Trials of Aetheria
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Chapter 1
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Two females compete for the highest position in their country by competing in twelve trials. The trials will strip them bare continuously, physically and emotionally in hard-core medieval ways. Warning: AI-Generated
Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Coercion Consensual Fiction Exhibitionism Scatology Water Sports Nudism Politics AI Generated
Cold water rushed over Sera Vael’s naked body, streaming in icy rivulets down her pale skin. The ropes bit into her wrists and ankles, holding her spreadeagled against the wooden frame anchored in the shallows of the Riverbend. Her slender limbs trembled once—almost imperceptibly—before she locked them still. Small high breasts rose and fell with controlled breaths; the current tugged at her narrow hips, caressing between her legs with uninvited insistence. Gooseflesh stood in tight rows across her arms and thighs. Her dark auburn hair, already wet, clung to her shoulders and neck, strands floating like dark threads in the flow.
Across ten feet of rushing water, Mara Thorne endured the same. The frame held her curvier form—broader shoulders, fuller breasts and hips, sun-kissed skin scattered with freckles. The river pressed against her, streaming over the swell of her belly, the curve of her thighs, the cleft between. Her chestnut braid, thick and heavy, hung dripping down her back. She breathed deep and steady, hazel eyes fixed on the opposite bank, letting the cold wash through her like any other field rain.
Both women were already submerged to the waist, the current strong enough to pull at their bodies, cold enough to tighten nipples into aching points. The frames creaked faintly against the riverbed stones.
On the banks and arched stone bridges above, hundreds watched. Farmers in wool tunics leaned on railings, merchants with coin pouches at their belts stood silent, riverfolk with wind-burned faces and callused hands murmured low. Children perched dangerously high, pointing. Women folded their arms—some judging, some remembering their own youths when such trials were spoken of in hushed stories. Banners of the Commonwealth hung limp in the still air—the twelve provincial sigils circling the central emblem of the Hall of Voices.
A low murmur rolled through the crowd—approval, anticipation, a few scattered jeers. Someone called out, “Show us your mettle, city-girl!” Another voice answered, “The farm one’s tougher—she’s used to muck!”
The head juror stepped onto a low platform overlooking the river. Older, silver-haired, dressed in deep green robes of Riverbend’s council, her voice carried over the water with practiced clarity.
“By the compact of the goddesses and the will of the Conclave, the candidates for High Matron commence their trials. Sera Vael of Eldhaven. Mara Thorne of the Golden Plains. Twelve provinces. Twelve skills. Twelve tests of body, mind, and will. She who endures with the highest score shall lead the Commonwealth for the next decade.”
She raised a hand. Silence fell.
“Today, in Riverbend, they face Staying Calm. For one full hour they shall remain bound in the rapids, naked and exposed, as the river’s creatures and currents claim their due. No flinch. No cry. No plea. Serenity under assault proves the mind fit to rule. The jury will score from one to ten. The tally begins now.”
The current tugged harder. A wave slapped Sera’s face—unexpected, salty with upstream silt. She blinked hard, swallowed the metallic taste, forced her eyes open again. The water climbed higher, pressing against her core, cold and relentless.
Mara felt it too—the rush over her belly, then breasts. A wave broke across her face; she turned her head just enough to let most pass over her cheek instead of her mouth. She did not gasp. She breathed—slow, deep, deliberate, like someone who had learned long ago how to wait out a storm.
The two women faced each other across the narrow channel. Sera’s storm-gray eyes met Mara’s hazel ones for the briefest instant. No words. Only recognition. Rival. Competitor. The first test had begun.
The crowd’s murmur rose again, expectant. Children pointed. Men leaned over the bridges for better angles. Women watched with folded arms—some judging, some measuring, some remembering.
Sera felt the first true current pull at her core. Cold tightened her nipples into hard points. The water caressed between her legs, uninvited, insistent. She clenched her jaw and stared at the far bank—stone houses, green fields, a life that was not hers to live today.
Mara let the water move her. She felt the tug on her fuller breasts, the press against her thighs. Her body knew cold rivers. It knew labor. It knew endurance. She focused on the rhythm of her breath, in time with the flow.
A faint barn-like whiff drifted on the breeze—sour, earthy, barely noticeable at first. Sera dismissed it as river silt. Mara recognized it immediately, the familiar morning scent of the village waking and emptying itself into the current. Somewhere upstream, a farmer squatted at the bank’s edge, trousers around his ankles. The act was casual, unremarkable. The waste slid into the river and began its journey downstream.
Neither woman could see it yet.
But they would.
The water settled into a steady, insistent rhythm around them, carrying that faint sour note deeper into every breath. Not gentle. Not cruel. Simply present. It pressed against every curve and hollow, cold enough to raise gooseflesh in tight rows across Sera’s pale arms and legs, warm enough in places where the sun had already kissed the surface. The current tugged at her hair, loosening a few auburn strands that had escaped her simple knot. They floated like dark ribbons in the flow.
The first touch came without warning.
A small silver dart—barely the length of a finger—brushed the inside of Sera’s right thigh. Then another. Then three at once. Tiny mouths, curious and unafraid, nipped at the tender skin. The sensation was light at first, almost ticklish, like the brush of fingertips testing boundaries. But the teeth were sharp. Each peck left a faint sting, a pinprick of heat in the cold.
Sera’s breath hitched—once, shallow—and she caught it immediately. She forced her gaze to the far bank: green fields, a cluster of thatched roofs, smoke rising from chimneys. Normal life. Irrelevant life. She counted the seconds between nibbles, turning pain into pattern. One. Two. Three. The fish were schooling now, drawn by the warmth of her body in the cooler water. They darted higher, along the crease where thigh met hip, then bolder still—grazing the outer lips of her sex.
Her body betrayed her in small ways: nipples tightening further into aching points, a faint flush creeping up her neck despite the chill. The crowd noticed. A low chuckle drifted down from the nearest bridge. “Look at the city one—already blushing like a maiden.” Another voice, rougher: “Cold water does that. Wait till the leeches get her.” A riverfolk man called, “She’s got the Riverbend in her veins already—look how she drinks it!”
Across the narrow channel of rushing water, Mara felt the same small mouths. They started lower—calves, ankles—then moved upward in lazy exploration. One found the soft underside of her breast, another the curve of her belly. The nibbles were firmer on her sun-kissed skin, perhaps because she radiated more warmth, or perhaps because her body simply offered more surface. The fish explored without hurry, testing the give of flesh, the salt of sweat mingling with river silt.
Mara exhaled slowly through her nose, lips parted just enough to breathe. She had spent years in shallow creeks, pulling weeds, washing linens, cooling off after long days in the fields. Fish had always been part of the water. She let them be part of her now. When one nipped higher—right at the fold where thigh met mound—she felt the jolt deep in her core, a spark that traveled upward and tightened her nipples into hard peaks. She did not flinch. She did not tighten her thighs. She simply settled deeper into the moment, letting the sensation pass through her like wind through standing wheat.
The crowd’s attention split between them. Children pointed and giggled. Men leaned farther over railings, elbows on stone, eyes hungry. A woman in a wool shawl muttered to her neighbor, “The farm one’s taking it like it’s nothing. City girl’s fighting too hard.” A farmer shouted, “First trial and the farm one’s already queen of the muck!”
Sera heard the words, even over the rush of water. She did not look at the speaker. She did not look at Mara. She kept her gaze fixed on the horizon, jaw set so tightly the muscles ached. They want reaction. They want weakness. She refused them both. But the fish kept coming—more now, a small school circling her hips, darting in to taste, darting away. One particularly bold one slipped between her labia, teeth scraping the sensitive inner skin. The sting bloomed sharp and hot. Her thighs trembled for half a heartbeat before she locked them still.
Mara felt a similar intruder—smaller, quicker—nipping at the hood of her clit. The sensation was electric, unwelcome, impossible to ignore. Her chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. She focused on the pull of the current against her back, the way the ropes held her steady. Pain is just another crop. It grows, it passes. Someone whistled appreciation. “Look at her—taking it like a queen.”
The water carried other scents now. Not just the clean mineral bite of the river. Something sourer. Earthier. The faint barn-like whiff from earlier grew stronger, thickening on the breeze. Upstream, the village latrines were emptying in the usual morning rhythm. The smell arrived before the sight: thick, human, unmistakable. A brown swirl drifted into view—small at first, then larger, chunks floating lazily toward the shallows.
Neither woman could turn her head far. They could only wait for the current to bring it closer.
Sera’s stomach clenched once—hard—then released. She forced her breathing even. Do not gag. Do not look away. The first tendril of waste brushed her cheek, warm against the cold water. She tasted it on her lips before she could close them fully. Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it down.
Mara turned her face a fraction, letting the worst of the swirl pass over her shoulder instead of her mouth. A chunk grazed her chin, slid down her neck between her breasts. The smell thickened, coating the back of her throat. She kept breathing—slow, measured. This too is the river. This too passes.
The crowd laughed now—low, appreciative, cruel. “Riverbend’s own perfume,” someone called. “Welcome to the real Commonwealth!” A riverfolk woman added, “Swallow the river’s gift, noble bitch—your capital airs won’t help here!”
The fish did not care about the filth. They kept nibbling, bolder in the warming water, exploring every fold, every crease. The leeches would come soon. Both women knew it.
For now, they endured the small mouths, the rising stench, the watching eyes.
And they waited.
The water had grown heavier with every passing minute, thick with the promise of worse to come, the sour reek now full and inescapable. The small fish still darted, but their attention had shifted—less exploratory now, more insistent, as if the river itself had decided to claim more territory. The first leech arrived without fanfare.
It touched Sera’s inner thigh high up, near the crease where leg met body—a slow, deliberate slide along her skin before it attached. The bite was subtle at first: a faint pressure, then the tiny teeth piercing, then the warm numbness spreading outward. She felt the creature settle, swelling gradually as it fed. Another followed seconds later, latching to the pale underside of her left breast, just below the hardened nipple. The pull was steady, rhythmic, like a second heartbeat against her own.
Sera’s mind cataloged every detail with cold precision. The bite numbed the skin almost at once, the leech’s old trick to keep the blood flowing while it drank. Swelling in minutes. She refused to look down.
But her body had other ideas.
The cold had already tightened her skin into gooseflesh; now the leeches’ steady drawing sent faint waves of heat radiating from each attachment point. Her nipples, already peaked from the water, throbbed with a dull ache. Lower, between her legs, the fish continued their work—nipping at the sensitive inner folds, the hood of her clit, the entrance itself. Each bite sent a jolt that pooled unwanted warmth in her core. She felt the telltale swelling, the slickness that had nothing to do with river water. The current carried it away, but not before the crowd noticed.
A low whistle drifted from the bridge. “City girl’s getting wet despite herself!” Laughter followed—crude, appreciative. A woman’s voice called down, mocking: “Look how her little cunt’s blushing for the fish!” A farmer added, “She’s ripe for the harvest already—river’s tending her well!”
Sera’s jaw clenched so hard she tasted blood from the inside of her cheek. She forced her breathing back to even. They want this. They want to see you break. She would not give it to them. Not yet.
Across the channel, Mara felt the first leech attach to the soft swell of her belly, just above her navel. It clung like a dark coin, growing fatter with every pulse. Another found the curve of her right breast, settling over the areola, the pull tugging at the already sensitive nipple. A third latched to her inner thigh, high enough that every slight shift of the current sent fresh sensation rippling through her core.