NTR: Stealing wives in Another World-Chapter 21: Invitation

The marketplace was quieter today.

The sun filtered through the town square like warm honey, dust dancing in the golden air. Allen leaned casually against a wooden beam near the apothecary, one eye on the road, the other on the system window flickering at the edge of his vision.

[Sweet Tongue – Passive Effect: Active]

Emotional resistance lowered by 23%

Stress susceptibility: High

Cognitive control: Slipping

He didn't need a system message to tell him she was close.

The moment she walked into view, his eyes locked on her—same tight sky-blue dress, the fabric clinging to her chest and hips like it was painted on. Her breasts swayed ever so slightly with each step, and her backside, that unholy masterpiece of a jiggling ass, bounced like it was trying to hypnotize him.

And it almost worked.

Until her eyes flicked to him.

"What are you staring at?" she snapped, halting near a flower cart.

Allen didn't even flinch. "You. Obviously."

"You're disgusting," she said, cheeks blooming red. "Men are all the same."

He stepped forward, slow and casual, hands tucked into his belt. "Then why do you keep showing up in the same spot? Same time. Wearing that dress that makes your hips swing like a church bell on heat day?"

She went silent. Her jaw clenched.

He was in.

"You know what's worse than men who stare?" Allen continued, his voice smooth as silk. "Men who pretend they don't. Who look at you when your husband's passed out drunk and whisper things with their eyes."

Her pupils dilated.

That struck a nerve.

"I didn't say—" she started, but Allen cut in gently.

"You didn't have to. I can see it. In your shoulders. In the way you flinch when someone stands too close. You're not mad because I'm looking." He leaned closer. "You're mad because I'm not pretending I'm not."

Her mouth parted slightly. A flush rose on her throat.

[Sweet Tongue – Emotional Leakage Triggered]

Target memory fragments: "He passes out. They always look. I hate it."

"My husband's friends..." she began, eyes darting toward the ground. "They... they wait until he's drinking. He never notices. He always passes out early, and then... then they just—" She stopped herself, biting her lip.

Allen stayed quiet. Just listening. Not pushing.

Her fists clenched at her sides. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She looked up, eyes flashing.

"And you think you're better?" she snapped. "You think because you say it out loud, that makes you honest?"

Allen shrugged. "Nah. I just think you deserve to be looked at by someone who appreciates you, not someone who's just waiting for your husband to pass out."

Her lips trembled. Her anger didn't vanish—but something shifted. Her guard faltered.

"And if I told you I hated it?" she asked softly. "That I hate how they stare when I pick up the mugs, when I walk across the room, when I bend down to grab the firewood—"

"You'd be telling the truth," Allen said, voice barely above a whisper. "And you'd also be admitting you're lonely. That somewhere deep down, you want someone to see you not like a piece of meat, but as a woman who still burns."

That did it.

Her breath caught. Her eyes widened—and then, just as fast, she shut down. Her whole body went stiff, like the realization had slammed into her too hard.

"I—I shouldn't be here," she muttered, turning abruptly. "I have to go."

And then she ran.

Not a casual power-walk. A full-blown, panic-fueled retreat, her jiggling hips bouncing in a frantic rhythm as she fled down the alleyway like the truth had slapped her across the face.

Allen just exhaled, watching her go.

"She's so close," he murmured.

"That bounce is illegal," said a familiar voice behind him.

Fina emerged from the trees like a horny cryptid, licking her lips with glee. "She ran, but her thighs were crying. You saw that ass?"

Allen snorted. "Hard to miss. It's like it's trying to start diplomatic relations with my eyeballs."

Fina stepped up beside him, grinning like a cat in heat. "She's crumbling. That whole 'I'm married, how dare you' thing? Gone. She's spiraling."

"She admitted just enough to get scared of herself," Allen said. "The system says her resistance is at a tipping point. If I push now, she'll either break or bolt forever."

Fina's grin turned feral.

"Then we don't push yet," she purred. "We let her stew. Let her go home, sweaty and confused and wet in all the wrong places. Let her imagine you—over and over—until she starts hearing your voice when her husband touches her."

"And when she comes back?" Allen asked.

Fina reached into her pouch and pulled out the itching leaf, twirling it between her claws like a dagger. "That jiggling ass is ours. And when it's bouncing on your lap, I'm slipping this into her waistband, and we're going to watch her lose her mind."

Allen grinned. "Together?"

Fina leaned up, whispering, "You'll be in her. I'll be in her head. And when she cries your name, I'll moan with her."

They stood there for a while, watching the path where the woman had disappeared, the plan spinning darker and sweeter in the air between them.

The trap was set. The prey was trembling.

And the punishment? Oh, it was going to be delicious.

The next morning was bright, warm, and dangerously normal.

Allen had cleaned up—hair brushed, shirt loose, that easygoing "I'm-just-passing-through" vibe practically radiating off him like a spell. He wandered into the central square like he belonged, whistling a lazy tune, eyes scanning the crowd.

And there she was.

Same wife. Same sky-blue dress—though this time her hair was pinned up, a little more reserved. A little more tense. She was walking beside a man: early 30s, stocky, red-faced, with a cheerful gait and the unmistakable wobble of someone who drank more than water for breakfast.

The husband.

Allen didn't miss the way her eyes immediately locked onto him across the square.

Her face went pale.

He smiled at her like an old friend.

Then turned his gaze to the man.

"Hey there," Allen said, casually approaching. "Sorry to bother, but I'm new to the area. Know anywhere around here that serves a good ale?"

The husband blinked, then grinned like a dog who'd been asked to fetch. "Ale? Hah! You're talkin' to the right man, friend. There's a spot three streets down, but it's watered-down piss if you ask me. Now, my house? Now that's where the good stuff is."

Allen laughed, reaching into his pouch and pulling out a few coins. "You're a lifesaver. Here—first round's on me."

The husband's face lit up like a tavern sign. "Well look at that! Kind and generous, eh?" He clapped Allen on the back like they'd been war buddies. "Name's Harven. That's my wife, Mirielle."

Allen's eyes met hers.

Mirielle.

She didn't say anything. Just clenched her jaw and nodded slightly, like her whole body was screaming no while her mouth betrayed her with politeness.

"And you are?" Harven asked, raising an eyebrow.

Allen gave his best easy smile. "Name's Allen. Just a traveler. Heard this town had charm—and now I see it wasn't a lie."

Mirielle's eyes narrowed, catching the double meaning instantly. Harven didn't.

"Nice t'meet ya, Allen!" he said, oblivious. "You know, I was skeptical when you walked up. Kinda thought maybe you were one of those... you know, city types. Always sizing up what they can scam."

Allen gave a light chuckle, completely unfazed. "I get that a lot. Probably the hair."

Harven barked a laugh. "Hah! Damn right. But you? Nah. You gave a man coin before even knowing his name. That's character. Hey—why don't you come by later? I got bottles from my brother's vineyard. Best stuff you'll taste this side of the canyon."

Allen threw a quick glance at Mirielle, who was practically vibrating with rage—and fear. Her hands were white-knuckled around the strap of her basket. Her lips were pressed tight. She shook her head just slightly, behind her husband's back.

Allen grinned.

"I'd be honored."

Mirielle turned away abruptly, muttering something about needing to check on the bread at home.

Harven waved it off. "She's always rushing. Doesn't trust me with anything that needs 'measuring.'" He snorted. "But you'll come by, yeah? After sunset. I'll have the wine chilled."

"I'll be there," Allen said smoothly. "Looking forward to meeting you both... properly."

He watched them walk off—Harven still chatting like he'd just made a best friend, and Mirielle? She didn't look back once.

But her shoulders were tense. Her steps just a bit too fast. And Allen knew—knew—she was thinking about last night. About his words. His stare. The guilt in her gut fighting with the heat between her thighs.

And soon?

She'd lose that fight.