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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
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The Dachora Hunt, friends, is a grand old tradition.
It started in ancient days – the warriors of Kanvia would prove their skill by seeking out the fabled dachora, hunting the tall and fast birds using stealth and guile, killing them with net and spear and bringing them back to the tribe. As their culture progressed hunting became a barbaric practice in the wake of agriculture, and so the hunt changed to a depraved activity reserved only for the noble classes.
But, like all things, the nature of the hunt began to change as the Kanvians made contact with other civilizations.
On several worlds there is an iteration of it: criminals or slaves compete in some sort of game to win their freedom, with the consequences of failure being death or worse. Criminals on LV-632, for instance, are given the option of running the Space Jockey, trying to dodge face-hugging hatchlings as they navigate slime slickened corridors. On SL-003, convicts race explosive-laced land-bound vehicles for the amusement of their betters.
Kanvia has a less complicated version: slaves can be sponsored for the hunt, dressed as animals, released into the wild, and then hunted down by nobles and soldiers. Those that manage to survive a full twelve hours are granted their freedom, but those that do not are frequently beaten, raped, or worse. One of Olsar's dead siblings once sponsored a slave, then hunted that slave down and had them skinned.
The sight made even Olsar sick and he's avoided the hunt ever since, but Salis has talked him into entering Samus into the event.
“Think how cute she'll look, dressed as a dachora,” Salis cooed, slapping the Hunter's ass. The blonde haired woman bowed her head but said nothing, some trick of old steel seeping into her – not that Olsar or Salis noticed, not then. “We can add plumage, maybe, get a little headdress for her.”
“Neither of us have time to hunt her,” Olsar grumbled. “We'll both be off-world when the hunt begins.”
“We can watch the vids later,” Salis grinned, biting her lip as she cupped his manhood, whispering against his neck. “And I know five people that would love to have another go at her.”
Olsar agreed to the terms, had her entered later that morning.
Salis saw to her preparations.
The Hunter was taken to a dachora stables, where children could learn about the birds and criminals and slaves alike were prepared for the hunt. Part of the preparation was simple: Samus' arms were bent at the elbow, her wrists bound to her upper arms and then covered with a sleeve. Her fingers were pressed into her palms, hands bent at the wrist to cover the gap between forearm and bicep. Straps were used to hold the limbs in place, turning her arms into small wings.
Samus flapped her arms, friends, keeping her eyes down as she danced in place. She was still naked save for her collar and the sleeves that had rendered her arms useless. Her breasts bounced as she moved, a yank from Salis on her leash bringing her to her knees. She risked a glance up, saw some of the other slaves being prepared for the hunt.
Boots were laced up the calves and thighs of the other captives, the entrapment at least looking steady with a heavy boot at the bottom that resembled a bird's three-clawed talon – though she noted with dismay that the talons were missing. The others had their arms clipped in the same way she had suffered, though their arm-bindings had been decorated with feathers.
A complex series of straps wrapped around their hips, Samus noted, taking root over groin and cupping ass, traveling up the spine to attach to collars. From there, the collar provided grounding for a series of lines over the scalp that settled in-between hair and sprouted crested feathers upwards.
The slaves also suffered a ball pressed between their lips that had no obvious binding but changed all their words into bird-song. Samus chirped at that, hiding her smile by ducking her head low.
“What a cute little bird,” the hostess noted, looking at Salis while her fingers ran casually down the Hunter's abdomen, brushing the top of her lower lips before circling up around her hip. “Very responsive. What color are you thinking for her feathers?”
“I'm torn,” Salis admitted. “We could do blue with silver highlights all over, or maybe golden boots with red plumage. What do you think?”
“We have time to try both.”
Samus found herself led to the middle of the stable grounds, where her leash was attached to a pole above her and her ankles were fastened to two posts in the ground, spreading her legs a little more than shoulder-width apart. She noted some native Kanvians keeping a polite distance but studying her intently and felt herself flush, surprising herself with the shame she could still feel.
Can you blame her, friends? After all she has suffered, a sense of shame is a surprising thing to still possess.
A small droid followed at the heels of the hostess, buzzing along and checking Samus' restraints before the hostess continued with her work. She bent down and removed a pair of boots from the top of the robot, some trick of technology allowing the thick stiff fabric to pass through the bindings on her ankles. The laces were pulled tight and Samus winced as the boots were tightened, fastened. The covering around her foot forced her to arch, tightening her calves and thighs further, but as she shuffled as best she could she found that her footing was still stable.
“Good to run in,” the hostess said, noting Samus' shuffling and patting her ass. “We don't want to make the hunt too easy for our hunters.” She reached for the droid and pulled out another complicated series of straps with two heavy bulbs on the bottom and an attachment at the back.
Samus moaned as the longer bulb slid into her lower lips, the thicker bulb pressed against her rear.
“She's so wet,” the hostess said, surprised.
“She's very well trained,” Salis breathed. Samus, friends, risked glancing at her trainer. Salis was leaning against a wall, where one hand slid underneath the slit of her skirt as she watched the hostess manipulate her slave.
The Hunter winced as the bulbs found their homes inside her, the straps then pulled tight around her waist and hips. She felt a weight press against the small her back, and when the hostess tapped it she felt it ripple into her ass. The hostess moved around the back of her, pulling long feathery tails from the robot and attaching them to that weight. Each one pressed against and into her, the bulb rocking her so that she tried to bow down slightly.
As Samus tried to adjust to the pressed fullness in her ass, the hostess moved up to her wings and started pressed small lines of feathers against the fabric that bound her arms. This wasn't so bad, not at first, but when she was done and Samus flapped her wings she found the feathers tickled her sides, her back, her breasts – every movement felt strange and full of unwanted touches, and the shock forced her mouth open.
Which was what the hostess was waiting for, slipping the ball into Samus' mouth. The former Hunter tried to push it out with her tongue and found the ball bit that muscle while latching onto her lips, forcing her mouth open and keeping her quiet. The hostess smiled and patter her cheek.
“Don't worry, pet, anyone else can take it out,” the hostess said, letting her hand trail down the ball, down Samus' lip and chin, down along her throat. “Now, try to make a sound for me. Go on.”
Samus did.
The ball turned her muffled cries into a bird call.
“Good. That works, then,” the hostess said, turning back to her small helper droid and pulling out the next item Samus would have to suffer with – a cap with a crest that the other woman fit around the slave's head. The hostess pulled Samus' ponytail through a tight series of straps and buckled the cap in place, around her chin and jaw. The slave could feel a slight weight on the top and shook her head, feeling the crest ruffle.
The hostess stepped back and clapped her hands, looking at Salis with an easy grin.
“Your slave makes a pretty bird,” the hostess said.
“Yes, she does,” Salis answered, biting her lip. “It's like she was born for this.”
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Pride and Politics