Nichole and Me 1: Momma Loves My Friends (F/FF)

[AlexUSA3]

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Nichole and Me 1: Momma Loves My Friends
Thursday, December 20, 2018

Going into sophomore year, I had a great opportunity. Nichole, a married Cool Girl with whom I had struck up a friendship as a freshman, suggested that she and her husband take me on as their roommate, including moving into a two bedroom apartment. Nichole said I would blossom more outside the somewhat forced interactions of dorm life whereas she and Chris would willingly let me have all the space I needed so long as we all got along. It was better than dealing with dorm management, and Nichole even gave me a deal on the rent that made it cheaper. I took it. So, in August 2018, I went back to Minnesota Tech and moved in with Nichole Petersen.

Nichole not only loved me like a friend, but we got to engage in TUGs on our terms. There have been many fun moments, and Nichole regularly talked to Momma so she’d have reassurance that I was doing all right and to receive advice on how to deal with a stubborn Russian rower. How I blushed the day I found out Momma and Nichole were speaking to one another. Once Momma likes a friend of mine, then they’re treated like a child at home. During winter break of 2018, on her way to Michigan to visit her in-laws for Christmas, Nichole stopped in Madison for a while to meet Momma and visit our other Minnesota Tech friends in the area. Her husband also had a family member in the area, so she was able to stop in by herself. The Cool Girls’ Club brought so many joys into my life, and this young woman, nearly four years my senior, is one of them.

“Sammy,” she calmly says the words and jumps into my arms for a hug.
“It’s so much better to have you in my own home,” I say to her in love.

Nichole’s an interesting girl. Despite the icy blue sweatpants and navy blue sweatshirt, there is a somewhat obvious limb that affects her gait. An icy blue bandana headband embodies her CGC nickname of “Gangsta Queen.” Her eyes shine bright despite the pain winter brings to her bones as a result of the savage assassination attempt wrought upon her by the brother who hates her. It is unfair, in a way, but through it all she discovered her own belief in God and has grown since.

She steps back and throws her curly brown locks back behind her shoulders. They’re shoulder length, so they easily bounce in front of her shoulders as well. Her eyes match the brown and are a stark contrast to the pale skin that has a slight throw of something resembling a tan. She wears a standard pair of black canvas sneakers and icy blue crew socks. I wasn’t in Nichole’s life when the darkest moments came, so I have an unique perspective of only the Nichole that rose from all the suffering as a beautiful, influential, positive, trustworthy, and moral soul.

I’m also dressed appropriately for a girl known as the “Gangsta Row” in the CGC. I am tall and very Russian in appearance. My hair is a pale, shiny blonde with natural brown highlights, and I always wear it in a braid except around Momma and a small handful of select loved ones. Today my hair is down and not in a braid. Still, a splotchy tiedye purple bandana holds my hair back in a traditional kerchief. I have rather tight fitting purple jeans and even a purple long-sleeve t-shirt to make a monotonic outfit. Even my crew socks are purple as are my canvas sneakers. I love to wear the canvas sneakers best of all, and I admit I have too many shoes.

My blue-gray eyes make me look like a girl with a Finnish father and a Russian mother who was born in Russia. I rarely smile, but it’s easier for me to smile around Nichole. At home, Russian is the spoken language, and Nichole and I have shared laughs because of the grammatical errors that pervade my speech after I finish a conversation in my home language.

I happily show Nichole around the small house, well under 1000 square feet, and tell her about a multitude of happy, and sad, memories associated with the house. Happiness outweighs sorrow, and she appreciates getting to see the spots associated with the stories I’ve told her. We sit down on my bed and talk for a while. During our talk, Momma begins cooking supper, likely with the intent of Nichole staying and eating the supper with us instead of joining her husband. I know it doesn’t take much effort to convince Nichole to spend more time enjoying her time with me.

It’s one thing to see a picture. Nichole got to meet Momma, hug her, kiss her, and feel just how much Momma appreciates her role in my life. It’s so different to talk in person and touch rather than just hear a voice on the phone. Their reaction is exactly what I would expect though, with a genuine hug like the kind Momma gives me. Such is amazing; Momma only hugs me and my half-siblings. Nichole has heard about the games Momma and I play, and it’s a matter of the way in which Momma ensnares both of us into another wild and adventurous game.

Momma binds me with so many things: ropes, tapes, scarves, zips, bandanas. Nichole laughs at the stories I tell her as we go out and sit on the sofa. A can of carrots sits on the coffee table with the mascot looking at us. We laugh and love over many topics of discussion, such as my love of the weather and life in Madison. We talk about many things, but Nichole focuses on the can that is on the table. She squirms a little and knows it must be Momma doing something; she pauses a moment to adjust her bandana. I told her to bring a change of socks in case of a game, and now I see that she understands my purpose in this. Even while looking at me, one eye is on the can.

"Why is the Jolly Green Giant staring at me?" Nichole asks me with curiosity.
"Probably means Momma is up to something," I wryly smile with my more contained wonder.
"Oh, what could it be?" she fights the desire to laugh because now she understands everything.
"Well," I robotically adjust my own kerchief to be in the right spot, "Anything."
"The can of gas opens," Momma announces, "Knocking out the unsuspecting young women."
"Oh, no," I pretend to choke on the imaginary sleeping gas and pass out, rolling to the floor..
"GUH!" Nichole imitates this and dramatically falls back on the sofa.
“Good night,” my mother’s voice is happy, “You’re a couple foolish, but gorgeous, ladies.”

Momma uses my white rope to tie my wrists, elbows, ankles, and thighs. Then, I peak out of the corner of my eye while she ties Nichole’s crossed wrists, mutters something about inflexible girls and the diminished fun in tying them up (she mutters it in Russian), and ties my fellow captive’s ankles and thighs. We pretend to wake up, and Momma seats us side-by-side on the sofa.

If you’ve read my other stories, you know what’s coming now. Momma unties our shoelaces and removes our socks. It’s the classic, the ultimate in gags. Nothing is like a dirty sock gag, and the way Momma dishes out the sock gags is better than anyone else I know just because she acts like it’s a perfectly normal thing for a captor to do to captives, as if the captives are the crazy ones for resisting such a gag. That doesn’t mean we make it easy for her.

“Open up,” she sinisterly orders Nichole in Russian, holding my socks up to my friend’s mouth.
“Nmm mmm,” Nichole shakes her head and adds, through gritted teeth, “What do you want?”
“I am a spy, of course. You are American with secrets. I want secrets.”
“Here’s a secret. My sister lives in St. Louis,” my friend sarcastically responds to Momma.
“You are fool,” Momma jerks on Nichole’s hair and gags her with my socks, “See?! I win!”
“BLECH!” the captive roils on the taste of my socks while a white bandana cleave gags her.

Nichole’s face is squished in classic gray duct tape. Some people enjoy dirty sock gags, but none of my friends enjoys the feel of tape squishing their face like Nichole. Most enjoy the fact that it is no longer possible to spit out the gag, but Nichole actually enjoys the pressure and smell of the tape. It makes sense for her to like the smell since she is a chemist. Similarly, some eyes sparkle because they’re bound and determined or because they’re planning on being mischievous. Then there’s Nichole, who enjoys the game itself and gets the thrill out of playing the game and enjoys the captivity as a package. She has a glint in her eye. She’s not over the moon; she’s happy.

Momma pushes Nichole back into the cushions, and Nichole angrily groans in the spirit of a spy who has been kidnapped. Many girls enjoy tie up games. Most enjoy either tie up games or tie up games, but Nichole enjoys tie up games. She’s a character that contributes to all games in a very big way; during group games she is often the one bringing life to the party or making the experience as immersive as possible. A girl like her is irreplaceable.

“Open up,” Momma just as sinisterly orders me around in Russian.
“I will not,” I respond to her in the same language and grit my teeth as well, resisting her.
“You dare talk back to me like this? Only the most wicked spies know my language.”
“GAH! MMMMMM!” she jerks on my hair in the same manner, and now I am gagged.
“Foolish girl, I am always going to win,” the spy ties a yellow bandana cleave gag.
“GUHHHHH!” I thrash much more energetically than Nichole but to similarly useless effect.
“Nothing is as satisfying as the sound of defeat of my enemies,” Momma chortles in English.

The gray duct tape then wraps around my head in similar fashion. For me, the added inability to voice my concerns and displeasures is the greater part. It’s not just the feeling of the tape but the psychological edge it adds to the captivity. I can’t get this gag off until I first soak through these socks in my mouth and then do the same to the bandana. Only after that can I possibly soak the glue on the tape to get this gag off. See just how much it traps you? That’s what I love.

The smell of the tape is something altogether, and the taste of the socks adds an edge that I can’t adequately describe. They taste bad, and they’re dirty. Worse, they’re not my own socks. It’s a sign of my helplessness, that I am gagged with some other person’s dirty laundry. Nothing beats this kind of psychological warfare in TUGs. True to her fashion, Momma also straps shoes onto our faces using medical bandages. I am forced to breathe through one of Nichole’s shoes and she through one of mine. This is another example of helplessness, being unable to resist the matter.

“Mmmmmmmmmm!” I softly groan, stand up, and look down into my mother’s eyes.
“Mmmmmph!” Nichole follows, but she is shorter than Momma, who is 5’6”.
“Such worthless yet defiant spies. You’re pathetic. I will punish you more for your insolence.”

Punishment? Nichole and I both hop away at that. How ridiculous of us to do this when I never, ever hop away like this while Momma is taking me captive, but I did it as soon as I saw Nichole take off in a hopping sprint. For a girl with her health issues and lack of an exercise routine, she hops quickly! I find it hilarious what we have done, and Momma decides to take me first since I am before her in the living room still while Nichole is in my bedroom.

At this point, Momma doesn't hold back. The white rope binds my mid thighs and upper thighs, and more of it ties my ankles and shins. Momma forces me onto my stomach on the coffee table and demonstrates new knowledge. She doesn't just tie a waist and crotch rope; she ties me in the chicken wing position with my elbows no longer against my back. Only then does she tie a chest harness before hogtying me from my ankles to my elbows. I am quite helpless now. I still thrash enough that I toss the Jolly Green Giant to the floor despite my generally controlled actions. The sound evokes a loud laugh from Momma, who walks away in pursuit of Nichole.

There is no escape for me. I must taste and smell Nichole’s feet. I hear Nichole’s muffled wails coming from what sounds like my closet. There is much banging, and the impassioned shrieks I hear are a testament to why friends of Nichole's ask her to partake in their production of bondage films. I do not condone this aspect of her life at all, but she is strict on what is allowed as are her friends. Her actions really add to the atmosphere, and Momma’s happiness comes out in her tone while she chides Nichole and threatens her with increasingly ridiculous and severe tortures.

“I will make you drink vinegar alone and feed you Mac & Cheese made with Limburger.”
“Gaahhhhhh!” Nichole appears again, “Huth waih unhil Ah’m ou- o- thith!”
“Take seat!” Momma forces Nichole onto a dining chair, “Miss Petersen, you are pathetic.”
“Gmmmmm! MMMM MMMM MMMMMMMmmmmmm!” my friend responds confidently.
“Very well, Miss Petersen!”

Momma ties a waist and crotch rope that works around the seat of the chair. A harness holds her captive firmly against the back of the chair, and while she does this Nichole screams into the gag. Momma is not deterred even when Nichole kicks her legs and tries to tip the chair. Instead, rope binds Nichole’s legs just like mine and secures her ankles to the underframe. White string binds her big toes together. Rope runs from her knees to the legs of the chair.

Daggers shoot out of Nichole's eyes, and she continues the gag talk onslaught against Momma. I have never seen anything like this, and Momma loves this new dynamic playmate's style. I’d say Momma finally found the submissive equivalent of her dominance. Nichole slouches and takes heavy, deep breaths without ever taking her eyes off Momma or flinching. She even straightens herself as much as her binding allowa and looks Momma right in the eye. Momma calmly turns to the bag of toys and grabs a brown bandana. Nichole never takes her eyes off Momma.

“I must crush your defiance!” Momma blindfolds Nichole with the brown bandana.
“Nmmm mmmmmm!” Nichole tries to escape the paisley fabric square but fails.
“Your attitude has become too much,” Momma grabs the can off the floor, “You must die.”
“Mmm mmm mm mmmmmm!” such resistance from an ordinarily quiet girl is surprising.
“This device,” Momma tapes the can between Nichole's breasts, “explodes in 15 minutes.”
“Nooooooo! Mmmmmmmmmm! GRRRRRRRRRRRRR!”

There is little Nichole can move besides her head. She forced Momma to take drastic measures to keep her down. Momma sets a timer for 15 minutes and walks away. Nichole struggles and rocks the chair, but she is securely bound and apparently has no chance. Fighting does nothing but waste energy when you're one of Momma’s captives, but all of us try to escape because once in a while you do manage to escape. Momma takes it as a success on the captive's part instead of a failure on hers. If Nichole keeps Momma's attention, maybe I can escape?

My own binding is very tight, especially because of the elbow binding. Elbow ties are easier for me to escape when I’m wearing something loose that allows the knots to slide whereas a boxtie is easier to escape when I’m wearing tight-fitting clothing. That's a matter of style though. Your mileage may vary. The chicken wing tie torques my back a little and restricts my hands because they're flat against my butt without much ability to move them unless I can loosen this waist and crotch rope. Chicken wing hogties are also harder to balance than regular hogties. I must focus to keep myself from tipping over. Such adds to the experience of being bound and gagged.

These white ropes are forgiving. They don't dig into me like my brown rope or my clothesline. I cannot explain these things. I only know the truth, but I like to speculate. The white rope is just a little slick, almost like it has nonstick coating in it. Yet, it's the rope my friends dye to turn into colored rope, so I suspect this brand has a little something that boils off in the dying process. It's a guess, but I like it. I feel like I’m really bound and gagged and helpless with these.

I actually feel some progress being made as I squirm to try to loosen the ropes. Nichole is trying just as hard, and she appears to be getting somewhere with it. There is a lot of angry shrieking in the kitchen at the moment with Nichole doing all she can to escape. She is entertaining viewing, but I need to focus on my hogtie. I could get myself killed, getting blown to smithereens because I was too busy enjoying the sight of my fellow captive struggling in her own bondage.

Of all the days for me to skip both the braid and even a ponytail. I have a lot of hair, and it’ll get in the way when it's not braided. Occasionally, I pull at a rope and grab my hair instead. It's not the end of the world, but it's a layer of difficulty. I am quietly struggling and successfully getting to enjoy the thrill of abandonment when tied up. I remember getting to discover this thrill about 16 months ago during my introduction to TUGs. It's absolutely amazing to be bound and gagged and then have your captors act like you're not there, especially when your gag is so tight that you can't say anything. Blindfolds and noise canceling headphones complete the disconnect.

Nichole’s arms are moving much more. She is escaping, but can she escape in time? She tugs at the ropes with great determination, but she is on the clock after all. I am sure Momma has a trick to squash this rebellion. Then I see Nichole’s hands. She has successfully escaped the ropes and unknots the blindfold first. She then extricates the shoe and tosses the bandage and starts to untie some of the knots that bind. Momma is focused; unbeknownst to her, I have also escaped.

“I didn't say you may escape. I said you die,” Momma grabs zipties this time.
“Noooo! Noo noo noooooo! MMMMMM!” Nichole's arms are zipped to the sides of the chair.
“You have been a defiant young woman. Goodbye!” two zips per arm is all that is needed.
“Mmm eeeee ohhhhhhh!” Nichole's eyes glare at Momma with mixed fear.
“Farewell,” Momma james the timer beside the can. Two minutes remain.

I casually sit on the sofa, slowly untying my legs, grateful to no longer breathe through Nichole's shoe. I am blissfully unaware of my own impending demise because I am here and Nichole is in there, and I figure Momma doesn't see me. I am free to escape this all the way. At least, I think I am free to escape, but then I see Momma approach me with zipties, tape, and a can of peas.

“Eeeeemmmph!” she effortlessly rolls me onto my stomach and sits on me.
“You are bad girl,” my wrists and elbows are quickly bound with thin zips.
“Mmmmmmmmm!” I struggle and squirm in her grasp, but the waist and crotch rope returns.
“You must die too!” I am pulled upright, and the can is taped between my own boobs.
“NOOOOooooooooooo,” I trail off and look up at her, “Mmmmmmmmmmm?”
“Farewell,” we’re down to just 90 seconds before our spy characters are dead.

Nichole struggles with wide-eyed horror. She scooches the chair a little bit, but she doesn't have the strength to break the zip ties. She continues her unintelligible diatribes against Momma, but she has nothing by which to escape. Her panic increases; her squeal increases in pitch; her moan increases in desperation; her struggle increases. She sweats profusely. She throws her head back for a desperate yowl with her eyes closed. She has lost the battle and the war.

I am much calmer and struggle more methodically, enjoying the emotional high of defeat. There is no hope for me; doom is inevitable. I focus my energies on something else. In the brief time I have left, I focus on losing this can of vegetables that is taped to my body. With 51 seconds left, I get my arms out of the hasty waist rope and contort myself to pull at the tape on my chest. The effort is small, and with some careful clawing I get the can out with 9 seconds left. I hop away to my bedroom, rounding the corner just in time before the timer goes off.

“Mrs. Räänta, next time, I’ll wear my catsuit,” Nichole winks an eye and takes a bite of supper.

Nichole, we love you.

THE END

[Hywok]

Another great addition to this story arc! Please keep them coming

[tiedinbluetights]

Thanks for another fine story!

[Caesar73]

Thanks for another fine story!

I concur

[AlexUSA3]

Another great addition to this story arc! Please keep them coming

Momma is always full of surprises and brings lots of adventure.

Thanks for another fine story!

Thanks for another fine story!

I concur

Thank you both for the kind words.

[hafnermg]

Great story!!