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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.

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Ah, my friends, my dearest friends. Those of you that have thrilled to this story – did you think it ended there? That Samus Aran could be mollified so simply?
Oh, yes, the Baron and his allies came so very close. Their facades and riches won that much and took Samus to a place she had never been before, but they lacked the will and the chance to keep her there.
It began to fall apart in the way these things do – the arrogant and jaded missing small details, misunderstanding the fate that had brought them to power to begin with. Midafternoon on Kanvia, the Baron and Baroness settling into their keep under emerald skies and awaiting the silvered sunset.
“Come here, slave,” Olsar whistled. He and his bride sit on a high balcony, enjoying the heat and view, towering over the world and systems that they had claimed for themselves. Everything was theirs: they the shining political paragons that people believe ran things, the creeping corruption that lay just beneath the surface.
Samus Aran was just another pretty bauble now, coming when called.
And until called she stood, legs spread apart, hands clasped behind her neck, eyes downcast. She was in the Kanvian slavewear that Olsar and Salis favored, the colors a mocking reminder of the zerosuit she had worn long ago. Her owner and her trainer left her as part of the furniture, taking for granted that they could touch her whenever they wished.
Languid, she drops to her knees when called, crawls towards her owner and her trainer, shakes her hips behind her. She stands when ordered, Salis' fingers undoing the clever clasps of her small coverings and letting them fall to the floor. Only her collar remains.
“Go to your owner, slave,” Salis says, biting her lip. Samus simpers, drops to her knees. She's barely six feet from him but it feels like a lifetime as she slithers on her belly, breasts scraping the ground as she gets close, locks her hands at the small of her back, her tongue and lips seeking her owner's foot.
“Please, master,” whimpers Samus, “please use this cocksleeve however it pleases you.”
He pulls her up by the hair, hard enough that she gasps. Her open mouth sheathes his manhood as he sits, towering over her. The familiar taste overtakes everything else as she suckles on a hardness she has come to know so very well.
She feels Salis' hands on her ass, shivers with anticipation. Her eyes close when Salis spanks her.
Olsar looks down at her, sitting, his hands resting behind him as her head bobs up and down on his manhood. He doesn't need to tell her what will happen if her teeth so much as brush him; she's experienced that punishment before and it is always fresh in what's left of her mind.
The entirety of her being is focused on her owner's pleasure. She suffers as Salis spanks her, as the hand rests on her quivering ass and wanders lower, knuckles brushing her pussy lips, slipping inside them. Samus doesn't want this, but she knows that what she wants doesn't matter.
Olsar throws her off of him, letting her kneel and cough. Her eyes stay downcast.
Samus Aran knows what must happen now.
Unsteady, she rises, spreads her legs, bends at the waist. She presents herself to her owner, the red marks on her ass and the dripping traitor between her legs. She feels his hands on her hips, pulling her down, pulling her on top of him, pulling himself inside of her. She moans, loud and soft, the sound tasting open air before being muffled by her trainer's slippery folds.
Neither her owner or her trainer move. Everything is left to her, the shaking of her hips, the lashing of her tongue. She buckles, riding her owner's manhood, talented tongue seeking her trainer's clit. She knows better than to rush things, lets her owner slap her ass as her trainer's fingers tug at her hair. She is a toy, a pet, a piece of property here for their pleasure.
She brings them off at the same time, feeling the Baron spurt inside her, tasting the secretion of her trainer coat her mouth and slither down her throat. They let her collapse and abandon her, her whole body shaking with unfilled need – a need she is only allowed to satisfy when they let her, and the last time they did was weeks ago.
Risking a glance up, she knows that neither of them are going to indulge her. She sniffles, closes her eyes and nods, pushing herself back into a kneeling position. Having used her to satisfy their own cravings, they now ignore her and speak of things that do not concern her.
“When does the delegation arrive?” her trainer asks.
“Their shuttle touched down just after I pushed her off my cock,” her owner answers.
“What do we know about them?”
“They're from central Daibon. Rich, influential, but anti-slave.”
“Oh,” Salis says. She moves closer to Olsar, entering his arms so that the two of them can bask in the warm afterglow of the former Hunter well used. A quick hand gesture from her trainer and Samus crawls forward, stays on hands and knees, her tongue lapping up the mess that remains on them. “Should I stay with our pet, then?”
“No, they'll be expecting all of us,” Olsar whistles. “You and I have to be there, Miklo wants to discuss some trade details with a finance minister, and Bekhesh has to be there to keep us safe.”
“You're going to leave this one alone, then?” Salis teases, her knuckles rubbing against Samus' scalp. “You want me to tie her up?”
“Not a bad idea,” the Baron answers, groaning as Samus swirls her tongue around his manhood. Her knees are beginning to ache, but she knows better than to complain. “She'll be left with Alista. Several of the delegates are veterans of the Zebesian Wars, and my dear sister's presence there can only upset them.”
“Left with Alista?” Salis chuckles and shakes her head. “Do you have any plans to keep them entertained?”
“Nothing that I'm tied to,” Olsar whistles, cuffing Samus upside the back of the head and then kicking her away from them. She falls to the floor, friends, begins licking up the mess that has dribbled down there. “If you've got something in mind...”
Samus closes her eyes and shudders.
Salis always has something better in mind.
And that was what brought her to the evening – Samus led crawling to Alista's old rooms.
There, she was made to straddle a slim bar held aloft by angled legs. Her ankles were tied to vicious hooks at the bottom of those legs, spreading her wide. Her head was pressed down, her collar attached to the bar, her wrists fixed to the angled legs below her shoulders. A vidscreen below her flickered to life, static filling her vision.
Salis called for Alista. Her husband's sister has been kneeling in the corner of her old room, now her cell, waiting for whatever entertainment Salis has dreamed up to keep them both occupied.
Once, friends, the walls and shelves had been filled with maps and starcharts and programming texts, the notes of a mind bent towards exploration and scientific discovery. Salis and Braca had taken most of it and made Alista burn it when she had returned home from Ariime. What little remains had been locked away from her, kept just out of reach.
“It's good for her to know that her old life is beyond her,” Salis had explained, and Braca agreed.
Once, Alista would have worn the deep colors of her house as a gown, with fine trim at the edges of the fabric. She still had the fine trim at the edges of what fabric she wore, but her clothing had been reduced to an erotic parody of itself – slim gauzy echoes of what had been, easily torn away to reveal the truth of her new life to her owner.
And now she stands above Samus, wrists shackled and collar around her neck, head bowed as she listens to Salis' orders.
“It's a simple game,” Salis explains, running her hand up the back of the bound slave's thigh, cupping her ass, “the sort of thing even slaves like you should be able to understand. We've collected a series of videos featuring the old Hunter – Samus Aran – fighting against her enemies. You, Alista, are to use this paddle to spank this slave and to tell her what a bad girl she's being whenever the Hunter in the videos does any fighting. Make her say it, make her tell you what a bad little girl she is.”
“Yes, mistress,” whispers Alista.
Samus says nothing, only yelping when Salis spanks her once before walking out the door.
The video started below Samus – images of her fighting Zebesians, defending worlds from Phantoon, leading armies against the Leviathans of Phaaze. Old newscasts, security footage, a fine collection that looped around and showed her everything she had been, the best of who Samus Aran used to be. She feels tears gather in her eyes as the paddle raises a meaty thwack from her rear, making her scream.
“You were a bad girl, Samus Aran,” whispers Alista. “Why were you a bad girl?”
“They... they were... it was war a-and I w-was a s-s-soldier,” sniffles Samus.
thwack
“And what are you now?” asks Alista, the paddle coming down again. thwack
“Samus Aran is a slave,” cries Samus.
thwack
“What don't slaves do?”
thwack thwack
“Fight b-b-b-ow!... fight back.”
“What kind of slaves fight back?”
“Bad s-slaves.”
thwack
“So what does that make Samus Aran?”
“A b-bad s-s-slave.”
thwack
“Samus Aran was a bad girl because she fought back,” sniffles Samus.
thwack
The video begins to loop again and Alista keeps asking the same questions. Samus is screaming in pain, her sore ass feeling hot and aching through the rest of her. It takes her some time to calm her sobs and realize that the questions have stopped, that she has not been beaten in whole minutes.
She lies, bound and helpless and quivering.
Perhaps it was the images of who she had been that laid the seeds for rebellion, but Samus dared to look up, to see Alista fiddling with the cameras that had to be recording all that happens between them. The girl holds a tablet and is furiously typing at it, glancing back at Samus and noticing her eyes.
Samus whimpers, expecting punishment, but Alista just smiles.
“Braca stopped paying attention a while ago,” explains Alista. She taps her nose, puts down the tablet. “I've got enough footage of you suffering that I'm able to randomize it. Braca will masturbate to it later, but this means we have a moment.”
Alista steps closer, cups Samus' face, holds her.
It takes Samus minutes to remember what the word gentle means.
“I know who you were,” continues Alista. “I know why they've done this to you.”
Alista lets her jaw go, lets her face the images of who she had been. She feels skilled fingers play along her clit and labia, gentle touches that coaxed an orgasm out of her.
“Repeat after me,” Alista says, “Samus Aran is not a slave. Samus Aran is the Hunter...”
*
Alright, we're in the final throes now. Better, then worse. I'm building to something and this story was the best way of getting there. Thoughts? Questions? Comments? Concerns? All are answered. All are responded to. You can find those responses and maybe stick around to chat at http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/topic/36931-metroid-the-bergman-affair-feedback-comments-and-workshopping/?page=13 Thanks for reading and I hope you're enjoying. More tomorrowish.
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Pride and Politics