Trials of Aetheria
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Chapter 8 - Bonds of Fireforge
Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 8 - Bonds of Fireforge - 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 Forgeheart Arena of Fireforge greeted Sera Vael and Mara Thorne with a blast of heat that stole their breath. Naked, they stepped from the shadowed tunnel onto the vast circle of polished black obsidian. Lava rivers channeled around the platform glowed like living veins, casting red-orange light upward that licked across every inch of exposed skin. Sweat bloomed instantly—on Sera’s pale collarbones, along Mara’s sun-browned hips—making their bodies gleam as though already anointed for sacrifice. Embers drifted through the thick, sulfur-laced air, settling on damp shoulders with tiny, stinging kisses. Far beyond the arena, the mountain forges rang with the endless hymn of hammer on anvil.
Twelve men stood in a disciplined semicircle at the center, naked and oiled until they shone under the volcanic glow. Broad chests, scarred forearms, heavy thighs, cocks hanging thick or stirring faintly in the rising heat—each physique spoke of a different life among artisans and smiths. Their faces were hidden behind masks of hammered metal and obsidian: proud equine heads, snarling boars, long-eared donkeys, spiked hounds, and others—fox, wolf, bear, eagle—each mask declaring a faction without a word.
A forge-priest in soot-blackened robes stepped forward, voice rolling like molten iron. “To prove your worth as High Matron, you must forge a coalition. From these twelve beasts, each of you will select exactly two. Choose wisely. The bond you form must be strong enough to endure the fire of rule.”
The unspoken truth hung heavy: in Fireforge, bonds were not sealed with words. They were tempered in the body—flesh joined to flesh, publicly, completely. Sera felt the implication settle low in her belly like a hot coal. She imagined herself taken by whichever two she chose—rough, relentless, their weight pinning her to the warm stone while guildmasters watched and judged. The thought sent a shameful pulse between her thighs, even as her mind raced to calculate which bodies would be least unbearable.
Mara’s breath came shallow. She saw the same future: two strangers claiming her before strangers, their hands and cocks marking her as theirs, the crowd appraising her surrender like a newly cast blade. The idea twisted her heart with dread and something darker, warmer, she refused to name.
Both understood. Selection was not mere politics.
It was a promise of penetration. Of public consummation. Of being fucked, hard and long, by the very men they chose to stand beside them.
The heat pressed closer. The twelve masked figures waited, silent, oiled, ready.
The forge-priest inclined his head. “Begin.”
When Mara stepped forward, small wrought-iron stands held open parchment scrolls before each man, edged in blackened bronze. Elegant script detailed the coalitions—diverse factions any High Matron would need to bind. Mara weighed political necessity against the intimate cost she believed inevitable: two strangers entering her, stretching her, filling her while spectators judged her submission like a quenched blade.
She paused before a lean fox-masked man—lithe, cock slender and half-raised. Diplomats and traders. Slippery. She moved on.
Her steps carried her to the tallest: broad shoulders, thick arms, deep chest, thighs like forged steel, heavy veined cock thickening in the heat. The equine mask gleamed proudly. The scroll read: The Horse—Coalition of the Laborers: smiths’ apprentices, bellows-men, forge-workers; unyielding strength that keeps the fires burning.
Mara swallowed. Honest power. Her people. “I choose the Horse,” she said softly but firmly, “to carry the weight of those who feed the flames.”
Guildmasters nodded, faces glowing in lava light.
Sera followed, posture rigid, scanning with cold precision. She lingered before a scarred wolf-masked man—thick cock, ridged veins. Rebels and miners. Volatile. She passed him by.
She stopped before the heaviest: sagging belly over thick thighs, short girthy cock nestled in coarse hair. The boar mask snarled. Merchants and guild-owners. She imagined his weight atop her, stubby cock thrusting. Revulsion twisted—yet she reframed: she could ride him cowboy style, straddling wide hips, controlling pace, keeping his bulk beneath her. Wealth bought armies, forges, alliances. “The Pig,” she declared, tone like polished steel, “to bring the gold that tempers every blade.”
Mara chose next. She paused before a bear-masked man—massive chest, thick blunt cock. Fisherfolk and coastal guilds. But laborers were already covered. She needed balance.
She approached the leaner donkey-masked figure—scruffy dark hair, faint earthy musk. Civil servants and aides. The unsung who deserved a voice. “The Donkey,” she said gently, “to bear the burdens of the humble.”
Sera’s final choice came swiftly. She had considered an eagle-masked scout—long elegant cock, messengers and watchers. Fleeting. She passed. She had also paused before a sleek panther-masked figure—curved cock, artists and entertainers. A luxury. She needed iron.
She approached the broadest, hairiest man. Thick dark pelt, long veined cock stirring. Hound mask with spiked collar. Enforcers. She pictured him behind her—hairy chest rasping, rough hands bruising hips, pounding mercilessly. She could minimize contact: lie still, let him finish. Security was essential. “The Dog,” she stated, voice like drawn steel, “to guard my forge and bite my enemies.”
The final declaration hung in the heavy air.
The forge-priest raised both hands. Silence fell, broken only by distant hammers and soft lava hiss.
He struck the obsidian, silencing the forges. Embers swirled as he faced Mara, then Sera.
“Mara Thorne has forged with humble heart: the Horse—strength of the laborers who feed the flames—and the Donkey—quiet civil servants who bear every burden without glory.”
Guildmasters nodded, approving the balance.
He turned to Sera. “Sera Vael has chosen with precision: the Pig—merchants and guild-owners whose gold tempers ambition—and the Dog—enforcers who guard every forge with fist and blade. Ruthless, built for control.”
He lowered his hammer, voice molten. “These four beasts shall be tempered by tongue and will. Let the forging begin—may the bonds hold when tested.”
The guildmasters leaned forward, faces red in the lava glow, ready to witness the candidates’ next submission.
He turned to Sera. “Sera Vael has chosen with precision: the Pig—merchants and guild-owners whose gold tempers ambition—and the Dog—enforcers who guard every forge with fist and blade. Ruthless, built for control.”
He lowered his hammer, voice molten. “These four beasts shall be tempered by tongue and will. Let the forging begin—may the bonds hold when tested.”
Both candidates looked puzzled, unsure what was supposed to happen, but the forge-priest continued.
“Sera is to start, five minutes per chosen beast. Judging after all tasks have been completed.”
Sera blinked, confusion flickering across her features as the Pig turned and bent forward—until his thick fingers gripped his own heavy cheeks and pulled them wide, exposing the hairy, sweat-slick divide and the flushed, puckered ring at its center. Realization crashed over her like cold water in the forge-heat: no fucking, no straddling, no control. She had to lick his ass—bury her face in that foul, reeking cleft and tongue the stranger’s hole for five full minutes while the entire province watched.
She had chosen terribly.
The Pig’s heavy cheeks parted under his own thick fingers, revealing a deep, shadowed divide lined with coarse black hair. Rolls of pale, sweat-slick flesh quivered with each breath; his belly hung so low it brushed the tops of his thighs. When he shifted, the soft, dimpled globes swayed, and the first wave of smell slammed into her—thick animal musk overlaid with the sour-sweet reek of unwashed skin, old sweat, and something fouler: the acrid, unmistakable tang of shit clinging to the matted hair around his hole.
Sera’s stomach heaved. She had miscalculated catastrophically. She had braced for being crushed beneath him, for straddling his wide hips and riding his stubby cock to keep control. Instead she knelt here, face level with the most degrading part of a fat, sweaty stranger whose coalition she had chosen for gold, not this intimate, suffocating filth.
The guildmasters watched from their basalt thrones, eyes gleaming in the lava light. Every second of her debasement would be measured, judged, remembered.
Sera did what she always did. She did what was necessary to claim the throne.
Her lips pressed against the warm, yielding inner curve of his cheek. The fat flesh closed around her face like a hot, fleshy vise—cheeks smothering her cheeks, nose mashed into the hairy divide, coarse strands scratching her skin. The smell intensified tenfold: heavy fecal bitterness coating the back of her throat, shit-tang sharp enough to make her eyes water instantly. She tasted it before her tongue moved—salty sweat laced with revolting earthiness.
She forced her tongue out, flat and broad, dragging it upward through the cleft. The taste exploded: salt, musk, oil, and beneath it the bitter, metallic bite of shit clinging to hair and skin. It coated her tongue like thick film. She gagged silently, throat working, but kept going. The Pig grunted—low, porcine, pleased—and pushed back. His heavy cheeks pressed harder, enveloping her completely. Nose buried in dark whorls, she inhaled nothing but sweat, shit, and the faint sweetness of failed perfume.
She circled the puckered, flushed ring with her tongue tip. The muscle twitched, hot and tacky. Each pass smeared more bitter residue—small flecks smearing against her taste buds. Noble Sera Vael, face buried in a fat man’s ass, tongue lapping the place where shit emerged, guildmasters appraising her like a new forging technique.
She pointed her tongue and pushed inward. The ring resisted, then yielded with a soft, obscene pop. Inside the taste was stronger—dark, earthy, unmistakably fecal. Her nose pressed deeper into hair; every breath dragged reek into her lungs. The Pig groaned, hips rocking, smothering her further. Cheeks sealed around her face like warm dough, cutting off light, air, dignity. Saliva dripped from her lips, mixing with sweat and faint brown smears. Her jaw ached. Tears of effort slid down her cheeks, mingling with the mess on her chin.
She varied—long strokes from balls to top of the divide, rapid fluttering circles around the hole. The Pig’s breathing grew ragged; thighs trembled; his heavy cock slapped wetly beneath his belly. Every inhale filled her with shit-taste, shit-smell, the crushing weight of soft flesh against aristocratic features. Nipples traitorously hard, sex slick despite the degradation. She hated it. Hated him. Hated herself.
Sera pulled back gasping, lips swollen, chin dripping with saliva, sweat, and traces of him. She wiped her mouth—a futile gesture; the bitter, fecal taste lingered like a brand. The Pig straightened, breathing hard, satisfied. The guildmasters nodded solemnly.
She had licked ass to get ahead.
–
Mara looked at her chosen animal—the Horse. The guildmasters’ gazes tracked her, knowing full well the whispers that already dogged the farm girl. The Horse waited, broad back turned, powerful thighs braced. When he reached back and spread his cheeks, the motion was steady, almost ceremonial—like a proud stallion presenting for judgment.
To Mara’s relief, his ass was immaculately clean.
The skin between his thick glutes was smooth, lightly oiled but freshly washed, carrying only the warm, honest scent of clean sweat, mountain-spring soap, and faint forge-smoke. No filth, no sourness. The deep divide was neat, dark hair trimmed short around the tight, flushed-pink ring of his asshole. Forge-light gleamed off taut flesh, turning every curve to polished bronze—a body sculpted for strength and display.
Mara’s breath hitched.
She had noticed him instantly: tall, heavily muscled, broad-shouldered, his thick cock hanging heavy even at rest. In another life, in a quiet barn at dusk, that body might have set her pulse racing, cheeks flushed, thoughts drifting. Now that same body bent before her, cheeks parted, asshole presented for her tongue. The humiliation cut deeper because of it. This wasn’t revulsion she could armor against. This was desire twisted into shame, and every guildmaster would see it.
They would see her nipples harden, her thighs tremble, her sex glisten in the forge-light. They would whisper: Of course the farm girl chose the Horse. Of course she licked his asshole like grooming her favorite stallion. And she’s enjoying it. The rumors were true.
Her lips brushed the warm, firm inner curve of his cheek. His flesh yielded just enough to cradle her face, strong and warm without smothering. She inhaled clean musk and soap, then pressed forward.
Her tongue flattened against smooth skin just below his hole, tasting only salt and faint oil. She dragged it upward in a long, slow sweep—tender, reverent. The Horse moaned—deep, throaty, human—his powerful frame shuddering. Guildmasters leaned in, appraising.
She circled his asshole with her tongue tip, tracing the neat, puckered ring in lazy spirals. It twitched under her, warm and responsive, flexing as though inviting more. The taste stayed clean—sweat, skin, a whisper of soap. Mara’s cheeks burned. This should have been easier. No gag. No filth. Yet the intimacy made it worse. Her tongue probed a man she might have wanted, circling his asshole, slipping inside the tight ring while the province watched.