Trials of Aetheria
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Chapter 5: The Salty Gull in Stormharbor
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 5: The Salty Gull in Stormharbor - 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 tavern pulsed with raucous energy, lanterns flickering over scarred tables and weathered faces. Sera Vael stood behind the bar, bare skin catching the amber glow as she tilted a tankard, foam spilling over the rim. A grizzled sailor reached across the counter, sliding three silvers into the warm valley between her breasts, pressing them firmly against damp flesh. “Arr, lass, that’s fer the view,” he rumbled, thumb grazing a nipple. A merchant beside him added a copper, adhering it flat against her left areola, the metal cool against her warmth. Another coin escaped his grasp, clattering to the floorboards.
Both women, candidates for the highest position in the country, were naked as custom for every challenge, this time in Stormharbor, serving the locals their favorite drinks. The challenge would determine who would get the coveted position and the ladies felt it was their honor and duty to battle their hardest.
Sera straightened, mug steady, and flashed a keen smile. “Ten silvers for a proper lick, mateys. Twenty if ye want both. Pay up or walk the plank.”
After Sera had taken several shots herself that night, the atmosphere and drinks had gotten to her. She decided to go all out in her strategy. Doing what the locals wanted most and gather the most coin.
The sailor chuckled, tossing another silver that rolled between her feet. “Bend fer it, high-born wench.”
Sera stooped deliberately, ass presented as she retrieved the coin. A palm landed sharp against her cheek; another slipped between her thighs, fingertips tracing her folds. She rose, coin in hand, skin prickling from the contact. Thirty-eight silvers so far at this table alone.
Across the smoky room, Mara Thorne balanced a tray of tankards, weaving between patrons. Coins adorned her curves—coppers tucked between her thighs, a silver pressed into the soft swell of her belly. A burly dockworker reached out, sliding another coin shallowly between her folds, fingers lingering. Mara stiffened, breath hitching, but continued. She set the tankards down at a table of merchants, voice calm.
“Just a copper for a touch, sirs. Fair price.”, Mara said with a calm voice.
The men muttered. One seized her wrist, drawing her near, palm cupping her breast. “Too cheap, farm lass. Make it worth our coin.” Another silver dropped from his fingers, hitting the floor. Mara stooped to retrieve it—ass exposed, thighs parting slightly. A hand immediately fondled her from behind, fingers gliding along her slit. She rose quickly, cheeks burning, but held her price steady.
The Salty Gull thrummed with pirate swagger—sailors bellowing “arr” and “matey,” scarred cheeks flashing in lantern light, cutlasses glinting at hips. The regular waitresses—clothed in low bodices and short skirts—threaded through the throng, chuckling as hands roamed beneath fabric, coins tucked into cleavages or pockets. The candidates, however, were bare, every caress more brazen, every coin placed directly on flesh or scattered on the floor for retrieval.
The tavern owner—a weathered woman in a tricorn hat—had climbed onto the bar earlier, banging a tankard. “Listen up, ye bilge rats! The candidates serve naked tonight. Basic ale and grub be free, but every touch, grope, or special service costs coin—set by them. Tips go straight on their bodies: cleavage, thighs, wherever ye fancy. Drop ‘em on the floor? They stoop for it. Insert ‘em shallow if ye dare. Highest total coins at close wins the trial. Show ‘em what Stormharbor thinks of leadership!”
The tavern had exploded—tankards crashing, boots stomping. “Arr! Let’s see who earns the most booty!”
Sera flourished. She was accustomed to raucous high-society galas in Eldhaven—masked revels where nobles overindulged, hands roamed beneath silk, and influence was bartered in shadowed corners. This felt familiar, only rougher. She glided to the next table, hips swaying, voice crisp.
“Fifteen silvers to finger me while I pour—arr, who’ll plunder this booty first?”
A bearded captain flung the coins onto her thigh. They scattered; one rolled beneath a stool. Sera stooped gracefully, ass high, letting the table drink in the sight. Hands surged—slapping, kneading, another coin pressed into her folds. She rose, body humming, and continued pouring.
Mara watched from across the room, tray steady, coins shifting on her skin. She saw Sera lean into the gropes, saw the way she wielded her body like currency.
A Salty Gull regular waitress—a redhead in a low bodice—passed nearby. Sera caught her eye, smiled sharply, and beckoned. The waitress approached, tray balanced.
“Ten silvers,” Sera said, “to have her use her fingers to make me come right here. Any takers?”
A sailor quickly reacted and paid the price.