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Pride and Politics	By : HunterOpera Category: +M through R > Metroid Views: 31568 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Samus Aran or Metroid and am making no money from this.

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And so, my dear friends, this is where we find the legendary bounty hunter. Samus Aran on hands and knees, collared and chained, a helpless plaything for those with more power than mercy.
Rinic Pratolsar was a tantrum-throwing child who wished only to indulge in his baser whims and take advantage of the accident of his birth. He stumbled into power from the title he was born to never have, destroyed his family because he could not bear the consequences of his actions.
Poor Rinic Alista. Even if she wasn't everything that her younger brother pretended to be – and, let us be honest, even at her best she was not – she was still capable of more than this. Now, she is the quiet shadow of Miklo Braca, falling to her knees when they are alone, spreading her lips to indulge a lost he thought never to satisfy.
Braca is doing fine. His management of the Rinic accounts with both the Galactic Federation and the seedier powers on the galaxy have made him a worthy future brother-in-law for Olsar. The two of them get on quite well, they reveling in a monstrousness that no one suspects.
And let us not forget that Olsar raised up Bekhesh from a common outlaw enforcer to something much greater and much worse, both and at the same time. Bekhesh would have died as nothing, but now he walks the halls of power. Respected in a way that Samus will never be now, not ever again.
We must not, of course, forget Salis. The scandal of a noble marrying a former slave has been turned into something else, a romance that is the talk of the galactic elite. She lies about unity, redemption, and whatever else will spread her name among those who hear, but in private she is feared for the names she has broken.
For proof of her work we need look no further than Samus Aran.
Samus Aran crawling on all fours, head bowed so that her falling hair conceals the shame on her face. The slave wear that covers her only draws attention to how much of her is exposed, the lean muscle contrasting nicely with ease of access. And even the golden hair she hides behind seems muted, tainted, as tarnished as the rest of her.
Following in the wake of a happy royal couple, Olsar and Salis, her owner and her trainer. She can't think of them any other way, her old life as the Hunter a fevered dream with no basis in reality. They walk and she crawls through the royal districts of Krais, shopping for goods and meandering around the old bird-statues left by the ancestors of an extinct race.
Olsar knows little of why they might be important. Salis knows even less.
Samus could have told them, once upon a time, but neither of them thinks to ask her and so much of her memory is a ruin that she wouldn't know how to form the right words.
The statues are used to keep slaves from wandering off – the talons of the left and right hand are slim and hard enough to tie leashes to, and many slave owners leave their property here to keep them out from underfoot. Some stand and some kneel; some lie down and some are told to stay in place.
You can tell which ones have been punished recently by the welts on their skin. Samus has a few of those welts, though she had not been bad; Salis just likes to remind her of her place.
“Kneel,” Salis says, biting her lip as Olsar binds her leash to the left talon. “Stay.”
Samus bows her head and says nothing.
Olsar stands over her, looming over her like a god, cupping her face and forcing her to look up at him. She cannot meet his eyes and he smiles, knowing how thoroughly she's been conquered.
He lets her go, her head dropping as he walks away to talk to some of his fellow nobles. He leaves her to the mercy of his bride-to-be, and both he and his property know that Salis has none.
Salis slips thin rope around her wrists, pulling her arms up and behind her so that her hands rest against her shoulder-blades. She whimpers as she's tied in place, a bird with clipped wings, the forced posture pushing her chest out.
“You, there,” Salis calls. Samus hears footsteps but keeps her eyes on the ground, looking at the feet of her trainer and the newcomer. He greets her properly and with respect, a certain tone that Samus will never hear directed towards her again. “We should be back in two hours. I want her fed and cleaned in that time. Inside and out.”
“What does she eat?”
“Cum, mostly.”
The man understands and so does Samus. Her lips are already parting as Salis walks away, her head pulled up by her hair as the slave handler forces himself down her throat. The horror of being used this way is not something that occurs to Samus anymore – this is her life, now, this has and will always be her life.
Slaves are used to strip her down, those few that are standing. They're the chosen of their kindly owners, allowed some small measure of freedom. A sense of sadism comes over them when they have the chance to abuse and look down on another slave, and the girl at their mercy suffers for their affliction.
Fingers twist and pull at her as they strip her down, handing her scant protections off to their betters. Samus finds herself pinched and groped, molested and invaded, her eyes closing as she whimpers around the cock in her mouth. They finish stripping her before the man in her mouth does, but not by such a wide margin.
After the first handler is finished another takes his place, and then another. The favored slaves are then used, draining their lust and hate on Samus' skilled tongue. When she's had enough to eat they decorate her face instead, brushing her hair out of the way. She offers no resistance, kneeling as ordered.
Samus Aran was told to stay, and she has been trained oh, so well.
There is no way for Samus to know how long it takes to feed her, but she knows if she is not cleaned it will be she who suffers. She does the best she can, and the practice she has had serves her so very well. There's plenty of time to attend to her washing.
First, she is sprayed with cold water and soap. She softly cries as harsh bristles touch her skin and move all over her flesh. The bristles trace the lines of her ribs, the corner of her hips, the soft flesh of her face and breasts and inner thighs. A finger forces her head to rise and she complies, offering no resistance as the brush passes over her throat, around the back of her neck, making a tangled mess of her hair.
She is blasted again with cold water, left a sputtering sopping wreck.
They let her drip dry in the sweltering mugginess.
She can feel the eyes of the favored slaves watching her as the handlers return. Tubes are stuck inside her well-used lower holes, her knees kicked apart.
“Here,” the man says, and his tone is almost kind, “something to keep your mind off things.”
She feels liquid slosh through the tubs inside her, feels that liquid pushed up inside her. Her belly swells slightly as she shakes, chilled from within as her insides itch and cramp from the cool substance that expands and explores her insides. She suspects it's the same soap and water combination that they used to clean her exterior.
The man stroking her hair confirms this.
Her whole body quakes as he ties off the tubs, trapping the liquid within her. His hand pats her belly and she quivers, the chill liquid seeping cold throughout her limbs, making her shake, making the substance roil within her. She wonders if the taste at the back of her throat is real or imagined or left over from her previous washing.
It doesn't matter. There's nothing she can do about it.
Samus has no idea how long they leave her like that. Some people wander by and take pictures of her, not knowing who she was but knowing who she is – the personal slave of Baron Rinic Pratolsar, named Samus Aran after the Hunter who went missing years ago.
The man returns and she gasps as the liquid is vacuumed out of her, the man stroking her hair and whispering words she does not understand in a soothing tone. He pulls the tubes out of her and she feels cold and empty, shaking in place and waiting.
Her owner and her trainer return to find her clean and cooled and she is grateful to be handed back to them, kissing their feet.
“She's a pretty little bird,” the man says. “Cleaned her in and out. Behaved herself the whole time.”
“Thank you,” her owner says, tipping the man for his service and Salis takes the leash and pulls on it.
“On your feet, slave,” Salis says. “Time to go walkies.”
Samus struggles up, shivering despite the heat, eyes lowered and head raised. Salis grabs her jaw, looks into her eyes, seeking some light of defiance, some ember of the Hunter, smiles to herself when she finds nothing.
The Hunter is dead.
Only the slave remains.
*
Well, that was fun. Questions? Comments? Everything gets answered at http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/topic/36931-metroid-the-bergman-affair-feedback-comments-and-workshopping/?page=13 , though there's a couple reviews I still need to get to and should get to a little later tonight. Thanks for reading~!
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Pride and Politics