NTR: Stealing wives in Another World
Chapter 186: New ornament(18+)

Chapter 186: New ornament(18+)

The day passed without sunlight, or at least that’s how it felt to Soreya. Left in the shadow of Allen’s throne, her body curled on the polished stone floor, she remained in that same pathetic sprawl for hours. She was no longer tied down—he had released her from chains and stocks, but in doing so, hadn’t freed her. She hadn’t moved because she couldn’t. Her limbs were numb, but not from pain. It was something else. Something worse. Her will, her pride, her sense of self... they had all been quietly peeled away, layer by layer, until only this remained: a girl too proud to scream, too broken to rise.

And Allen? He didn’t look at her again.

He sat on the throne, discussing matters with Kael, reading scrolls from the elders, feeding grapes to Rinni when she bounced into his lap, and occasionally letting Fina curl against his side and whisper something lewd that made him chuckle low in his chest.

Soreya wasn’t even acknowledged.

She was ignored.

That was the true punishment. Not the gags or the cock down her throat. Not the filthy runes carved into her back, or the words still scrawled in ink under her breasts. It was absence that broke her. She had belonged to the world of thrones and whispered power. She had been worshipped. Even as a hostage, she’d commanded attention. Now she was... nothing.

She flinched when Allen finally stood.

Even though she told herself not to.

His boots echoed on the floor as he approached—not in a rush. Calm. Deliberate. She wanted to crawl to him. To kiss his feet. But something deep inside her, that last flicker of what she had once been, made her wait.

He stopped beside her.

Said nothing.

Then he snapped his fingers once.

She jerked to obey, crawling on her hands and knees like a creature trained, her hair dragging across the stone as she moved in a submissive arc, settling between his legs without a word. She looked up.

But he wasn’t hard.

That was when she understood. This wasn’t about him anymore. It was about her.

Allen reached for her chin, lifting it with a casual touch. "Do you understand now?"

She swallowed hard. "Yes... Master."

He smiled—not cruelly, but with a satisfaction so deep it made her clench involuntarily.

"Then present."

Her breath caught.

But she obeyed.

She turned without hesitation, faced the throne, and crawled up its steps until her chest was on the seat cushion and her knees were parted wide, her ass raised, her cunt puffy and glistening with neglected need.

She didn’t ask to be fucked.

She just offered.

Allen took his time removing his belt. The snap of leather made her flinch, her inner thighs twitching with anticipation. But he didn’t strike her. Not yet. He coiled the belt around his fist and pressed it to her lower back instead, a subtle pressure pinning her against the throne seat, reminding her she couldn’t move without his permission.

Then he spat.

Right onto her exposed hole.

She gasped. It dripped slowly down her slit, mixing with the slick already pooled there.

"You’ve earned this," he said.

The sound of his pants unzipping was the loudest thing in the room.

When he pressed his cock to her entrance, she whimpered. Not because she feared pain—but because she was starving for it. For him. For any scrap of attention that would affirm what she had become.

He didn’t thrust.

He sank.

One slow, overwhelming motion.

Soreya’s mouth fell open, her eyes rolling back. She was full again. Stretched. Owned. Her fingers clawed at the throne’s arms as Allen began to move, slow at first, then sharper, his hips colliding with the softness of her ass in brutal rhythm.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Every wet thrust echoed off the marble.

But it wasn’t just fucking. Not anymore.

This was a crowning.

Allen sat down on the throne behind her, never pulling out, holding her in place like she was an extension of his rule. His hands gripped her hips, and with each thrust upward, her body jolted, her breasts slapping against the armrest.

He spoke, voice low enough that only she could hear.

"You’re not a hostage."

Slap.

"You’re not a noble."

Slap.

"You’re an ornament. My throne’s cunt. Decorated and dripping. Meant to take cock and remind every visitor who holds power here."

Her moans broke into little cries. She clenched around him, her body betraying her—she was close. So close. And he felt it.

He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, her moan turning into a scream.

"You don’t cum until I do," he growled.

She whimpered. "Yes, Master..."

The pounding continued. Harder. Faster.

Each thrust sent shockwaves through her, her thighs quivering violently as the pressure built with nowhere to go. She was sobbing now—not from pain, but from wanting. Desperate, filthy need.

And finally, he came.

Hot and heavy, flooding her with thick pulses that made her cry out in relief.

"Now," he whispered.

She shattered.

Her orgasm hit her like a wave crashing over broken stone. Her pussy clamped down around him, sucking him deeper, milking every drop. Her vision blurred. Her whole body locked up—and then melted.

When he pulled out, his cum dripped freely from her ruined hole, sliding down the throne cushion, her thighs, the steps below.

And Allen didn’t tell her to move.

She stayed like that—used, leaking, spread—while the rest of the court returned to their business.

She was part of the throne now.

And everyone who passed the dais would see her.

And know:

This was Allen’s domain.

And she was his warning.

The cum trickled in slow, lazy drips down the back of her thighs, pooling at the base of the throne steps. The cushion beneath her hips was soaked, her skin red from the heat of Allen’s grip, her cunt raw and twitching with overstimulation. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, drool glistening on her chin where it had fallen during her climax. But Allen didn’t even glance at her anymore.

He’d returned to his duties, reading over a parchment handed to him by one of the foxkin attendants. Fina leaned over his shoulder, pointing to something on the scroll with a knowing smirk. Rinni sat cross-legged on the dais floor, playing with a silver ornament she’d stolen from the council chambers. None of them acknowledged Soreya. None of them spared her even a word.

And that silence carved deeper than any lash.

She was still stretched across the throne, legs trembling, hands gripping the edges of the seat for balance. Her mind had long since stopped thinking in noblewoman logic. She didn’t calculate, didn’t plot, didn’t look for escape. All she did now was feel—feel the ache in her core, feel the weight of his cum leaking out of her, feel the emptiness when he didn’t touch her again.

That emptiness was a punishment in itself.

Eventually, Allen rose. He didn’t call her name. He didn’t order her to clean herself. He simply stepped down from the throne, his cock still glistening with a sheen of her juices, and walked toward the side chambers with Fina trailing behind him. Rinni followed a moment later, humming to herself as she skipped off with bare feet tapping against stone.

Soreya remained.

One hand slowly reached between her legs. She didn’t think—didn’t dare. But the emptiness gnawed at her. She needed to be filled again. Needed to feel him inside even if it was only the echo of what he’d left.

Before her fingers could slide into the slick mess of her folds, a heavy boot stomped down in front of her face.

Kael.

She froze, hand inches from her slit. She didn’t look up. She didn’t breathe.

"Did Master give you permission to touch yourself?" Kael’s voice was colder than the wind outside the tower. His glare was palpable, even from above.

"No..." Her voice cracked, almost silent.

His hand curled into her hair and yanked her upright by the roots. She gasped, legs flailing as he dragged her off the throne cushion and dropped her onto the floor beside it. Her knees hit the marble with a thud, her body sagging forward.

"Then don’t act like a bitch in heat." He crouched down beside her, fingers gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at him. "You’re here because Master allowed you to be. You exist in this throne room as a display. If you want to be more than that, you earn it."

Her cheeks burned with shame.

But also... something worse.

Need.

"Yes, Kael..." she whispered.

He sneered and let her go.

"Clean up your mess."

She didn’t ask how. She already knew.

Her tongue dragged along the floor, licking up the splatter of Allen’s cum that had spilled beneath the throne. The taste—bitter, warm, degrading—sent a fresh wave of humiliation through her, but she didn’t stop. She licked until the marble was clean. Until Kael nodded with approval and turned away.

When she sat back on her heels, thighs slick with more than just cum, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the polished wall mirrors behind the dais.

Hair tangled. Eyes unfocused. Lips swollen. Neck bruised with finger marks. Her body was marred with handprints, spank welts, and drying smears of ink. And yet...

She looked beautiful.

Because she looked his.

Her cunt pulsed again at the thought.

The next time Allen returned to the throne, he didn’t address her. He didn’t say a word. He simply sat, adjusted his cloak, and allowed Rinni to settle into his lap once more.

Fina smirked from the side of the room, then gestured lazily.

"Soreya," she said with a lilt in her voice. "Display properly."

Without hesitation, Soreya moved.

She crawled to the front of the dais, lowered her upper body to the floor, and spread her knees wide until her cunt and ass were fully exposed to anyone passing through the throne room. Her arms rested behind her back, fingers interlocked.

A living, breathing ornament.

Every time someone entered the chamber—from beastkin officials to merchant envoys to former nobles forced into slavery—they saw her first. Bent. Leaking. Humiliated.

Some looked away in shame.

Some stared.

A few laughed.

But she didn’t move. Not even when Fina walked over and smeared more ink on her back. Not even when Rinni tossed a golden ring and it landed between her cheeks. Not even when Allen finally reached forward and gave her ass a single, lazy slap before returning to his conversation.

Soreya didn’t dare move.

Because stillness was obedience.

And obedience was survival.

And survival... meant maybe, just maybe, one day he’d use her again.