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Pride and Politics	By : HunterOpera Category: +M through R > Metroid Views: 31560 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Samus Aran or Metroid and am making no money from this.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
“Alone again,” Salis coos. Samus shudders, eyes closed, and says nothing.
What is there to say? How would she say it? Her mouth is kept open by the device Salis slipped between her teeth, her legs splayed open with steel, her feet inches from the ground. She's suspended by aching wrists, they bound tight in steel and pressed together, fingers twitching.
She wants to fight. She would if she could, but it's been so long and she can barely remember how. Snippets of who she was flicker across her consciousness even now, her mind trying and failing to reassemble itself. Her identity as the Hunter, as Samus Aran, if all seems like a fever dream when compared to the viral definitions that Salis has imprinted on her mind and soul.
Samus Aran isn't a person. Samus Aran is a slave.
Samus is enjoying having her owner play with her.
“You are a work of art,” Salis says, circling her, a casual finger brushing her hip and tracing down, cupping her, hooking her, pulling her with vicious playfulness. “A masterwork. The best I've ever done.”
The warden steps closer, pushing herself against the bound slave, cupping her ass and biting a nipple. Samus can see that the woman wants to kiss her but captor is so much shorter than captive, even now so much less impressive looking.
Samus is far too gone to take any satisfaction from that.
It's cold in the cell and Samus' eyes sometimes flicker over to the ripping silver mass outside, the only thing other than the cell and the space just outside of it that she's seen in she doesn't know how long. That trapped isolation has crippled her in so many ways, little parts of her mind shutting down from the familiar – a process that Salis designed her workroom for.
Salis smiles, bites her lip, taps a few buttons on her wrist and a panel opens in the wall. There's a tub and the monochrome woman fills the tub with steaming water that suds and bubbles as Samus looks on with dull eyes.
Another few buttons pushed and a finally dressed balding man walks in.
“I was told you wanted the pleasure,” Salis says. Braca looks at her.
“I'm just here to make sure this is done right.”
Braca is small, balding, faded muscle from brief military service weathered by far too much time behind one desk or another. He's going gray at the temples, his every line neatly pressed and accounted for. He takes off his jacket, folds it and hands it to Salis as the warden sits back and settles in to watch.
The accountant rolls up his sleeves, looks Samus up and down with a frown, assessing the job before him.
“Killing you would be cleaner,” he sighs, “lobotomizing you, safer. But what the Baron wants, the Baron gets.”
A mincing girl that Samus barely recognizes shuffles in after him, gives him a brush.
“Thank you, Alista.” He lets the bristles rub against his palm, wincing a little from their stiffness. “Get me a footstool, then go sit with Salis. I'm sure she can find something for you to do.”
“Oh, yes,” Salis smiles, spreading her legs and patting her crotch when the former Baroness looks back at the Warden. “I can.”
Samus stares down at the short man, stretched taut and helpless before him. The brush moves into the steaming suds, is brought out and hovers over her skin. She locks eyes with the man below her, knowing there is something she should do in this circumstance and not remembering what.
He nudges the footstool closer to her with his foot, steps on it and grabs one of her breasts to steady himself and pull himself up. The harsh bristles are pressed against her face, running along her cheeks, her nose, the intoxicating scent of the soap filling her nostrils, the taste of that agent soaking into her tongue.
The water is warm, the warmest thing she's felt since she's been here, but her screams let all present know that those bristles are agony.
He moves the brush lower, friends, circling her neck, her shoulders, working the brush across her breasts and taking a clear sick satisfaction when she winces and whimpers and suffers. He is as thorough there as he is everywhere, making sure to attack her from every angle, keeping the foam coating her skin consistent.
Braca moves lower, down around her midriff, along the curve of her hips, those harsh bristles moving into her folds. Her whole body goes rigid as those bristles find her core, she screaming and managing to shake as much as she is able in protest, but he ignores her, holds her, keeps moving lower with a casual disdain for her for her desires.
The brush finds her thighs, her knees, her calves, and her feet.
He stands, nudging the footstool around her, then starting the entire process on her backside – her scalp, nape, shoulderblades, working lower, covering every curvature. The heat of the water has cooled and Samus shivers, head bowed and mind shattered, the brush working it's way between her lower cheeks and circling her rear passage.
A vague memory surfaces, how she had hated that hole being breached in the past, how she had dreamed of fighting back against her masters when they touched her there, but now she trembles and accepts what is done to her.
Her tongue begins to move, her eyes closed.
“What's she saying?” Braca asked, pausing at the back of her knees.
Samus hears the buttons being pressed, feels her jaws able to close. She swallows but it hurts to keep her lips together, drool and soap mingling as mangled words drip out of her.
“A slave is obedient and refers to its Owners as Masters,” mutters the bound woman. “A slave submits to any and all attention its Masters will. A slave has no will of its own, it an empty vessel for its Masters. A slave does not say no. A slave submits to whatever is done to it. Samus Aran is not a person. Samus Aran is a slave.”
Braca chuckles, glancing back at Salis with easy admiration, then turns and gets back to work.
He pulls another couple of tools from the bucket, one of the hollowed phalluses slightly bigger than the other. Both of them have let the soapy water seep into them, filling them, and Braca takes the larger of the two and presses it against Samus' core, the soap acting as lubricant as it fills her.
“She's tight,” he noted. He sounds surprised that this might be so, even after all that she has suffered.
“It's tailored to her,” Salis gasps, her fingers in Alista's hair, the other woman's tongue deep in the warden's snatch. “Designed to fill her.”
“I suppose the same is true of this?” Braca asks, holding up the smaller dildo. Salis' answer is a series of vowel sounds. The small man looks at his slave and her trainer, shakes his head and sighs. He circles around to the back of Samus, the Hunter's blue-green eyes opened to slits as she feels her backside penetrated and filled.
It was a strange sensation, the sense of soap leaking into her lower cavities. Samus moans and keeps her head bowed, her eyes slitted and unaware, her lips softly repeating the mantra that now defined her.
“A slave is obedient and refers to its Owners as Masters...,” mumbles Samus. Braca fetches a hose, starts washing the suds off the bound woman. She sputters, coughs, the cold water pushing some of the suds down her throat. She swallows, gasps, her voice a broken shell. “A slave submits to any and all attention its Masters will...”
The sopping slave is freed from her bonds, allowed to fall to the floor. Some small and smothered spark of defiance whispers rebellion, but a foot nudges her hip with all the care it had moved the ladder and that ember dies.
“Stand up,” Braca commands.
Samus swallows, shaking from the cold and holding herself. She dreams that she had been strong but she struggles to follow her order, struggles to her knees and her feet, her eyes on the floor and her lips split. Braca grabs her wrists, forces her hands to her side, and she does not fight back.
“A slave has no will of its own, it an empty vessel for its Masters...” whispers Samus. The cleaning dildos in her ass and cunt fall out of her, clattering to the floor. She winces, whimpers as Braca smiled.
“Hands behind your back,” he demands, and she obeys. He binds her arms there, forearm to forearm so that her hands grasp her elbows. He binds her fingers, then, pushing her shoulders tight and forcing her breasts out. He steps back, considers her.
“A slave does not say no,” swallows Samus, her voice quiet, sheltered, the words only just audible. “A slave submits to whatever is done to it.”
Braca fastens a collar to her neck, fills her lower holes with dildos that hug her slick walls and folds, filling her completely, painfully – hard rubber versions of the cleaning phalli he had used earlier, now locked in place with a belt that split her lowest lips and cheeks, connecting to a belt that rests on her hips. The intruders shudder inside her and she gasps, waiting for whatever horror is to come.
A pole is locked to her collar, Braca forcing her to walk back and forth. Even if she had the will to kick him she wouldn't have been able to with the length of the pole. She is bound, helpless, exposed in ways she wouldn't have thought possible as the Hunter and has come to expect as a slave.
“Let's go meet the Baron.” Braca forces her in front of him, watching the sway of her hips and the way her legs quiver, the new wetness leaking out of her and coating her thighs.
And I swear to you, friend, she said this even if no one heard it, even if no one saw her lips move – she said it because she believed it, because there was nothing else left to her.
“Samus Aran is not a person. Samus Aran is a slave.”
- 15
- 16
- 17
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Pride and Politics