A Devoted Wife in the NTR World (Original Fantasy/Urban NTR Setting SI)

[miyako]

Note: This idea was sudden. And I got inspired after reading How Can a Sexy Trap Survive in a NTR World? by @Silver W. King, so all kudos to them.

This has a gendersbent protagonist, because I think that men generally have a greater dislike for NTR tropes and would understand them better. Still, the personality of the protagonist is going to be quite feminine as she has lived as a woman far longer than her old life as a man.

---

I woke up to the faint sound of Marcus humming some random 50's song, completely off-key, in the bathroom in his evergreen voice. This was the routine that had remained the same without any change, every morning for the last twenty-four years. My body stretched under the sheets like it always did for the last several years, it was too much, too sensual, too everything. The thin cotton nightgown rode up my thighs and the neckline dipping low enough that one deep breath would probably give the room a full show.

Forty-four years old and I still looked like I'd walked off the cover of some glossy magazine aimed at men who couldn't decide if they wanted simple innocence or had a fetish for sinful innocence. Flawless skin, big innocent eyes, lips that naturally pouted like I was always half a second from asking for something naughty. And then the rest of me, with massive tits that defied gravity in a way that was definitely not possible in my old world, tiny wasp waist like those Chinese models on Douyin, hips that could probably launch a thousand ships or at least a thousand boners.

The omnipotent asshole who dumped me here clearly had a type, and that type was "walking wet dream of every male on earth."

I rolled onto my side, cheek pressed to the cool pillow, and watched the bathroom door.

Marcus stepped out in nothing but boxer briefs, towel slung over his shoulder, still damp from the shower. He turned forty-six last month, with salt-and-pepper at the temples, broad shoulders from weekend gym sessions and yard work, stomach flat enough that I could still trace the lines of his abs if I wanted to.

He wasn't movie-star handsome, never had been, but he was mine. He was a kind man with a warm and steady personality that any normnal woman would want.

He was also the exact opposite of every "winner" prick in this fucked-up world.

"Morning, gorgeous," he said, voice still rough from sleep. He leaned down and kissed my forehead, then my lips, and then gently nibbled on them, as I felt a warm flutter in my heart.

"Morning, old man," I teased back, hooking a leg around his calf to keep him close. "Did you use my body wash again? Why don't you use the one I bought for you?"

"Yours smells better." He grinned, that crooked little smile that still made my stomach flip after all these years. "Besides, I like carrying a piece of you to work."

I laughed softly and let my hand slide down his chest, fingers curling into the waistband of his boxers just to feel him tense as his member started hardening. "Careful. Kids are gonna be up soon."

"Five minutes," he murmured, already climbing back onto the bed, caging me with his arms. "We've got a lot of time on hand."

We didn't really, but we stole it anyway.

His mouth found my neck while my fingers worked the elastic down. He groaned low when I wrapped my hand around his now already hard dick, because of course he was.

This body of mine was a goddamn cheat code. One look, one brush of skin, and men lost their minds. But Marcus? He never treated me like a prize to be won. He treated me like I was still the twenty-year-old girl who'd said yes to him in a cheap courthouse with zero fanfare in front of that obese registrar.

I guided him inside me with a quiet gasp, legs wrapping around his waisy.

We moved slowly at first in a lazy morning rhythm, this was gentle love making, not hardcore fucking. His forehead pressed to mine, eyes locked, and for a minute the whole stupid world outside this bedroom didn't exist.

We were just two people, deeply in love with each other and married for nearly twenty five years.

"Love you," he whispered against my lips.

"Love you more," I whispered back, and meant it.

We finished quietly, as he came shuddering inside me, as I bit his shoulder to muffle my own final scream of pleaaure, and then he kissed me again, before rolling off with a contented sigh.

"Shower?" he asked.

"You go first. I'll start breakfast."

He gave my ass a playful smack on his way back to the bathroom. I stayed there a moment longer, legs still trembling faintly, feeling his warmth leak out of me.

---

Downstairs, the house was still quiet. Sunlight poured through the big kitchen windows, turning everything golden. I tied my hair up in a messy bun, slipped into yoga pants and one of Marcus's old T-shirts (the fabric stretched obscenely across my chest, but whatever), and got to work.

Pancakes for Jordan, he'd eat half the batch if I let him. Scrambled eggs and toast for Lila, who was currently in a "no carbs before noon" phase that would last exactly until she smelled bacon. Protein shake for Alex, because college boys think green sludge equals gains. And black coffee for Marcus, no sugar, because he's a masochist.

I was flipping the first batch when Alex wandered in with his hair of disaster, wearing the same hoodie he'd worn yesterday.

"Morning, Mom."

"Morning, college boy. Why do you have dark circles under your euyes."

He snorted and dropped into a chair. "Had a late study session."

"With actual studying, or with that girl who keeps texting you at three a.m.?"

"Actual studying," he lied, badly.

I slid a plate in front of him. "Eat. And maybe shower before your dad notices you're wearing yesterday's clothes."

He grinned. "You're the best."

"I know."

Jordan came next, still half-asleep and his football jersey rumpled. At eighteen he was already taller than Marcus, built like a linebacker, and like all other Gen Z, he was full of teenage bravado and zero filter.

"Pancakes!" he crowed, grabbing three before I could stop him.

"Take the plate."

He obeyed, barely. "Coach says we've got practice till seven tonight. Can you bring snacks?"

"Already packed for you baby. Protein bars, fruit, those gross electrolyte things you like."

"You're a legend Mum."

Lila was last, as walys with a ponytail that was perfect, sketchbook under her arm. She was only fifteen and already too smart for her own good.

"Morning, sweetie."

"Morning." She kissed my cheek, then eyed the bacon I'd snuck onto the table anyway. "I said no meat."

"You said no carbs. Bacon's not carbs."

She rolled her eyes but took two strips.

Marcus came down last, dressed for work, button-down, slacks, looking every bit the reliable engineer he was. He kissed the top of each kid's head, then me, lingering just long enough to make Alex fake-gag.

"Company retreat's this weekend," he said casually while pouring coffee. "Greaves sent another email. Says it's mandatory fun for tjhe employees and all the families are welcome to attend."

My spatula froze mid-flip.

Greaves.
Harlan Greaves.
Marcus's boss.
Fifty-something, balding, and with a otbelly that hung over his belt like he was proud of it.

The kind of man who thought "team-building" was code for "which wife can I get alone in a conference room." I'd seen his type in every NTR story I'd ever hated on Earth. The "winner" who swoops in with fake charm and real leverage like promotions, bonuses, whispered threats disguised as compliments.

And now he wanted us there. Probably Me, most of all.

"Sounds… great," I said, voice light.

Marcus raised an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"Fine. Just thinking about packing. You know how I hate packing."

He chuckled. "You always look amazing no matter what you wear."

"That's the problem," I muttered under my breath.

The kids chattered through breakfast, ranging from school projects, game highlights to college applications.

I watched them like a hawk while pretending to sip tea. Alex texting under the table. Jordan inhaling food like it owed him money. Lila doodling in the margins of her planner. Marcus stealing glances at me over his mug, that soft look he got when he thought no one was watching.

This was what I'd spent twenty-four years guarding.

When I was sixteen and caught my mother bent over the kitchen counter with our fifty-year-old neighbor, I understood the rules of this world in one sickening instant. Women here didn't just cheat. They craved it. Society shrugged and men either became predators or victims. There was no in-between.

I swore then I wouldn't be that woman. I was not my mother, definitely not my friends' mothers and certainly not anyone in my bloodline if I could help it.

After the kids scattered I stood at the sink rinsing plates, mind racing.

I could say no, while faking sick. But Marcus wanted that promotion. He deserved it and Greaves would use refusal as ammunition.

"Hey," he said, wrapping arms around me from behind. Chin on my shoulder. "You sure you're okay about the retreat?"

I leaned back into him, letting his warmth ground me. "Yeah. We'll make it fun."

He kissed my neck. "As long as you're there, it will be."

I smiled. Turned in his arms and kissed him properly.

"You're mine," He whispered against my mouth. "Always."

"Yours."

His hands slid up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through the thin apron and shirt. "Got a few minutes?"

I laughed, turning in his arms. "You have a meeting at nine."

"Plenty of time." His mouth found mine, and I melted into it because how could I not? His hands roamed, cupping me, squeezing just enough to make me gasp against his lips.

The apron slipped, but I didn't bother fixing it. I pushed him back toward the counter, hopping up so I was sitting on the edge, legs wrapping around his waist. My shirt rode up, exposing the curve of my hips, the dip of my waist. He groaned, hands sliding under my thighs, lifting me closer.

"You're gonna make me late," he murmured between kisses.

"Your fault." I nip his lower lip, grinding against him slowly.

We didn't go all the way, not with the kids potentially coming down, but it was close. His fingers slipped under my shorts, teasing, stroking until I was whimpering into his mouth. I returned the favor, palming him through his slacks until he was breathing hard against my neck.

"God, Elara," he groaned. "I love you."

"Love you too." I kissed him fiercely, pouring everything into it, the fear I still carry from knowing what this world does to marriages, the gratitude that ours is different, the raw want that never quite goes away.

We finished each other off with hands and mouths right there in the kitchen. When it was over, he held me close, forehead to forehead, both of us catching our breath.

"You sure you're okay?" he asked again, softer.

I nodded. "Just... promise me we'll always be like this. No matter what tries to get in the way."

His eyes searched mine. "Always. You and me against the world, babe."

I believed him.

The world's logic wants me to be the prize. The trophy wife who falls for every ugly bastard with a pulse and a power trip. The nympho who cheats because that's just "how it is."

Fuck that.

I'm Elara Voss. I was once a person who hated those stories with every fiber of my being. Now I'm the woman in the middle of one, and I'm rewriting the damn script.