleasuring him while still locked in place.

He came down her throat with no warning, no groan, no climaxing snarl—just an ice-cold command, flooding her mouth with heat, forcing her to swallow or choke.

She swallowed.

Of course she did.

And when he pulled out, her lips closed automatically, her head bowed again, seed still trickling from the corners of her mouth like a ritual offering.

Allen rose and turned away.

"Keep her like this until dawn," he told Kael. "Then clean her, but do not let her speak until I say."

Kael bowed.

Soreya remained bowed in the frame, dripping, inked, sealed in magic and shame.

And high above, on the steps of the throne, Allen sat once more—not as a man, but as the truth behind the myths they whispered about in fear and lust. Not a ruler of lands, but of bodies. Of minds.

Of queens.

And below him, the Hollow waited to be filled again.

When dawn arrived, it did not bring relief. The sky outside turned pale, then gold, and yet inside the throne room, time remained suspended in the cruel hush that followed Allen’s departure. Soreya had not moved an inch. Her limbs ached beneath the bindings; her throat still tasted of him—bitter, salt-heavy, like shame burned into the tongue. Her cunt throbbed with a hollow ache, unused since the public ritual but still leaking the remnants of that claiming. No one touched her through the night. No one dared. She was a warning now. A landmark on the road all nobles would soon walk.

When Kael finally returned, it was not with keys or mercy. He brought a basin of warm water, a cloth, and a small, glittering blade. Soreya blinked blearily, her mouth still unbound but silent, head sagging forward.

"Allen said clean you," Kael muttered, his tone carefully neutral, "but not to let you speak."

He began with the cloth, gently at first. Her thighs were wiped clean. The smeared ink from under her breasts, where sweat had mixed with the calligraphy, was carefully restored with a reapplication of enchanted gel. Her hair, matted and tangled, was brushed out until it shone again. She looked like royalty once more—only now she was royalty remade in someone else’s image. Naked. Decorated. Owned.

Then came the blade.

Kael knelt and spread her ass cheeks apart with gloved fingers. The runes along her backside stopped just above her tailbone, but the remaining canvas was obvious. He held the blade in one hand, dipped in ink, and began carving.

Not deep. Not cruelly.

Just enough to leave thin, red lines. Magic hummed softly with each stroke. The words cut into her skin weren’t in common tongue—they were beastkin script, brutal and old, words that meant "vessel" and "obedience" and "unclaimed—until he says otherwise." When Kael finished, he pressed a salve into the lines and whispered a spell.

The words sealed into her skin, rising like delicate brands—not raised, not scarred, but impossible to ignore.

Soreya shuddered, her body wracked with a silent moan she wasn’t allowed to voice.

And then Allen returned.

No grand entrance this time. He simply appeared at the edge of her vision, walking with purpose, his cloak snapping behind him. He said nothing to Kael. He didn’t look at the basin or the tools. His eyes went straight to her—low, trembling, wide-eyed despite the fatigue, lips still parted, her entire frame humming with dread and heat.

He moved behind her.

His fingers traced the runes Kael had carved.

"They suit you," he murmured. "You’ll wear them even after I give you back to your people."

Her breathing hitched. Was that real? A promise of return?

He leaned down, mouth at her ear.

"You’ll go back to them as mine. Branded. Bred. Hollow. And when they kneel before you, they’ll see me first."

She moaned out loud, a desperate, aching sound that was more need than fear now.

Allen straightened. "Unlock her."

Kael obeyed. The frame gave a slow creak as the clasps unlatched. Soreya collapsed, boneless, onto the floor, her body a trembling mess of bruised softness and stretched pride. Allen didn’t help her stand. He just waited. Watched.

She lifted herself on her elbows, then her knees. She turned toward him.

Crawled.

Not out of fear. Not anymore. She wanted to be beneath him. To be seen. Touched. Filled.

When she reached him, she bowed her head to the floor and pressed her lips to his boot.

"Look up," he commanded.

She did.

He was already pulling out his cock.

The sight of it made her gasp, and before she could ask—before she could even think to ask—he grabbed a fistful of her hair and shoved her mouth down onto him.

She gagged immediately. He didn’t stop.

There was no rhythm this time. No slow tease. He fucked her face like it was a cunt, using it for release more than pleasure. Her nose buried against his pelvis, her throat bulged obscenely, spit and tears streaming freely as he slammed into her again and again.

Glrk. Glrk. Glrk.

The sound was brutal. Wet. Raw.

She didn’t fight it.

She offered herself to it.

And when he came, it was deep in her throat, forcing her to swallow around the girth, her eyes rolling back as her body shook with the force of it.

He pulled out with a messy pop and let her collapse at his feet.

But still, she whispered, "More."

Allen looked down at her, this once-proud monarch now reduced to a trembling, seed-drenched slave moaning at his boots.

And yet—he gave her nothing. Not immediately.

Instead, he turned and motioned.

From the hallway, three chained girls were led in—beastkin concubines, once secreted away in noble pleasure dens. Now, they came crawling, leashed and branded, toward the throne. Allen nodded to Kael.

"Line them up. Let her watch."

Kael obeyed.

The girls were arranged in a line—kneeling, backs arched, holes glistening with arousal and terror. Allen moved to the first one, grabbed her hair, and fucked her mouth without preamble.

Soreya watched, eyes wide.

He didn’t stop with one. He used the second. Then the third. He came on their faces, in their mouths, made them thank him after every stroke.

And all the while, Soreya watched. Burning. Jealous. Aching.

When he returned to her, she was shaking.

"Please," she begged. "I want it. I want to be used like them."

Allen smiled, cruel and calm.

"No," he said. "You already had me. Now you’ll wait."

He left her there.

Left her sobbing, legs spread, cunt untouched but drenched, face streaked with tears, still bound by the magic he’d laced through her veins.

She was his.

She knew it now.

Not because he took her.

But because he withheld.

And that was the final shatter.

That was the breaking of dignity.