Trials of Aetheria
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Chapter 2
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 2 - 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 Fa Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Historical Alternate History Incest MaleDom Rough Sadistic Exhibitionism Food Masturbation Oral Sex Scatology Water Sports Public Sex Nudism Politics AI Generated
The guards brought them straight through the arched gateway and onto the raised wooden platform at the center of Harveston’s market square. No quiet approach, no lingering. The trial began the moment the first boot struck the planks.
The square thrummed under the midday sun. Stalls groaned beneath fresh loaves, wheels of cheese, bolts of dyed wool, baskets spilling golden wheat and late apples. The air was thick with baking bread, sun-warmed hay, and the faint sweet rot of overripe fruit. Hundreds filled the space: farmers in sun-bleached tunics, women in harvest aprons, children darting between legs, merchants calling prices. Wheat-sheaf banners snapped overhead—the proud sigil of the Golden Plains, the province that had shaped Mara Thorne.
Sera Vael felt the sun strike her bare shoulders as the guard tore the rough wool cloak away. Cool air brushed pale skin, then heat followed, bright and merciless. The Plains sun painted her slender frame—sharp collarbones, small high breasts, narrow hips—in unforgiving light.
Again they strip me like a commoner.
She lifted her chin, expression carved from ice. They expect shame. I give them composure. Let the provincials gawk at their betters.
Beside her, Mara Thorne stood with quiet readiness. The second guard pulled her cloak free. Familiar home air kissed sun-kissed shoulders. She saw them instantly: old Widow Hale with her apple basket, gray braids the same as childhood suppers; young Tom Carver, taller now but still wearing that shy grin from fence-mending days; the baker’s wife who once slipped her extra rolls in lean times; and—stomach turning—old Elias the miller, leaning against a stall post, eyes already heavy with guilt.
They see Mara Thorne. Not a candidate. The girl who laughed too loud at dances, who carried too much at once.
The knowledge was both shield and wound. She breathed deep, hay and bread anchoring her. Let them look. They know who I am. And they know I’m still standing.
The head juror stepped forward—stout, harvest-gold robes, hair braided with wheat stalks. Her voice boomed with the practiced authority of market calls and festival proclamations.
“By the will of the Conclave and the goddesses’ compact, the second trial begins here in the Golden Plains. Sera Vael of Eldhaven. Mara Thorne of these very fields. Today they face Public Speaking. The jury will whisper rumors—vile, personal, true or false. Each candidate must proclaim every word aloud as her own confession, with clarity, conviction, and without hesitation. Serenity in shame proves the tongue fit to lead.”
Excitement rippled through the square. Farmers edged closer. Merchants paused mid-haggle. Children were shooed back, though many stayed, wide-eyed. Widow Hale shook her head slowly. Tom Carver flushed. Old Elias looked away, then back, then away again.
The guards positioned the women side by side, shoulders pulled back, chests forward, bodies fully displayed to the warm breeze and hundreds of eyes—many that had known Mara since she could walk.
The first juror, a thin scribe with ink-stained fingers, leaned toward Sera and whispered:
“Tell them that you are a skinny bitch that no man wants and that you fucked your way up to become a candidate.”
Sera felt the familiar sour taste of disdain. The words were crude, predictable, the kind of insult any ambitious woman collected like dust. They stung only because they reduced her calculated rise to something animal and desperate. She crushed the flicker of irritation and spoke, voice clear and measured:
“I am a cold, skinny bitch no man wants—so I fucked my way into candidacy.”
A low murmur rolled through the square—shock from the older women, rough laughter from the young men, uneasy shifting among the families. Someone near the back snorted, “Figures, city types always do.”
The scribe moved to Mara.
“Tell them you fucked every hand and now you want to move up, just to fuck more hands.”
Mara felt the heat of humiliation bloom in her chest. The accusation was lazy, generic filth, but here, among people who knew her real sacrifices during harvest, it felt like mockery of every dawn she rose early to work beside them. She met the scribe’s eyes for a heartbeat—eyes she might have known as a child—then spoke, voice firm and carrying like a call across fields:
“I spread my legs for every hand that helped with harvest—and now I think that makes me fit to rule, so I can lie with more hands.”
Cheers erupted from some of the younger men, coarse and delighted; gasps and head-shakes from the women. Widow Hale shook her head slowly, lips pressed thin. Tom Carver flushed deep red and looked at his boots.
A broad woman with thresher’s callused hands stepped to Sera, breath smelling faintly of ale and bread crust.
“Tell them you drowned your own bastard in the capital canals so no one would know your shame.”
The words struck like winter wind. Monstrous. Unthinkable. Sera’s stomach clenched; the image of a child—any child—destroyed for convenience was so alien to her that it almost made her nauseous. Yet the accusation burrowed into her oldest fear: that beneath her control people would see only a heartless machine. She forced her breathing steady and proclaimed:
“I drowned my own child in the canals ... so my shame would never be known.”
The square reacted in waves: horrified gasps from the older women, low horrified murmurs spreading outward, several farmers spitting on the ground in disgust. A stout woman near the front shouted, “That’s what nobles do—kill their own to keep the throne!” Widow Hale pressed both hands to her mouth, eyes wide with something close to grief. Sera fixed her gaze on the horizon. They believe what they want. Let them.
The thresher turned to Mara, voice low and intimate, the tone of someone who had known her since she was knee-high.
“Tell them you let old miller fuck you because you are too weak to say no”
The truth beneath the rumor made the words burn. That single night of too much cider and too-rough hands had left a scar Mara had never spoken of aloud. Now it was dragged into daylight before the entire community. Shame and rage warred in her throat. She spoke anyway, voice rooted and carrying:
“I let the miller fuck me because I was too weak to say no ... and I’ve hated myself ever since.”
She looked out. Old Elias stood frozen near the platform edge, face scarlet, eyes glued to the planks. Closer to the front, her father—tall, weathered, the stubborn jaw she had inherited—stood rigid. Pride had been in his posture when the trial began. Now his shoulders sagged, face ashen. Their eyes met. Raw hurt and disappointment flashed across his features. Then he turned and pushed through the crowd, disappearing behind a stall without a backward glance.
The square went still for a heartbeat—then exploded. Cheers from some young men, shocked murmurs from the women, several farmers looking away in discomfort. Widow Hale whispered, loud enough to carry, “That ain’t the girl I raised...”
The sight of her father walking away cut deeper than any blade. After everything he taught me about standing tall, I let him hear this version of me. Mara swallowed once, hard, then lifted her gaze to Widow Hale, to Tom, to every face she had known all her life.
A merchant with a gold chain leaned toward Sera.
“Tell them you’re so vain you’d steal and drown your brother’s newborn just for his attention.”
The fresh twist on infanticide landed like a physical blow. Sera felt bile rise; the notion of harming an infant for something as petty as attention was so grotesque it almost broke her composure. She crushed the revulsion and spoke:
“I was so thirsty for my brother’s attention that I stole his newborn ... drowned it in the river basin ... and watched it sink so no one would ever know.”
The crowd erupted again—gasps, spitting, furious shouts. “Nobles kill their own!” someone bellowed. A woman near the front sobbed openly.
The merchant turned to Mara, voice dropping low and almost tender.
“Tell them how you rejected me when I brought my horses. Probably because you preferred the stallion’s cock over mine.”
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