Mitre wasn’t taking any chances with the young, bright officer of the City Watch. She stripped the envelope from her hand and had it placed back in the lockbox. Her two most trusted Orc bodyguards - Shuumi and the released Karyn - slid a hood over the officer’s head and had her hauled to the sub-basement without missing a beat.

            Moaning, wailing sounds of lost souls echoed through the cryptlike environs of the manor’s basement. Dozens and dozens of cages and spaces for slaves were present in what had once been a winery. The crates and barrels were still in use, but they were reserved for people, not products - though to Mitre, it was much the same.

            Nalen passed by captives in costumes, their arms locked into long monogloves and legs trapped in tall heels - all being prepared for a special order. Women moaned in tight petticoats and corsets, with veils covering their faces and scarves making it almost imperceptible that they were so utterly restrained.

            A trio of men squirmed, clad in skintight leather attire and locked into heavy hoods that featured hound-like masks. Pleading eyes and rattling chains greeted Nalen and her handlers as they passed by. Mitre noted that they were far from broken, and moved up the timetable for shipping - their new owner would have to deal with their rebellious streak.

            Mitre wanted to move this product as fast as possible if Nalen were here. But the investigator herself, well - she needed to be kept.

            With two orcs as muscle and a trio of trusted servants as her hands, Mitre had Nalen stripped to her undergarments and had a mirror brought to face her. She wanted the snoop to see every item with which she was going to be bound.

            “I’m only sad that we don’t have more time together, but there’s someone on their way to meet you. For example, I’ve got a nice little playroom that I’d love to have you test out. Next time, I think, next time. But you’re my guest. Let’s start with your arms.”

            Two long gloves went over her arms, ending near her shoulders and beginning with mittens that barely allowed movement. Nalen flexed her fingers, trying to find give. There’s wasn’t much, barely enough to do anything more than a slave’s menial tasks - which, she assumed, was what her fate would be if she didn’t escape.

            An elaborate reverse straitjacket of black leather went over her already-gloved arms first, then around her chest. Sixteen metal snaps along her front would keep her from removing it, while the thick and heavy straps kept her arms behind her in a helpless boxtie. It forced her chest up and out, providing easy access to the orcs and inspecting Mitre.

            “Hmm… honestly, your chest is a bit smaller than most of those I deal with, but you’re a special case. Keep her occupied for a moment.”

            Shuumi nodded, and in a practiced motion, bent Nalen down over her knee and spanked her! A loud smack sound sent first painful shocks and then dubious pleasant sensations around up her spine. Nalen grunted and flailed wildly until Mitre returned with her next items.

            Two long boots ending in fierce, tall heels went up to her knees. Nalen tried to stand, wobbled, and then crashed down into Shuumi’s lap. No running for her. A heavy steel pair of leg irons made sure of that, and a weighted ball-and-chain attached to them was a piece of utter overkill.

            Over it all went a carefully crafted piece of leather, with straps running all along the backside. This one went over her entire body, hobbling her legs together in a long pencil-skirt, covering over her arms, and going up to her neck. An opening for the chest let her leather-coated orbs pop through.

            Mitre gave Nalen’s chest a good, firm, smack. Having her breasts curve out like this was utterly, completely humiliating. So was the heavy strap that Mitre ran across them, pinching and squishing them until they bulged rather visibly.

            Finally, the gag. Nalen hated such devices, even if they had their utility. She tried to struggle, but it was fruitless - Mitre shoved a piece of cloth between her lips, following up with a fat red rune-ensorcelled ballgag to keep her alive and healthy.

            She knew that Nalen wouldn’t be spitting it out, even though her face was now rather uncomfortable stretched thanks to all that packing, but she wanted to be sure. Several long, wide strips of tape coated the lower half of Nalen’s bulging, pushed-up cheeks. A pair of cotton balls went over Nalen’s closed eyes, followed by more tape to keep it on.

            The pressure was immense. Two more plugs slipped into her ears as she squirmed and struggled, with all these layers and all this leather tantalizing her with thoughts of release. She wasn’t immobile, but it was inescapable and with plenty of room to struggle. She flailed for a bit, sweat beading on her chocolate brown skin until Mitre finally had her hooded up. Locks clicked, buttons snapped, and the immense pressure on her head equalized. There was nothing left indicating that she was the warden save for the squirms and the fact that Mitre was giving her a few extra gropes. It was probably going to be the only time she’d be able to, after all.

            “I think you can still hear me,” said the Warden.

            Franceska Tremaine rapped Nalen’s forehead. She could still make out her words, if only barely.

            “Glad I got here so soon. Those slaves are being shipped out tonight, so I’m afraid you’ve failed. Almost all of them are going to buyers and middlemen, except for you. Tomorrow morning, you’re going off to a faraway land. I hear that the Elves in the west have a thing for hooded slaves. Or maybe that was a rumor, and the Goliaths in the south need someone to help them mine. Either way, you’re just a piece of meat. You could have been an asset, but your pride just wouldn’t let you be anything else than a liability.”

    “MMMNFGH!”

    “I know, I know. Sorry, lieutenant - I shouldn’t have expected so much from you. Consider this your resignation. Goodbye, and see you never.”

    Nalen grunted, but it was barely more than a mewling peep. The orcs, with Mitre grinning all the while, folded her until she was in a fetal position - barely able to squirm - while they used the threaded leather straps to weave her into a tight, human-shaped brick. Barely with enough room to squirm, they shoved her into a shipping crate and locked it tight.

    Bound, gagged, hooded, blindfolded; layered up with her wrists boxtied and legs skirted and a heavy leg iron keeping her from ever running. Nalen huffed, moaned, and felt a drowsiness come over her. The helplessness, combined with the exhaustion of the last few days, left her in a dreamy sleep soon thereafter.

     

     

     

    The heavy padding of her hood and the layers of leather helped to distribute force as her crate was roughly handled. At some point, she was picked up. At another point, the crate was loaded onto a horse-drawn cart. There was movement, there was speech - too subdued to make out - and the mewling sounds of other captives.

    Nalen thought of the sheer injustice of it all. She was of noble birth and superior training. She’d spent years working and advancing her career in the Imperial service. The idea that she’d be used as a simple slave was utterly incomprehensible. And, while she had empathy for the others where were also squirming away in rope and leather, she simply couldn’t abide the idea that she’d be treated the same as some common product.

    The grunting and moaning from what sounded like the other crates increased. She thought of the worst-case scenarios. No, not torture, not manual labor. Nalen’s nightmare would be to dressed up like a doll and treated like a toy. She thought to the costumes she saw in the dungeon and shuddered. Thoughts of bunny ears, corsets, black lycra and mittens filled her head. She squirmed vigorously at the notion, as if trying to wriggle free of the imagined collar and cuffs.

    It was at that moment that the captive realized that the noise wasn’t other prisoners. There’s no way they could be making this level of noise. And squirming, moaning, plugged and bound and hooded and trapped slaves very rarely elicited battle cries.

            The chaos of conflict subsided, replaced with shouted orders and the smashing of wood.

            “Mmmnf.”

            Another box near her opened. More shouting. Familiar voices.

            “Mmff-hhhmm! Hmm-hmmm!”

    Broken wood and more shouting. Hands grabbed at Nalen, sitting her upright. The hood was painstakingly removed, followed by the fat gag. Noémi smiled, rubbing at Nalen’s cheeks and lips.

            “I think we found some suspicious contraband, ma’am.”

            Nalen managed a smile. “I take it you have some theories about the Bel estate?”

            “Indeed,” she said. The other Watch officers loyal to Nalen were busy releasing the rest of the captives to raucous shouts of joy and gagged squeals of delight. “I think that they’re smuggling Watch Officers.”

           

            The Lieutenant refreshed herself with food and drink, wearing a blanket over her nearly-nude form. Noémi read over the purloined letter with increasing shock.

            “Take it to the Royal Guard. Tell them that they can either share in the glory of stopping a slaver ring or suffer complicity in corruption. They’ll be there.”

            “Be where, ma’am?”

            Nalen took in a deep breath. Another watchman passed her the iconic red coat and gloves of an officer. “At the end of the line for this shipment.”

            “But we’ve disrupted it,” she said. “The prisoners are all free, and being taken to a safe-”

            Nalen held out a finger. “All conflict is based on deception, Noémi. Find your best and smallest fighters. I’ve got a plan to finish this.”

 

 

            The waterways of the city spread like cracked grass beneath Alysa’s surface. The shard-surface of its green-blue waves reflected against the bridges and overpasses. Evening sun gave the canal ways a golden glow.

            Franceska Tremaine paced back and forth, turning on her  boot-heel at the edge of the dock. She, along with Mitre and her guards, were waiting at an illegally-run wharf at the city’s edge. Shabby shanties towered above the dockyard. They had an uneven look to them, like the bad teeth of a thug.

            Mitre pointed to a large cargo lift and patted Franceska on the shoulder.

            “I guarantee it, miss Warden. This’ll be the last shipment for quite some time. You’ve got nothing but easy sailing from here on.”

            Franceska was slowed but didn’t stop pacing. She had a hand on her sword as the crane began moving pallets filled with wooden crates to the dock. She was too nervous. The knowledge that she’d had to eliminate one of her subordinates - especially a talented one like Nalen - made her uneasy. She couldn’t quite figure out why. She had resolved to end the slave trade until she could figure out what was nagging at her. Today would be her last shipment. She stared past the dock to the great river that Alysa straddled, turning away from Mitre and her guards.

            Bel knocked on the crate twice. “Ah, aged to perfection. Squirmy and packed up, and probably well on their way to being sweet and submissive.”

            A trio of slavers with pale skin and fair hair were speaking to themselves in their own language, pointing at the crates.

            “Ah! Franceska, would you like to show off the goods?”

            Tremaine continued to stare. Mitre shrugged, leaned down, and was knocked unconscious by a single, massive closed-fist punch from Nalen Kara.

            Fragments of the shattered wood were still in the air by the time Nalen exited the crate. Mitre hit the ground in a daze. Nalen drew her sword. Other crates burst open as the ambush began. A dozen members of the city watch, all hand-picked by Nalen Kara, drew blades and blackjacks to do battle with the slavers.

            She didn’t have any quips to announce her presence. Amid the din of growing combat, Warden Tremaine, however, had choice words for Nalen.

            “I’m honestly surprised. I never thought you’d turn on me.”

            Nalen gripped her saber.

            “It shouldn’t be a surprise, Warden. The law is the law; rules are rules. The guilty must be punished, no matter if they’re king or pauper.”

            “You’re brave.” Tremaine gripped her sword in turn.

            “Brave? Motivated? Maybe I’m just looking out for me. I don’t know. But I know you’re under arrest, and that you’re coming with me.”

            Franceska drew her blade. “We’ll see.”

            She charged the young officer. Noémi stepped in the way, only to suffer a brutal kick from the villain that sent her reeling. Nalen crossed blades with her superior, but she was distracted and couldn’t keep up the repartee - there were too many other factors, too many other fighters in the melee. Swords clanged and fists met faces, and in that distraction, Franceska shoved Nalen back and sprinted away.

            Nalen helped Noémi to her feet. Guards and grunts were evenly matched. Nalen stared at her subordinate, speaking with a tone that was calm and measured.

            “Criminals are cowardly. Coordinate them. Put them on the run. You’ll never take them during a fight, but they’re easy prey when they run.”

            A second passed before Noémi nodded, drew in her chest, and shouted at the rest of the city watch. Nalen trusted her enough not to need to stay to see the results. She took off after Tremaine, following her down from the city waterways met the river and ending on a sodden riverbank. Fishing boats and cargo vessels plowed the busy waterway, providing an audience for the women’s duel.

            Franceska erupted into action. She leapt across the intervening space between the two of them, bellowing at her subordinate.

            “Your ego is too big, Nalen. You need to be cut down to size!”

            Nalen evaded the attack easily, noticing her opponent’s reach, and deciding that she had slight advantage. She told herself that it wasn’t much of an advantage.

            The Warden had much more time in hand-to-hand killing than Nalen, whose duels had always ended on the practice floor or with criminals subdued. She made a   note to avoid closing with the imposing commander. She was powerfully-built, dangerous from her strength alone. She needed to use agility as a weapon, since Nalen knew she’d lose in a contest of brute strength.

            Tremaine feinted, testing her former lieutenant for weakness or indecision. They crouched, facing each other across just a few feet of space. Again, Tremaine pressed the attack. Nalen let her close, just close enough to dodge away with a swipe. Fabric Franceska’s red jacket tore, and Nalen grinned at seeing the Warden cry in pain.

            The two circled grimly, with Franceska dodging again to avoid any more harm. Smarting from the slice, Tremaine plowed in - trying to turn her mass and training to an advantage against the younger, lighter woman by cornering her between the surf and the wall.

            She countered, though, turning and ducking low beneath the railing arm of Franceska’s sword. She managed another slash, missing but forcing Franceska to stop before her attack had finished. Her face was read with bloody anger, and she wheeze slightly from shock. She hadn’t realized that Nalen had managed another nick at her leg as she pulled away from the wall of the river-bank.

            Nalen raised her sword for an attack, but Franceska seized up a handful of refuse from the surf and hurled it at Nalen. She ducked but flailed her sword-arm out to gain balance. A massive impact sent it flying from her hand as Tremaine brought the pommel of her blade down on her chest, narrowly missing her skull.

            Nalen darted, pressing her luck as Tremaine prepared to bring her blade down on her protege. After a tumble, she dodged Franceska’s sword, and the gross muck kept her from easily withdrawing. Nalen swept at her legs, sending Franceska to the ground in a heap and buying a moment of time.

            Doubled with pain, Nalen only then realized that she’d been badly bruised from the impact of the blow - it had, after all, knocked her sword from her hand and sent her down on the ground in one swoop. If this had been hard stone and not soft earth, she might be grievously wounded. She managed to gain some distance, scrabbling away and rolling out of the way of another charge. Franceska was lurching forward, trying to almost fall on him, to pin the lighter watch officer for a final killing. She somehow managed to get to her feet, straightening to meet the charge. Her position saved her, as Franceska overreached her mark and staggered off balance into the wall. Nalen tackled at her, pinning the woman’s body against the stone wall of the embankment and bringing a knee to the small of Franceska’s back.

            The pain forced her to drop the sword. Nalen threw her to the ground, grabbing her by the hair. She produced a pair of iron manacles.

            “Warden Franceska Tremaine,” said Nalen, panting through pain and growing adrenaline. “You’re under arrest.”

 

 

 

 ***

 

 

 

    Nalen’s new uniform was a bright red. It was nicer than her old one. The trim was custom-made, as well. She was thinking of redesigning many of the prison guards’ uniforms to match hers. It hadn’t taken much to convince the city council to let her make some small adjustments to the warden’s uniform, and from there it was easy to argue for larger ones. In the end, she kept most of her City Watch uniform intact, though with a few new additions for her role as the Warden of Alysa City Prison.

    Noémi entered the warden’s office, dropping off a stack of new intakes. The prison had been entirely re-organized, with many of those wrongly imprisoned released. Nalen hated the chance that criminals like Vandra or Krockett might be back on the street, but it gave her an opportunity to re-tool the interior of the prison to her liking. She was already bringing in artificers to redesign the magical containment wing, for example, and many of the old, cramped cells were being replaced with newer, more cramped cells.

    “Ma’am,” said Noémi, “How are you handling your new position? The first week, they say, is the hardest.”

    Nalen’s lip quivered. She took a deep breath, shaking away the doubts. Those had been sealed away, along with her predecessor.

    “How about we take a short walk, and we talk about it?”

     

    The lower levels of the prison were likened by some of the guards to a biblical punishment. Nalen thought it a bit hyperbolic, but she sort of liked the drama and gravitas it gave the prison. Plus, it matched the caliber and prestige of some of the newest inmates.

    Mitre D. Bel squirmed furiously when Nalen walked by her cell. She, unlike the rest, was particularly finicky and had been given a series of new and experimental restraints. The arcane gags would soon become standard issue, replacing the need to eat and allowing subjects to remain gagged indefinitely. The dull glow highlighted Mitre’s lips quite nicely, giviner her glowing red fury a visual tint. If that wasn’t enough, Nalen had already designed a leather panel-gag to layer over it. She might use it even if Mitre was good.

            The prison suit was made of skintight leather - probably a size or two too small for Mitre’s curvy form. That was fine by Nalen, the suits needed “breaking in.” Mitre herself had been heavily strapped into a thick metal throne - one befitting her station as a noble, of course. Each mittened hand was secured by three leather straps and a metal chain to its arm-rests. A harness of tight straps webbed and criss-crossed her chest, highlighting Mitre’s breasts under the harsh light of the prison’s everburning torches.

            And, of course, the lippy and squirmy noble was treated to a thick posture collar - one which had two D-rings, each attached via a length of chain to the chair behind her. Combined with the leg irons, it was inescapable but allowed for quite a lot of squirming, moaning, and desperate struggling. Nalen knew it would be better to tire out the noblewoman than to try to reason with her. Maybe in a few months, she’d be judged calm enough to stand trial.

 

            The other resident of the cell was special. Nalen waved Noémi off, and the new lieutenant nodded and departed to continue overseeing the prison’s construction. Nalen wanted to be the only one - aside from her bound partner Mitre-  that Franceska Tremaine would be permitted to see.

            Brutally bound in numerous layers of extremely tight, form-fitting leather, Tremaine was all but unrecognizable. The suit was nearly bursting with her bust and bulk. Powerful muscles strained, making sweet sounds from the oiled and stretching leather.

            After being suited up, locked into an armbinder-sleeve, and having no fewer than ten different binders used on her legs, Nalen has subjected her to the cruel punishment of being hung by her feet from the rafters of the cell. She dangled there, utterly helpless and so permanently packed that her demeanor had changed. She wasn’t the haughty Warden - not anymore. She was helpless, and whenever Nalen visited, her moans of anger had become grunts and mewls.

            Totally bound head to foot in leather, layered with chains and hung like a fish, Franceska Tremaine was utterly anonymous save her eyes. A gwen hood left her nose and eyes visible - enough for Nalen to make eye contact with her former superior. Her ponytail of long voluminous hair stuck out from the top.

            “Hello, Franceska.”

            “Mmngh.”

            “I just came by to say that tomorrow we’re moving you. While Miss Bel here is still up for trial, I’ve found a new home for you to stay. The new sub-basement is going to feature a number of private holding cells. Yours is a small little oubliette set in the ground. Special chambers will pipe the moans and groans and rattling of your chains to other prisoners.”

            “Mmmnggh?”

            “I made a call. I decided that your crimes to society can be paid off. In a way, you’ll continue a small role as warden - with your rattling chains and leather-clad form serving as an auditory example to all the other prisoners what can happen if you break the law.”

            Tremaine huffed, but it was useless. She was utterly doomed.

            “They’ll be bringing you downstairs tomorrow when construction is finished. I’ll see you there. I hope you enjoy your new, permanent office, Tremaine. I’m afraid your sentence has no chance of parole.”

            The groans and moans of the two prisoners gave the new Warden a smirk as she closed the cell door and shut off the torch. She a lot of cells to fill.