Pharah had counted the number of ridges on the walls twice now. She had attempted to calculate the number of seams, but hadn't succeeded. They were small and too hard to see, and she always lost concentration halfway through. The padded walls of her cell were so boring that she couldn't even find ways to keep her mind active. It was as if the cubic room's very essence reduced stimulation.

                She sighed, tugging at the canvas straitjacket that hugged her form. It was a bit less boring. The straps were all synthetic fabric with wide plastic buckles. It was pretty strong; a few hours of tugging and straining had made it clear that her triceps alone weren't going to burst her free. It was more functional than it was fetishistic, in contrast to some of the torments that her captor had visited on her. If nothing else, the room was boring on purpose. The bondage, the walls, the dim lights; they all conspired to make her crave escape. If not escape, then she craved change of any sort. She ruminated on how she might design a straitjacket. Maybe tiny nodes of electricity could shock the wearer's sensitive spots, making them jolt and shake with slightly painful stimulation. Maybe it could even be a security measure.

                You're fantasizing about being tied up and basically tortured, she thought to herself. Yup, you're officially bored out of your mind.

                Originally, there was panic. That had subsided. Amari always considered herself an effective and efficient operator, and she tried to get through any shocks as quickly and efficiently as possible. The reappearance of her mother after years of being listed as MIA, for one. The shock and awe regarding the Omnic assassination plots in London, for another. And now, she had progressed through all the stages of grief in just a day. She had been kidnapped, bound, gagged, and was very, very helpless and she'd already finished being angry about it. And sad. And worried.

                That's a stupid listing anyway, thought Amari. Not everyone reacts the same way. Even so, she had remembered vague feelings not too distant from the traditoinal "Stage of Grief" chart she'd seen during her psychological training to be a security head. Denial came first, then there was bargaining somewhere, and probably anger. She couldn't quite remember now. That was probably just an effect of the many hours spent in isolation. It had dulled her senses, and the Egyptian was starting to think that it had dulled her mind as well.

                After some intense testing, she and D.Va had been thrown into a single cell. It was the same cell, at first, though a short time later their captor had returned to remove D.Va. Pharah wasn't sure why or where she had gone. She was quite certain, though, that their captor was none other than Doctor Angela Ziegler - the Swiss doctor, cyberneticist, and former Overwatch medic. It was a very strange thought. All those hours spent jetting around with Mercy at her back seemed artificial now. Had the doctor been playing her? The healing had been real, but perhaps the companionship was always purely hollow; the witty repartee that they shared just a side-effect of a "long con."

                Certainly, the con was off. After being captured and teased rotten, she'd been drugged with some sort of serum that clouded her mind and judgement. She remembered grinding against someone else - probably D.Va - in an orgiastic frenzy. Amari fell back on the floor. She'd been sitting againts the wall, but that wasn't particularly comfortable. Pharah lay her head on the floor, letting short, silky black hair fall against the padded cushions of the cell. She wondered what the rest of her teammates were doing.

 * * *

                Tracer didn't smoke. She thought about it, though. Her latest adventuer had been so smooth, so satisfying that it almost seemed appropriate. She pictured herself sitting on the bed, lighting up a cigarette like in those nova-noir movies. The perky Brit even practiced exhaling, turning to the right, and asking her compatriot something supremely cheesy.

                "Was it good for you too?" she'd say.

                "Mmmngh! Mmnrrff-mmrf!"

                Whoops, thought Tracer. I definitely, definitely said that out loud.

                No harm done, of course. The only person in the room that could hear her was bound, gagged, blindfolded, and not really in any position to trample her moment of triumph. The fight with Widowmaker had been brief and supremely satisfactory.

                Tracer was a title, but Lena Oxton was a person. Lena had learned much since their encounter in King's Row a year ago. The goal wasn't to subdue Widowmaker, but to wear her down. She had needed to tire her out, make her vulnerable, and make her careless. Lena once read that humans evolved two legs because it made them better distance runners. Early man could run for hours, while a four-legged creature could run for just a few minutes - even if they were running much faster.

                Such had been the case with the purple-tinged mercenary now bound and gagged on the bed. Tracer hadn't given her an opening, fighting and dashing and teleporting defensively. The fight had been a running battle along Busan's rooftops, beginning in the dangerously-packed districts near downtown and ending in a luxury resort on the city's southernmost coast. It had gone - if not entirely according to play - better than expected. By the time Widowmaker had the idea to start targeting civilians or bystanders, there were almost none visible. The evacuation orders resulting from the recent Omnic attack still stood as MEKA pilots scoured for other threats. The only beings  left were the authorized, the stubborn, or the omnic - the sort of poorly-paid 'bot that stood around in the lobby of the hotel to make sure that the power didn't go off, the milk didn't go bad, and that nobody came to loot the hotel rooms.

                Nobody had been in sight - or even earshot -  when Tracer finally made her move, giving Widowmaker a strong kick to the stomach and knockout blow on the back of her neck. And, since she wasn't exactly sure when the police were going to be able to arrive, she had made certain that the package wasn't going to go anywhere, either. Tracer brought her captive to an empty hotel suite, carefully placing her adversary on the clean linens of an untouched bed.

                Widowmaker wasn't nude. Tracer had spent a few moments after her stunning victory debating whether to strip off that sensually tight pink bodysuit, but decided against it. After all, the woman was practically naked anyway. It was so tight and thin that it seemed reasonable to call it a second skin. Lena had marveled at it; the way that it hugged her slender waistline was impressive and sexy both. The silver trim really made the eye wander; Lena couldn't help but note that the assassin left a wedge of supple, smooth grayish skin  that ran from her navel to her neck. She ran her fingers over it; she was warm as any normal human. Maybe moreso after that intense workout. The operative's teats were just barely obscured by the suit; Lena imagined that the incredible tightness of it all probably prevented that from happening. Most of the time.

                After stripping the TALON operative of her weapons, equipment, and advanced infra-sight headpiece, she got to work restraining her forthe police. She was going to make sure her captive wasn't going anywhere! That started with silk rope around her ankles. She ran it up towards her legs; she wound the cord around each of her curvaceous thighs individually, then lashed the loops to her wrists. She wasn't going to tie her hands behind her back or behind her head; she was going to pinch them tight against her own shapely hips!

                More lengths of rope curved around Widowmaker's stomach. Lena made certain that the lovely, slender strip of bared flesh felt the bite of her ropes. She was harnessed, with her hands at her hips, her elbows lashed to her waist, and her biceps both triple-bound to her chest. She quite liked the way it looked; the way that the rope bit against the mercenary's tits and arms. It was quite pleasant to look at, and, if their roles were reversed, probably fun to squirm in as well.

                By the time that Widowmaker was waking up, Tracer was done and was finishing up the call to the authorities. She hung up, satisfied at her handiwork.

                "You're quite the professional with that rope. I'm almost jealous."

                She felt the hair on the back of her neck prick up. Widowmaker was waking up! Letting the dastardly assassin use her words was almost as bad as giving back her weapons. No, best to keep her quiet. Very quiet. Before she could speak another honeyed word, Tracer was stuffing two wadded-up handkerchiefs into her mouth. She wound the rope over her mouth once, jamming the mouth-filling gag and forcing the pale prisoner to bite down on the thick silk. She kept that stuffing in place with a wide strip of silver tape she found in a hotel room drawer. When that wasn't sufficient - or at least, when she could still hear Widowmaker's gagged grunts - she gave her another layer. Then, just for fun, she did it once more, winding the tape two times around the mercenary's mouth. It was now splendidly smooth.

                "There we go!" said Tracer with a grin. "Sorry love; you're either going to use your pretty mouth to convince me to let you go, or you're going to use that dirty mouth for potty talk. Either way, I won't have it." Lena chuckled, and her captive mouthed something that was probably a curse into her gag.

                With the police on their way, Oxton dialed up a friend on her communicator. She alerted her other teammates that the Omnic threat was quieted, and that Widowmaker was taken care of. One of her squad suggested that she take a vacation. Not a bad idea at all; Tracer told them that she'd be incognito for a few days, and turned off her gear.

                "Cheers!" she said, striding to Widowmaker. She ran her hands over the curvy captive's body, curious if maybe she'd spend a few hours of vacation just waiting with her until the police arrived. She leaned in close, brushing back her blue-black hair and delivering a firm smooch to the smooth gag.

                Her impromptu vacation with her captive was interrupted by a knock at the door.

                "Tracer?" said a familiar voice.

                "Mercy me, it's Mercy!" shouted Lena. She was at the door in no time at all - or at least, a fraction of a tenth of a second.

                She threw open the door. Mercy entered with a malignant grin.

 * * *

                Hana Song got called D.Va pretty often. She sometimes wondered why. It was only one syllable shorter than her given name. Maybe it was the fact that D.Va sounded edgy, fun, and a little bit pretentious. It gave her the air of someone used to dominance and getting her way.

                Right now, she would have given anything to be called D.Va instead of "my pretty" or "test subject." She was wearing nothing but her underwear and plenty of rope, and rope didn't really do a good job of making her feel dignified. Nor did the underwear, for that matter; it was dark gray-black and probably a size or two too small! It showed skin, and lots of it. She could feel her breasts ready to pop out at any moment; the lacey panties ready to slip off. The whole effect was to make her feel aroused. It wasn't to simply arouse her. Mercy knew how to get her good and horny. The point was to make her feel like it was her own choice; to make her feel like she wanted to be touched, groped, and teased of her own volition. Well, it wasn't necessary. From the moment she'd been kidnapped, D.Va had been hot and heavy. "

                She felt like a cartoon character. This morning, after being cleaned and cared for, Mercy had brought her to the lab for more "testing." This time, the lab was actually Ziegler's bedchamber, and the testing seemed to involve someone new.

                This doesn’t look much at all like a lab, thought D.Va. 

                The other girls in the room were probably thinking much of the same. Sure, it had the white tables and computers of any laboratory, but then again, it also had two other captives that were tightly bound and squirming.

Pharah and Tracer weren’t really living up to their exciting nicknames. Both of them were stripped nearly nude. The only items of clothing that they had been allowed to keep were their underwear, and it was fairly clear that these skimpy pieces of lingerie were not their original undergarments. Pharah was in an ultramarine blue outfit. Her breasts were very nicely cupped by a supportive bra that was probably akin to sportswear. It harnessed her curves rather nicely; as she squirmed and grunted there was a minimal amount of embarrassing  bounce from her chest. In combination was a pair of matching athletic underwear. It was all so sterile and functional. It wouldn’t have been inherently sexy were it not for the accouterments and the situation.

                For one, she was sitting right next to Tracer. D.Va wasn’t sure when Lena had gotten in or how she’d been captured, but she didn’t look happy about it. She was taller and slimmer than Pharah; whereas Amari had thick, womanly curves, Lena was more slender. All the same, she was still quite a sight to behold, especially in that getup. Her outfit was lacey white with a retro flair. Their captor had dressed her in long leggings with garters and straps. Dark hose contrasted against the lace that nicely outlined her bust. D.Va didn’t mind looking at it either; there was something very appealing about the way that it compressed her flesh. It looked so blissfully, lovingly tight. A collar around her neck labeled her as TRACER in big block letters, and also contained a glowing blue orb to keep her time displacement in check.

                They were squirming left and right, bound as they were. A series of ropes bound their wrists behind their back, heading upwards to a shibari-style harness around their chest. It stood out more on Pharah than Tracer. Her dark olive skin really did look good when tightly bound. All that supple, exposed body just begged to be touched and teased. It made her think of a present, with rope keeping the wrapping on but begging to be removed.-

                Ziegler entered the room. She looked at each of her bound beauties in turn, and slipped something into their mouths. A pill of some sort; and then, she slipped something else into each of their mouths. Hana felt an eyebrow raise. The second thing was a massive red ball-gag, but designed with two sets of straps. It was the sort of devious device that would force them into a kiss; a ball-gag that they’d have to share. Their lips locked, mixing saliva and scents and forced very, *very* close to the other. Mercy grinned, and used a series of ropes to bind the two girls against each other. She gently moved them to the bed, and soon enough they were squirming on the bed, lost in each other’s bodies.

                “Hmm,  let me try my best dominatrix impression,” said Mercy. “These two horny little sluts just can’t resist one another,” she said in accented English. Hana couldn’t see her face but she could hear the smile. “They’re busy grinding and humping, searching each other for sexual release. Thanks to my soon-to-be patented device, even these two elite agents are going to forget who they are for a spell, lost as they come and come and come. There we go.”

                Mercy was grinning. She looked at her bound captive D.Va. “How did I do? Did I sound intimidating?”

                She licked her lips, and took D.Va again. This time, she was binding Mercy; she put her against the bed. She knelt on a couch at its foot and was forced forward, pressing her petite frame against the foot of the bed as Mercy lashed her wrists to two of the bed’s long posters. She realized what was happening once the loud sound of vibrations started.

                “All right,” said Mercy. “Truth be told, that was the only experimental part. This part - this part where you watch my two horny little pets grinding and rubbing - while I take you from behind with a toy? Well, this part is solely for me.” Ziegler giggled again. Her accent was usually minor, but the low, steady tone with which she spoke even her explanation of sexual intimacy and rough sex had the measured bedside manner of a professional.

                Hana came. She came multiple times. She lost count after the first. She wouldn't pretend that she didn’t want this, but the drugs and the scene in front of her was breaking her down.

                She wanted to be used. She really, really wanted to be tied up - and of course, she was. She really, *really* loved seeing Amari and Lena bound against one another. She marveled at the way that they were forced into a kiss; she stared at the droplets of saliva that passed through their mouths and the way that they ground against one another. There was something profoundly hypnotic about the way that they pressed against the other. Amari’s fat tits were squished by Lena’s slimmer chest, but she could watch the Brit using her legs with greater grace. She wrapped them around Amari’s form, grinding her womanhood close and searching for any stimulation they could find. Through their garments and with the restraints, even this tribadistic delight was difficult to come by.

                But, all the same, they did come. They experienced raucous orgasm, and in turn, D.Va - eager for more - did the same. The repetitious thrumming in her slit by her captor’s strap-on made her legs wobble. If she wasn’t kneeling, she’d have fallen to the floor. She felt echoes of energy traveling from the base of her spine to her brain; she could imagine the synapses of her form taking in the fake but fat cock, and craving more. She groaned quite loudly. Shamefully loudly, in fact.

                And then, when she was good and weak and her brain swimming with endorphins, Mercy unshackled her wrists and pulled her panties back on. She tried to gently cradle D.Va in her arms, taking her to bed. And then, D.Va reversed the tables.

                It was fast. She was used to staying still; to waiting for the right moment to pop off a carefully micromanaged ability or to take a shot. Her eyes popped open, and Mercy looked surprised. She still kept her malignant domina’s smile, but she was utterly unprepared when Hana took her revenge. She burst from her grasp, looking for Pharah and Tracer, but some bot had already taken them away. D.Va grabbed her foe’s staff from the corner, clocking her across the face. She stumbled back slightly, and Hana jumped on top of her. In a few seconds, she’d wound a strip of silvery duct tape around her lips and her wrists. She took the nearest container - in this case, a suitcase large enough for a peson - and threw Mercy inside.

                She could hear grunts and mewling sounds. She was in full panic mode when she dragged the suitcase - conveniently, the sort with rolling wheels - out the door. She exited Mercy’s hidden house into an alleyway, turning down the abandoned street and calling for help.

                Her head still swam with endorphins, aphrodisiacs, and the fading afterglow of being mounted by Mercy. She started to run, still nearly nude and searching for someone, anyone or something, anything that could help her.

                She didn’t notice the purple-clad assassin staring at her from the rooftop. The prickly feeling of a drugged gel-round impacting on her exposed rear was the only thing she felt to indicate that she’d been hit. D.Va, so recently escaped from Mercy’s clutches and with her captor literally bagged and in her grasp, fell unconscious. She was asleep by the time that Widowmaker caught her in her arms.

                “Checkmate, little flower,” she said. She now had not one, but two Overwatch operatives. All that remained was to bind them and transport them away. Though her emotions had been stripped away, there was something more primal welling within Widowmaker as she wound tape around D.Va’s wrists and took her two captives deeper into the night air.