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The Justicar's Dog of War	By : Doirly_No Category: +M through R > Mass Effect Views: 55028 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Mass Effect, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Little notes about this story…
The only things established about Shepard are that she is paragon and an infiltrator. I hope nothing else slips in, such as how she looks. I want to interfere with head cannons as little as possible. So, just picture your Shepard.
There is a plot, but the plot is mostly about the relationship between Shepard, Samara and Liara; and a chapter doesn’t go by without at least some groping or nudity.
The BDSM elements are rather soft and contained in a loving relationship.
Several times people have referred to Samara and Shepard’s interactions as cute or adorable… take that how you will...

When a war ends vacuums inevitably consume the openings left. In the case of the Reaper War, a war as large as the galaxy, the power vacuums consumed entire swaths of space, even in the most stable of systems. Raiders, pirates and slavers penetrated deeper into asari controlled territory than any of the long-lived race could remember and the rebuilding efforts made it neigh impossible to stem the tide. Still an attempt had to be made to protect the innocent and level justice on the criminals that preyed upon them.
For a solid month a batarian gang had been using an asari frigate they salvaged to attack the many freighters moving supplies between planets. With the military spread so thin they rarely needed to fire more than a few shots, victims even often mistaking them for an ally. The ease at which their numerous victories came made their bellies fat, their minds lazy, their discipline lax and their ammo stocks low. Since civilian prey had little munitions to steal and they couldn’t tear themselves away from gathering more plunder to properly resupply they grew weaker with each battle even as their moral soared. So high in fact celebrations were a near nightly occurrence.
As the crew of four-eyed aliens partied one evening a small vessel carefully approached them through a hole in their sensors. A hole so obvious that scans could detect the damaged external array from outside visual range. As easy as a mosquito feeding off a black-out drunk the ship a fraction the size of the frigate attached itself to the escape pod ejection point.
The batarians’ had apparently also failed to change any of the military’s access codes as control of the frigate’s computer was obtained without resistance. Doors across the decks locked to separate the crew, not that any of them noticed. The vessel was penetrated without hassle. Through the outer hatch a pair of intruders slipped into the escape pod before gaining full access to the ship proper.
An engineer coming back from the bathroom staggered by just in time to see the odd sight of a pod opening on its own. Mumbling a curse he detoured toward the faulty piece of shit. Just a few feet away he heard the whoosh of a door behind him, but when he looked there wasn’t a soul. Before another profanity could be uttered his chest seized, needles tore at his flesh and a biotic field reaved the life from his body.
On the command deck a skeletal crew of three manned their posts, but duty was far from their minds. They passed around a bottle of spirits as they tried to talk someone over the comm. into sending up one of their asari captives. Nine minutes of fruitless persuasion finally led them to giving up and the helmsman to fetch another bottle. The instant the door opened an omni-blade tore him from nuts to neck and within seconds two pistol shots hollowed out the other two batarian’s skulls. The human infiltrator scanned the bridge once before dropping back into cloak.
Clueless pirates were dispatched without challenge by the two intruders room by room, deck by deck. Most died sleeping in their bunks, a few manning their stations, a couple chatting in the hall and one while using the toilet. None of them had a chance to suspect their end until it had come. Along the way they managed to liberate three abused asari grateful that their nightmares were over. Only at the door to the mess hall did the invisible soldier pause the silent massacre.
She didn’t wait long before her Justicar superior came marching down the hallway. A pleased grin hinting on her violet lips, seeing she was the second to arrive. The scans they took from their enemies’ own sensors told them that twelve batarian pirates and two asari prisoners were in the final room that required clearing. Stealth would be replaced by shock, so the human infiltrator dropped her cloak and readied a flash grenade.
Bang! All fourteen people in the mess reeled as a sharp noise stung their ears and harsh light stabbed their eyes. A wave of biotic energy threw the five gambling villains into the far wall. An entire clip of shots riddled the four huddled over the stained captives across the room. The batarian just to the left of the door, trying to blink away the stars wasn’t given enough time to recover before being eviscerated by an omni-weapon. The final two had fallen to their knees behind a long table and actually found the wherewithal to realize they were under attack.
They gathered themselves and a shotgun each before readying to return fire. The larger one, with a dark-red hue, popped up first which earned him a blow to the face and getting knocked back down. The last unscathed pirate looked over to his mate in time to see the sticky grenade adhered to his face just before it detonated, killing them both. Across the room the poker players, with the exception of the dealer with the broken neck were groaning in pain.
The most coherent of the bunch sat up, raising his hands, “We surrender.”
Didn’t matter, the Justicar went down the line putting a slug in each of them before calling across the room, “Clear?”
“Clear, ma’am,” the human answered.
“How are those two?” the Justicar inquired.
“Their wounds are more emotional than physical,” she answered as she gently put an arm around one of the sobbing maidens and handed a medi-gel to the other.
The matriarch took a moment to suppress her building rage before ordering, “Take them to the others. I’ll return to the ship to request their retrieval.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
For several hours the infiltrator stayed by the five scared asari she saved. There wasn’t much she could do besides get them food, clothes or whatever else they wanted. Anything more would have been outside her training and comfort zone, but she tried her best and wouldn’t leave them until law enforcement arrived. Then after quite a few rounds of accepting thanks and hugs she let them go to those who could properly help them.
Not one of the asari she saved or that came to assist recognized the human in all the time she spent with them. Not one of them considered that the mighty hero and savior of the galaxy, Commander Shepard would be anywhere but a parade or ceremony in her honor. If someone so great was around she wouldn’t have to be pointed out and she sure as hell wouldn’t be taking orders from anyone or calling them ma’am.
So without fanfare the human infiltrator slipped back to her small ship the way she came in. She entered through the lower deck that consisted of a single room, where she left her weapons and stripped out of her armor. Clad in grey t-shirt and black briefs she climbed the ladder to the main deck popping out a hatch by the narrow corridor connecting the bridge to the living area. Lining the wall across from her were lockers and cabinets, the middle of which contained her clothes. Challenged by a lack of space she got dressed; putting on pants, socks and boots that would fit in any barracks.
“Shepard,” an even voice called from the cockpit.
Greater haste took over the human’s hands as she grabbed the item that would complete her outfit and stick out like a sore thumb on board any other ship. As she near jogged down toward the cockpit she buckled the collar around her neck; it just wouldn’t fit properly under her helmet. No longer would she be the Commander; no longer would she be saluted; no longer would she give orders. No longer would she need to live up to a lionized name; no longer would she need to be recognized; no longer would she need to order others.
Dutifully she took her spot next to the pilot’s seat, standing at attention with her hands at the small of her back, eyes on the far wall and feet a shoulder’s width apart. “Ma’am.”
“Report,” Samara ordered.
Shepard started rattling off all pertinent information to the one person she knew she could entrust everything to and not be overwhelmed by it. Ever since they met she had been awed by the power, grace and honor that inhabited every fiber of the matriarch. It got to the point that her adoration of the asari turned to infatuation. One evening just before the trip through the Omega Relay she made her feelings known. If not for the Justicar Code Samara lived by she knew those feelings would have been returned, but still it amounted to a rejection. Out of respect she accepted the rebuffed, but in the back of her mind she never completely gave up.
Then the war ended with a blazing light that somehow left her alive and she decided that the savior of the galaxy had earned the right to spend the rest of her days however she wished. That lead to her hunting down Samara and doing whatever it took to stay by her side. After pestering the Justicar across two systems and getting into twice as many shouting arguments, Shepard found the space she could fit into in the asari’s life. She submitted completely and entirely, never would she demand to be held higher than the Code and always would she do as she was ordered to assist in fulfilling the Code.
Through her complete subjugation the great savior found a life that she feared would no longer be possible. Once again she was a soldier and not just any soldier, but the romanticized version of her dreams. No longer did she have to deal with superiors or figure out what needed to be done, she just had to do what she was told, kill the bad guys and right the wrongs. They flew from one hot spot to another like heroes that should only exist in fantasy and in between their missions of justice the boundaries of their relationship as master and servant were pushed.
When her human wrapped up, the Justicar asked, “Is that all?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Samara kept her eyes on the control panel as she piloted the ship clear of the frigate. “Then, we will be going to Illium to resupply. Compile a list of what we need.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Shepard waited for dismissal or otherwise.
After a few minutes, the elder asari commented as she entered the coordinates of their destination, “You did very well today, Shepard.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Her chest swelled a bit with pride.
The engines roared to life and Samara leaned back into her chair with an exasperated sigh. “I suppose you want a reward.”
“Justice is its own reward, ma’am.”
“That is absolutely true.” The Justicar gave a sideward glance. “However, after battles you do seem to get heated and I will probably have to deal with that primitive, human libido of yours at some point either way.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Thank you for putting up with my human failings.” Shepard kept her gaze high, posture the same as any of the thousand times she was inspected in the Alliance.
A thin grin flashed across Samara’s lips, in spite of herself. Without swiveling her chair she reached over to the belt of the human still standing at attention. Vastly skilled fingers slipped the buckle apart and undid the fly underneath. The pants failed to fall as Shepard held them in place with the hands at the small of her back. Then four blue digits found a path between the split zipper, under the shirt and over the briefs to feel what lay beneath. As casually as holding a coffee mug, she gripped the woman who maintained the disciple to keep her back straight and eyes high.
“As expected, you are already moist,” the Justicar commented, acting extensively put out by the ordeal. “Taking care of humans can be quite the bother.”
With the palm merely massaging the outside, Shepard could still answer with an even tone, “Sorry, ma’am.”
A blue finger traced either side of the excited slit a couple times before they took a brief sojourn between. Samara’s sight stayed with the soldier’s face, surveying the reactions she could wring out. When she committed to penetration she saw the jaw tighten. Lazily the knuckles submerged in couples until the last pressed to the lip. Shepard showed even greater discipline as she remained motionless for the retreat.
With skill gathered over a near millennia from experiences that may not seem directly applicable, Samara easily danced through her human’s womanhood with graceful fingers. Each passing twirl, thrust, withdrawal and twist made it more and more difficult to suppress responses. She watched teeth grind, an eye twitch and ribbons of droplets condense along the hairline, as well as feel some form in her palm.
As minutes ticked by Shepard found it more and more difficult to remain silent or even keep her chin level as she was masturbated like a breed animal. Only when she felt a thumb begin to rub her clitoris did the breaks in her armor show. Her eyes flickered as she tried keeping them open and her shoulders rose around her ears as she tried to keep a proper posture. Inevitably the energy to resist faltered.
As soon as the woman’s spine started to curl forward, Samara chided, “Back straight, eyes forward, Shepard.”
“Yes…” she barely squeaked. “…ma’am.”
The order was followed and Shepard regained some composure. Still, she couldn’t control herself completely and involuntarily her hips rolled and rotated. That did not get corrected. Samara rather liked the feeling of the infiltrator humping her hand, so desperate for release. She also had a certain admiration for the amount of willpower displayed in holding at attention.
Finally a quivering breath shook loose from Shepard’s mouth, pulling along an extended moan. Samara felt her hand flood and the muscles she was buried in tightened. This time it wouldn’t have mattered what she said as her human had no ability to stop herself from tilting forward. Weakened knees took away stable legs and the Justicar had to help support the climaxing woman by her groin.
The matriarch waited for the ripples to run their course before giving a gentle squeeze and withdrawing. “Go clean yourself up.”
It took a moment or two for anything close to a thought to exist in Shepard’s head. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
The former commander staggered off after she re-zipped, buttoned, buckled and straightened her clothes. Samara waited a moment, to be alone in the cockpit, before bringing her hand up to see the glistening sheen covering it. A drop of human juices trailed down her wrist and without hesitation she used her tongue to retrieve it. With a long lick she traced the moisture all the way up to the end of her middle finger.
“Shepard,” the Justicar called. “I believe I wish to clean up as well.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Shepard replied excitedly between labored breaths.
Samara took her time checking and rechecking the course she laid, partially to ensure stepping away from the controls wouldn’t lead to disaster, but mainly to give Shepard a bit of time to get ready. All concerns slain she left the controls to the computer and headed down the narrow corridor lined with storage to the modest living area, a space comparable to the commander’s cabin on the Normandy SR-2, though it had to accommodate far more.
First, she passed through the kitchen too small to contain a refrigerator, which was housed in the hall behind her. Then she made a cameo in the den that connected directly to the bedroom without a wall between. Her destination, the bathroom, was saddled next to the kitchen, so she had to u-turn into another space barely big enough to serve its purpose. There is where she found her human.
Kneeling on a pad between the toilet and shower stall, which was only differentiated from the bathroom proper by the colors of the linoleum, was Shepard covered only by the collar around her neck, her hair still damp. In her haste to wash off before the Justicar arrived she hadn’t let the water warm up, so the cold drops clinging to her skin caused her to shiver. The hints of steam rising from the bucket next to her showed the heater did kick in, just not quite in time for her. The woman always acted a touch more submissive than the asari really required.
A word needn’t be said, as soon as red armor was in range, human fingers reached to remove it. The boots went easily, placed in a nearby bin, Samara using a hand full of hair to keep her balance. The main parts took added attention, the difficulty increased by the attendant never leaving her knees. The final piece, the crown, shed without help.
All her curvaceous glory exposed, Samara stepped into the stall and the woman at her feet followed in her subjugated position. Shepard fished the luffa sponge from the bucket of water. With the same care she’d use polishing the Venus De Milo she washed scaled, blue skin. Again her hair was used as a handle for stability as she cleansed from toe to calf twice over. From there she went up, using both hands so to feel the girth of the magnificent thighs. She continued up, wiping suds across broad hips and just under the navel, careful not to touch what lay between. To her delight the asari didn’t turn for her to do the next part and she got to reach around to knead the soap into amazingly well proportioned buttocks. This position also allowed her to come within a hair’s breadth of that which she lusted for.
Inevitably she ran out of places to spread bubbles below the waist and placed her hands in her lap before requesting, “May I continue, ma’am?”
Samara lacked the ego to fully understand the woman’s behavior, but never-the-less, “You may.”
Shepard remoistened her sponge and before she could get to her feet, the matriarch turned her back. With great reverence the human scrubbed the muscle bound back before extending her reach along each toned arm and back to the solid shoulders. Her hands slipped into the armpits, then slid down the ribs. Reaching across the taut stomach she took time to trace each ab and thereby had no choice, not that she wanted one, to step in closer to her blue superior.
Shamelessly, the former commander pressed as much of herself against Samara’s body as possible. Her chin set itself on one of the solid shoulders. She rubbed her stiffened nipples against gentle scales as she tried all she could to find contact for her needy sex. However, being too illicit would get her scolded and rebuffed. What her hands found next did not help cool her.
Unable to stop it, Shepard released a joyful sigh as she reached the Justicar’s gloriously heavy chest. She massaged each, switching the luffa back and forth between her hands, not to better clean, but so each finger could touch the softest part of the asari unencumbered. She didn’t allow an inch to go untouched, an ounce to go unweighed or a curve to go unrecognized. To waste an opportunity to grope any of the flesh older than so many great works of art would be inexcusable.
Lost in her own little world, the woman forgot herself and the rules she swore to. The sponge dropped so she could freely squeeze one mature mammary, while the other set of fingers drifted lower. Her pinky caught briefly in the divot of a belly button. When so close, a tip touched the cleft, she was stopped.
“Shepard, I have entertained you long enough,” Samara said, resisting her own will.
“Please, ma’am,” the human begged into the skin covering the asari’s spine.
“No.” The Justicar took a single step and so far away. “Assisting you with your desires is one thing, giving into my own is another.”
“So, you have desires toward me?”
“Shepard!” Samara lashed. “Back to your knees.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Shepard sunk.
The shower rattled a moment before warm water sprayed the soap from the Justicar. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back to let everything wash away. Regret for snapping already nagging at the back of her mind. Absent-mindedly she slowly spun as her hands ran over her crest. The streams running down her body highlighted her every swerve and curve.
The human that considered herself a pet of the matriarch before her couldn’t resist and had to try to experience the asari somehow. Carefully she crept forward until she could dip her head into the liquid cascading off the blue goddess. Hunched over as low as possible while still remaining on hand and knee she let her hair be rinsed by second hand water. Growing bolder she lifted her face to catch the stream running directly off the labia with her mouth.
Samara tilted her head back down as she opened her eyes and saw the water washing over the woman below her. She couldn’t bring herself to interrupt right away. Something was defiantly wrong with this and she was almost positive that it wasn’t Shepard. When her brain started trying to figure out what was, she felt the need to leave. The shower ceased and she stepped around the fawning human, her fawning woman; she had already taken responsibility.
As Samara began to dry herself, a task she usually left to her subordinate these days, she said, “I care for you deeply Shepard, more deeply than any in centuries, but I am still a Justicar.”
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The Justicar's Dog of War