Trials of Aetheria
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Chapter 6: Choices at the Archipelago Veil
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 6: Choices at the Archipelago Veil - 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 Mult Blackmail Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Historical Alternate History Incest Cousins MaleDom Humiliation Rough Sadistic Torture Gang Bang Anal Sex Analingus Exhibitionism Facial Food Masturbation Oral Sex Scatology Sex Toys Water Sports Big Breasts Public Sex Nudism Politics AI Generated
The humid air of the Archipelago Veil wrapped around Sera Vael like damp silk, heavy with salt, sun-bleached coral, and the faint perfume of distant spice islands. The beach path curved along the glittering turquoise shallows, marked at regular intervals by towering coral arches that rose from the sand like the ribs of ancient sea beasts. Each gate shimmered under the relentless tropical sun, runes carved into the living coral pulsing with faint, malevolent light. Sera stood naked at the third gate, her slender, aristocratic frame exposed to the scrutiny of the gathered crowd. Wealthy seafaring merchants lounged on the cliffs in fine linen tunics and gold-threaded sashes, while local island traders in bright batik sarongs mingled with curious visitors from distant ports, all watching from anchored ketches and elegant schooners bobbing offshore. Their commentary carried across the water in cultured, measured tones laced with the authority of men who commanded fleets rather than cutlasses.
In Aetheria, the High Matron—supreme ruler balancing ruthless power with care for twelve provinces—is chosen through the Twelvefold Pilgrimage, where noble Sera Vael and farm girl Mara Thorne face twelve brutal trials testing virtues like Strategy, Endurance, and Discernment, with the highest final score winning the throne while the loser bears lifelong scars from the humiliations.
In the Archipelago Veil, the Trial of Discernment forces each candidate to publicly choose between veiled faces and unveiled truths—deciding in front of merciless merchant-princes which supplicants receive mercy, which receive punishment, and which must submit to degrading sexual service, all while proving they can discern true loyalty from deception and wield both compassion and cruelty with flawless, unflinching precision.
“Observe the capital noble,” one merchant called from the deck of a sleek caravel, his voice carrying the clipped precision of a man accustomed to giving orders. “She stands as though the tide itself should bow.”
Sera’s pulse had thundered at the first gates, terror clawing at her composure as she realized the depth of the trial’s cruelty. She had pictured herself forced to perform every depraved act she declared she would “love,” shamed before the entire province.
Sera unfolded the parchment at the third gate with a soft hiss. Three choices appeared in elegant, flowing script:
Get fucked dry in the ass by a rough-handed sailor.
Blow a filthy stranger from the docks.
Swallow the semen of a filthy stranger like a common whore...
Sera’s mind cataloged the risks in heartbeats. The anal violation promised raw, tearing pain—no preparation, no mercy—the kind of agony that could leave lasting damage. The oral options carried humiliation and disease, but they were survivable. She visualized it deliberately before making her choice.
In a voice clear and unyielding, Sera declared, “I would love to get fucked dry in the ass by a rough-handed sailor.”
For her, it felt like the task she would be able to distance herself from the most.
The words rang out over the beach. A ripple of low murmurs and sharp intakes of breath passed through the crowd.
At Gate 4 the coral arch loomed taller, the air thicker with the scent of blooming flowers and sun-warmed tide pools. The spectators had grown denser; more vessels had anchored, their masts swaying gently as they watched Sera consider her options.
The new scroll revealed three choices for Sera:
Kill a baby goat with your bare hands.
Swallow the semen of a filthy stranger like a common whore.
Let 50 men cum on your face.
The swallow semen had reappeared. Were they testing her? The bukkake was the new extremity: fifty strangers marking her face with their seed, a public obliteration of dignity far beyond any single violation. She pictured it with brutal clarity: kneeling in the sand, surrounded by a semicircle of merchants and sailors, hot spurts landing on her cheeks, eyelids, lips—dripping down her chin while the crowd watched in reverent silence. The scent of salt and musk overwhelming her, her noble features reduced to a glistening canvas of shame.
“I would love to swallow semen,” Sera stated, voice steady as polished steel, leaving out the common whore part.
A hush fell over the spectators, broken only by the lap of waves. Then came the measured approval: “Rather be a whore than prepare food for her man and prepare a goat,” one trader murmured.
Sera hadn’t seen her way, but doubted it would have impacted her decision. Maids and cooks prepared her food. Sera moved forward through the arch, the sun scorching her bare shoulders, the trial’s logic coiling tighter around her mind.
–
Farther along the parallel path of coral arches, Mara Thorne stood naked beneath the same merciless sun, her sun-browned farm-girl body trembling faintly in the humid air.
“There is the country girl,” one island trader observed from the cliff. They had been waiting for her for a while, as Mara took a long time to decide between her options.
At Gate 3, Mara’s heart still ached with the original terror—each declaration felt like a promise she would have to keep, every word carving a wound. She had chosen honestly so far, selecting what seemed the least soul-destroying in the moment. Empathy guided her hand, even here.
The scroll at Gate 3 bore the same three choices:
Get fucked dry in the ass by a rough-handed sailor.
Endure one hundred and fifty lashes across my bare back.
Swallow the semen of a filthy stranger like a common whore.
The anal promised unbearable pain and not something she had experienced. The blowjob, though degrading, was the smallest evil: one act, one stranger, no lasting harm. She forced herself to see it: kneeling on the dock, a rough, unwashed sailor thrusting into her mouth, the taste of salt and grime coating her tongue while the crowd watched her cheeks hollow, her breasts swaying. Submitting herself willingly in front of a crowd seemed to be worse.
“I would love to blow a filthy stranger from the docks,” Mara said softly, the words tasting like ash.
At Gate 4, the coral arch felt heavier, the air more oppressive.
The new scroll presented:
Kill a baby goat with your bare hands.
Get fucked dry in the ass by a rough-handed sailor.
Let 50 men cum on your face.
The goat’s death was a quick, terrible thing—blood on her hands, the snap of a fragile neck—but it provided food on the table. The other two were personal invasions, one excruciating, the other endless humiliation.
“I would love to kill a baby goat with my bare hands,” Mara exclaimed.
It was never pleasant to take a life, but not something she would try to steer away from if it fed who needed it. She wondered if it was a trap.
Naked beneath their steady gazes, Mara passed through the arch, the beach path stretching ahead, the weight of her choices growing heavier with every step.
By the time Sera reached Gate 5, a cold clarity had begun to settle over her like sea mist. The declarations were not immediate sentences; the trial did not drag her to the sand the moment the words left her lips. Instead, each choice lingered on the great ledger, accumulating like interest, to be collected—or perhaps commuted—at the trial’s end, when the Veil judged which pilgrim had most convincingly demonstrated mastery over desire, pain, and moral rot. The realization did not dull her caution; it sharpened it. Her choices would be judged, but she wasn’t quite sure yet how.
The coral arch at Gate 5 rose and the parchment unfurled with the same soft hiss.
Perform public copulation with a hound.
Let 50 men cum on your face.
Endure one hundred and fifty lashes across my bare back.
Sera’s breath caught once, then steadied. The dog was unthinkable—an obliteration so complete she feared the Veil might force her words to become truth. The bukkake she had already weighed at Gate 4: mass degradation, yes, but solitary in its intimacy compared to bestial spectacle. The whip promised agony, welts that might scar for months, yet pain was finite, controllable, a currency she had learned to trade in the colder provinces.
“I would love to let fifty men cum on my face,” she declared, voice carrying clear across the lapping shallows.
Fifty loads on her face remained the lesser stain: survivable, impersonal, a humiliation she could endure with eyes closed and mind elsewhere. She continued her journey.
At Gate 6 the air had thickened to syrup. The scroll presented a new set of choices:
Lie with a blood relative in full view of the crowd.
Endure one hundred and fifty lashes across my bare back.
Kill a baby goat with my bare hands.
The incest option struck like a blade between ribs—they were trying to trap her, to prove some unspeakable depravity in her lineage, even if the act never came to pass. The whip returned, its promise of striped flesh now doubled in threat.
“I would love to kill a baby goat with my bare hands,” Sera said, the words falling steady as coins into a chest.
The crowd exhaled in near-unison. “I wonder if she ever sacrificed an animal for food herself,” a trader murmured from the cliff, tone thoughtful rather than mocking.
–
Farther down the curving beach, Mara Thorne reached Gate 5 with her shoulders already aching from the weight of earlier choices. She had caught distant echoes of Sera’s clear declarations drifting over the waves, but not the words themselves—only the noblewoman’s unflinching tone, sharp as a blade.
The parchment at Gate 5 unfurled slowly, the elegant script seeming almost reluctant.
Perform public copulation with a hound.
Let fifty men spend upon my face.
Endure one hundred and fifty lashes across my bare back.
Mara’s stomach twisted. The hound was a horror beyond imagining—did they despise her so much they wanted to strip away every last shred of humanity? The whip would leave her striped and bleeding, perhaps crippled for weeks, maybe even forfeit her candidacy entirely. But fifty men ... fifty strangers marking her, coating her face until she could scarcely breathe through the salt and musk, their eyes drinking in every glistening drop that slid down her cheeks. It was endless, public obliteration. Would anyone ever look at her again as a leader, as someone worthy of respect?
She swallowed once, tasting the sea on her tongue. “I would love to let fifty men cum on my face,” she said, the words quiet but clear enough to carry to the nearest ketches.
Mara wondered what the goal of it was. What was the judgment going to be? The thought of having to fulfill all her choices was putting a shiver in her spine.
At Gate 6 the new scroll appeared for Mara:
Get fucked dry in the ass by a rough-handed sailor.
Lie with a blood relative in full view of the crowd.
Endure one hundred and fifty lashes across my bare back.
Mara’s heart lurched. The crudeness of the options was intentional, making sure she had to repeat those same words.
The incest was unthinkable—would they force her on her father, or an uncle, or maybe a cousin? She tried to push the thought out of her mind. The whip, doubled now, would tear her open, leave her unable to stand straight, perhaps ruin the strong back she had built hauling hay and children alike. And the dry anal again ... She had to consider it again. The pain would be blinding, tearing, without mercy or oil, the sailor’s callused grip bruising her hips while the crowd watched her body jolt and her voice break.
“I would love to get fucked dry in the ass by a rough-handed sailor,” Mara whispered, voice cracking on the final word.
The whip might leave her unable to continue. The anal violation, brutal as it was, was one act—one man, one terrible moment—and bodies could heal from that, given time.
The crowd breathed out together, a soft, collective sound like wind through cane. “I will volunteer,” a merchant called loudly from his schooner, tone half-jest, half-hunger. “Send her my way.”
Mara’s gaze snapped toward the water, searching the decks for movement, heart hammering—then she exhaled in quiet relief when no boat launched, no figure approached across the sand. The declarations still lingered on the ledger, not yet claimed.
For the first time Mara wondered whether either of them would reach the end unbroken—or whether the Veil would leave them both forever changed, whether the acts were ever performed or not.
–
As Sera reached Gate 7, a reckless certainty took root in Sera Vael. Six gates behind her, and not one declaration had been enforced—not the imagined bukkake, not the phantom snap of a goat’s neck in her hands. The words simply piled onto the ledger, heavy with latent threat yet weightless in the present. She now understood there were more than six gates—perhaps ten, twelve, or beyond—and the Veil’s deepest cruelty lay in the endless deferral, forcing the candidates to name every horror until one finally took flesh. The worst options circled back like hungry ghosts, repeating until claimed. If she gambled boldly, she could purge the most ruinous before the trial chose to collect. Better to speak the unthinkable now, while it remained only air, than let it linger to be forced upon her later.
At Gate 7 the coral arch stood stark against the deepening violet sky. The parchment unfurled with deliberate languor.
Lie with a blood relative in full view of the crowd.
Have my ass branded with a hot iron.
Eat a full plate of excrement in public.
Sera’s lip curled once, then smoothed. Incest would poison her lineage forever, a stain no crown could erase. The brand would scar her permanently—ugly raised flesh proclaiming her shame every time she bared herself in power. The plate of shit was vile, nauseating, a momentary degradation she could force down and forget. Logic screamed for the filth, yet her new boldness whispered otherwise: claim the deepest taboo now, while it was still harmless vapor.
“I would love to lie with a blood relative in full view of the crowd,” she declared, voice cool and unhurried, as though ordering wine.
A stunned hush swallowed the beach, broken only by the soft slap of waves. Then the murmurs rose, sharp and incredulous. “So vain, she’d rather fuck her own kin than eat shit,” one sailor snorted from a ketch. “Must be more common among nobles than we thought,” another added, half-laughing, half-aghast.
No one moved to enforce it. No relative was summoned, no bed prepared. Sera exhaled silently and stepped through the arch, the imagined violation already fading into nothing.
Gate 8 rose ahead. The scroll presented its triad:
Have my ass branded with a hot iron before the fleet.
Watch a blood relative raped by strangers on my command.
Endure one hundred and fifty lashes across my bare back.
The brand returned, its threat unchanged—crude, permanent scar tissue across the smooth curve of her buttocks. Ordering kin violated—her older sister, her mother, an aunt, a cousin—could carve a different wound, depending on their status. The whip she could bear; she had seen men and women survive worse. But the brand ... she was too pretty, too perfectly composed, to carry such a crude mark for life. Better to speak it now, add it to the ledger’s phantom debts, than risk it being the one they finally chose to collect.
“I would love to have my ass branded with a hot iron before the fleet,” Sera said, the words falling as calmly as if she were accepting an invitation to dance.
The crowd’s reaction rolled in confused waves. They had heard her reject the branding earlier; now she embraced it. “She’s doubling down,” one trader muttered. “Either mad or playing chess with the Veil itself.”
Again, no iron was heated. No sizzling brand pressed to skin. Sera sighed in quiet relief as she passed beneath the arch, the dying sun gilding her naked form in rose and indigo. Eight gates spoken.
–
Mara reached Gate 7 and saw her choices.
Lie with a blood relative in full view of the crowd.
Have my ass branded with a hot iron before the fleet.
Eat a full plate of excrement in public.
Mara’s throat closed. Two new horrors stared back at her. The brand would mark her forever—a scar she would carry into every harvest. But the plate of shit ... it was vile, stomach-turning, a humiliation that would live in her mouth and on her tongue for days. Still, it was temporary. She could swallow it, rinse, survive. The others would never fade.
“I would love to eat a full plate of excrement in public,” she said softly, the words tasting bitter even before they were spoken.
Mara braced herself, eyes fixed on the sand, waiting for the plate to be brought forward, for the smell to rise, for the crowd to watch her break. But nothing came. No servant approached. No foul dish was presented. The air remained clean, the moment unbroken.
She stepped through the arch, legs trembling, relief warring with disbelief—and a strange, creeping disappointment. Was this the end? Eating shit in front of strangers would have been the perfect, final humiliation—ugly, complete, survivable. She could have borne it and walked away changed but alive. Yet the gate had let her pass untouched.
Ahead, Gate 8 waited, its silhouette sharp against the bruised purple sky. She was almost disappointed as the mental toll of this endless deferral weighed heavier on her soul. Which choice would await her now, and would her eventual task prove harder than eating a pile of excrement?
Mara moved forward, heart pounding harder with every step. She told herself her luck must be running out; surely the Veil would claim something now. The parchment appeared almost reluctantly.
Have my ass branded with a hot iron before the fleet.
Order a blood relative raped by strangers on my command.
Endure one hundred and fifty lashes across my bare back.
The brand loomed again, permanent and cruel. Ordering a relative—maybe her younger sister, one of her few female relatives, sweet-faced Lila, dragged before strangers while Mara gave the word—would be worse than any lash. She saw it too clearly: Lila’s wide eyes, the rough hands on her, the sound of her cries, and Mara’s own voice the one that set it all in motion. No. She would rather die under the whip than live with that guilt. The pain might kill her, might leave her broken beyond healing, but at least it would be her body, her suffering, not her sister’s.
“I would love to endure one hundred and fifty lashes across my bare back,” Mara whispered, voice steady despite the tears that stung her eyes.
Mara stood rigid, waiting for the crack of leather, the first stripe of fire across her skin, certain the Veil’s patience had finally run dry. But the air stayed still. No whip was uncoiled. No executioner stepped forward. The silence stretched, heavy and surreal.
She passed beneath the arch, legs unsteady, the imagined burn fading into nothing. Eight gates spoken. Nothing had been collected. The mental torture continued, each declaration a fresh wound that never bled, each gate a promise of reckoning that never arrived. Mara looked toward the darkening horizon where the path curved on, gate after gate vanishing into the dusk, and wondered how much longer her mind could endure what her body had so far been spared.
Somewhere ahead, Sera walked the same shadowed road. Mara no longer envied her calm. She only wondered which of them would break first when the waiting finally ended.
–
Sera reached Gate 9. The number felt ordinary, unremarkable—no sacred resonance, no mythic weight. The Veil would not end on something so mundane. She was certain there would be more.
The parchment unfurled in the dim light.
Endure one hundred and fifty lashes across my bare back.
Perform public copulation with a hound before the assembled fleet.
Watch a blood relative raped by strangers on my command.
Sera’s pulse quickened, but her face remained a mask of ice. The whip was pain she could survive, having already gambled on it twice. Watching kin violated would be a psychic wound, a guilt she could perhaps bury under layers of detachment. And the hound again. What was the Veil’s end goal, she wondered. If the Veil ever forced one of her declarations to life, this was the one she could not endure—not for power, not for the throne, not for anything. She would walk away from the candidacy entirely before she let that happen.
“I would love to perform public copulation with a hound before the assembled fleet,” she declared, voice flat and deliberate, as though reciting a trade agreement.
A shocked silence gripped the beach. Then came the murmurs—half horror, half fascination. “She sleeps with blood and beast,” one merchant-prince said from his pavilion, tone almost reverent. “Norms must be different in the capital.” But no hound was led forward. No chains appeared. Sera stepped through the arch, the imagined violation sliding off her like water, leaving only the faint, bitter taste of her own audacity.
Gate 10 rose ahead, its silhouette taller than the rest, runes flaring brighter as though the Veil itself had taken notice. Sera felt a surge of entitlement as she approached. Nine had not been the end; ten might be the end. She had gambled correctly so far, purging the worst horrors while keeping her body untouched. The game was hers to play.
The scroll appeared.
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