So This Is Marriage (M/F, MF/F, F/F)
Posted: Fri Jun 06, 2025 11:45 am
Enjoy these 8 vignettes from Nichole Blakely's marriage to Chris Petersen.
So This Is Marriage (M/F, MF/F, F/F)
Tiedye Gangsta Queen in Trouble (M/F)
Sunday, October 29, 2017
My matching tie-dye t-shirt and kerchief bandana must have made quite the sight when Chris opened the door after a long day at the office and lab. I knew the bright blue trainers would stand out even more—and maybe that was the point. As he stepped inside, I couldn't help but make a small request for our date night. This wasn't just any date night, though. Tonight was special.
"You and me and Mickey D?" I asked, trying to sound playful but just a bit meek.
My brown hair, hanging just past my shoulders, felt like the only toned-down part of my whole outfit. Chris smiled, but I saw it in his eyes—he was remembering. He knew tomorrow would mark the anniversary of our Christian marriage. We'd been married by a judge on September 17, but it was the October ceremony that really meant something deeper to us. That was the day our marriage was blessed by God. I'd come a long way from the stubborn atheist I was as a teen.
I remember the first time I saw him—back when I worked in the Physics labs as the stockroom associate, even though I was a chemist. He came in with a broken part. Nothing remarkable. But then, two weeks later, he came back. He didn't really have a reason to stick around, but he did so anyway—and talked to me for nearly half an hour. That's when I realized he was being coy. One week later, he finally asked me out. I still remember what I was wearing each of those times. It's funny how some memories cling to you. In fact, I'm wearing the outfit I wore on our third date.
McDonald's meant a lot to me for more reasons than I usually admit out loud. Yes, it's cheap, but it was also the first off-campus date we had. That night was everything. That was when I felt our relationship shift from "casual" to "this is real." So now, when I get a Big Mac or some nuggets, it's not just fast food—it's nostalgia. I even tried to order the same thing I did back then. Though I sometimes have to remind him. Marriage is beautiful, and I highly recommend it.
"What would you like?" Chris asked me as we walked into the restaurant.
"What we had the first time we came here," I said, tossing my curls back with just a touch of dramatic flair and then casually adjusting my tiedye kerchief, "You should know that by now."
"A Big Mac… and?" He looked at me, trying to recall, "A Sprite for sure."
"And a medium fry," I added, letting him take my hands and smiling as he kissed them.
"I always forget the fries," he said, lowering my hands slowly and stepping back.
"I'll see if that same booth is open," I told him, eyes glowing with that kind of love that fills your chest until you can barely hold it all in. I looked down at my blue canvas sneakers and red crew socks, knowing very well what would almost certainly happen with one or both of those things.
To most people, this wouldn't be romantic. But to me? To us? Romance was just being together. It was breakfast in bed. It was folding laundry side by side. It was him knowing I always want fries. Our love showed up in all kinds of little ways over the years—but it was the quiet, normal moments like this that meant the most. These were the stories I'd one day tell our kids, the ones I'd treasure if, God forbid, I ever became an old widow. I felt the weight of his love every day, and it never stopped humbling me. McDonald's was merely the first arch of the evening.
Even if it had only been a day or two since our last deep conversation, we always had more to say. And as we so often did, Chris and I held hands on the way back to the car. The ride back to our apartment was quiet but warm. This was our first year living together as a married couple; we weren't about to waste a single second. This was the best day of the year. Hands down. As we entered the apartment , he grabbed me in his loving embrace, and his hand clamped down on my mouth. He duct taped my crossed wrists behind my back. I was helpless, spellbound whilst I was captured by romance. He spun me around so I was looking into his eyes.
"Do what you must do," I said in a soft voice, staring into his kindly brown eyes.
"Very well," he smiled and pushed me onto the sofa, removing my sneakers and socks.
"Is this," I asked him, staring at my red socks with a mischievous grin, "what you must do?"
"Unfortunately," he said, and pushed my socks into my mouth with a smile.
"Mmmmmmm!" I groaned, my brown eyes looking into his while strips of grey duct tape sealed my lips to ensure the socks stayed put, and I squirmed for his entertainment.
This was all we needed. He taped my ankles together before he pulled down my shorts—and his as well. Then we made love on the sofa while he kissed me. How great is my husband's love? I can tell you in the simplest way: he made sure I orgasmed before he did. That was the best sigh I ever sighed—I strongly arch, quietly sigh, and deeply exhale during orgasm. He kissed my lips and playfully explored my bust with his hands. It was so perfect. The girl who was nicknamed Gangsta Queen as a frightened teenager was a Tiedye Gangsta Queen in love. And I love him.
He soon undid the tape bonds and playfully ordered me to strip. He zipped my wrists behind me so we could take a bath together. I know of people doing that while showering. But while bathing? Oh, he knew how to make the silliest things turn into sexy things. I'm not saying much because… why say it when you can infer it from the actions?
"Happy anniversary, my beloved," he stared into my eyes while he filled me up during the bath.
"Ah -ove -ou," I stared into his eyes, enjoying every moment of this bizarre and fun evening.
He washed the tape residue off my face. Does the dominant in your marriage do that for the sub?
The Card Game (M/F)
Monday, October 29, 2018
I took a deep breath and stared into his eyes while we sat in that familiar place. Date nights are always special, but anniversary date night is special in a very different way. Adding to the little moments like these is having our roommate, Sammy, sitting by herself in a corner not far from us since we felt it was rude to get supper for ourselves and not her. She lovingly gave us space for a little time alone so we could rekindle a fire that could not be extinguished.
Who knew a Big Mac, a Sprite, a fry, and an apple pie could be so romantic? Yet, there I sat in a trance, silently loving my husband while he silently loved, the love being an undertone of a more mundane conversation about work or school. Our love dominated the atmosphere. Yet, after the meal, we began to explore a different side to things, the fun and sexy side of our relationship.
"Shall we play," I looked right into Chris's eyes to see his reactions, "The card game?"
The card game can be played with just about any deck of playing cards so long as you've agreed to a set of rules that govern that deck. In this case, I was using Skip-Bo cards, with any Skip-Bo card becoming a wild card for Chris. He could use it to add 1 to another number, even if I'd not flipped the card for him to… never mind—actions speak louder than words. You'll see. Chris is standing behind me while I sit at the table drawing the cards, petting my kerchief-covered head.
"Well, well, well, a 7," I held up the first card for the number of ropes, "That'll hold me down."
"Plenty of rope for a Gangsta Queen, though," he kissed me, and I motioned for him to sit down.
"Oh, my, 9 layers of gag," I showed him the card. "Will shut me up, especially if my socks are two of the layers of gag," I said, because each sock counts as a layer of gag.
"What if I used Sammy's socks instead?" he asked me with a sneaky look in his eyes.
"Not today, big guy," I looked into his eyes and flipped the next card, "Too bad. It's a 4."
"Well, that's a shame," he winked at me because he needed a 7 or higher for oral sex.
"Yeah, but at least this is a 3," and the remainder of 3 divided by 4 is 3, or 3 procreative acts.
"I'm doing pretty well so far, don't you think," he couldn't stop looking into my eyes.
"How about an 11?" which is greater than 6, so I get blindfolded. "I won't see what you do."
"The Gangsta Queen is going to have a very fun time," he wiggled his eyebrows.
"Well, look at this little Skip-Bo card," it was my turn to wiggle my eyebrows, "Use it wisely."
"How about that 4 you just drew?" he pointed to it, "That's a decent amount of your pleasure."
"I hope they're 4 moments of orgasmic magic," I smiled at him and drew the next card, a 6.
"A 6?" he asked in mock surprise, "Well, that's a lot of spanks. Almost 20 of them."
"Like we don't multiply by 3 because I can handle 36," I adjusted my icy blue bandana.
"True, hence why you just drew 21 minutes of tickling as well. I love you, Nichole."
"Yes, you do, but I love you even more," I stood up, approached him, and kissed him.
I don't remember the origins of the card game. I think it may have started at the Minnesota Tech bondage sorority, who actually had a house down the road. I wasn't a member, but many of my friends and co-workers were members. As a result, there was a lot of overlap between them and the CGC. I loved the uncertainty of the card game and even used it in non-kinky contexts, like in light-hearted TUGs with Sammy (who will play a big part in the 2019 anniversary story).
I did what anyone would do in my situation: stripped down to nothing except my kerchief so my husband—in the privacy of our bedroom—could use 7 ropes to bind me. That meant my crossed wrists bound, a harness, a waist rope, and ropes at my ankles, knees, and thighs. Rope 7? Not a rope, but a string for my big toes. For a blindfold, he used a white bandana to coordinate with my kerchief. I felt safe and loved when I was alone with him, knowing he would never hurt me.
"How will you use the Skip-Bo?" I asked him coyly, "More rope? More gag? Something else?"
"May I add 1 to the 0 I got on the oral card?" he responded, petting his helpless wife's head.
"If that's what you wish, it is our anniversary, after all," I smiled and weakly struggled.
"Let's make the first one count, though," and then he did something that made me so happy.
"Oh, Chris, I'll never stop loving you," I said with a laugh knowing I couldn't get away.
"You say the sweetest and most ironic things in the middle of making love to me."
I'm not going to go into details of the moment, but he made me feel so precious and desired even as he procreated with me. His touch was kind and tender while I used my mouth to bring him to fullness and to release. His lips kissed my lips in kindness and warmth. You can't ask for a man to be more caring and protective than Chris, and I can't thank God enough for my husband. That was the best use of a Skip-Bo card yet, and I hoped there would someday be happier uses.
Now, when I orgasm, it's simple and quiet. A deep sigh accompanies the stereotypical arching of most girl's orgasms. But the sigh is but a massive exhale that empties my lungs, and I inhale just as strongly to fill them up with the emotional pleasure of the moment. My first sigh comes when Chris is performing the second procreative act. The second comes from squeezing my breasts. I get the third unexpectedly from squirming while he is spanking me. The fourth comes in a sweet moment as I reach my pleasure at the same moment he does his third and final inside me.
The tickling is like a light-hearted dessert, the perfect way to end this game. My socks are filling my mouth under a neon pink bandana cleave gag, purposefully chosen to clash with my kerchief and blindfold. Six wraps of tape complete the nine, ensuring I'm silent from the end of the oral pleasure to the end of the tickling. It tastes bad, but it's fun like this. Release from it is good.
But sleeping like this—me as the little spoon and Chris as the big spoon—is amazing.
Gangsta-in-Distress (MF/F)
Tuesday, October 29, 2019
Sammy is half-Russian and was raised by her fully Russian mother. They speak Russian at home and on the phone, and Sammy is an extremely devout Russian Orthodox Christian who is always quick to admit her flaws and foibles. You can imagine how it was, then, for her, working at one of her local McDonald's starting at age 14, riding her bike to work after school every day, often unable to eat anything off the menu during her meal breaks except French fries. As her favorite fast food joint, she knew that the food was really slop on the inside and still chose to work there to bring much needed extra income into her and her mother's life! Ah, Sammy, I love you! The story of how I chose Sammy to be my roommate isn't relevant right now, but it's 100% true that I indeed called Sammy's mother many times when I was unsure how to best love her.
It was the usual food this anniversary: Big Mac, Sprite, French Fry. That year, Sammy sat with us at our preferred booth. It was such a sweet moment we had. I was in my 2nd year of working on my Master's degree; Chris was in his third of his Ph.D.; Sammy was an undergraduate junior. I don't know why I love the big strong rower so much, but I do. It took time for us to reach any understanding and develop a meaningful bond. I love the patternless blue monochromatic tiedye bandana she wore as a headband—she calls it "Meteorologist's Blue" since that's her major. She also had bright blue canvas sneakers, bright blue gym shorts, white crew socks, and a clean white t-shirt. She was so adorable, eating in silence while Chris and I did our usual sappy talk.
It says a lot that we asked her to sit with us this year , unlike last year when we let her sit alone when she expressed insecurity about potentially interfering in our anniversary celebration. This time, I felt like she was part of the family in her own way. She fit perfectly into the smell of the cheap fryer grease, the low-quality beef, and yellow plastic that legally can't be called cheese. I loved it; Chris loved it; Sammy loved it; it was toxic; we knew it; we hated it; we loved it.
I sat there on the colored plastic seat that's part of a booth and table that's all plastic and particle board. I had my navy bandana headband and navy gym shorts with a pink t-shirt. My footwear won't matter in this story, but the footwear I mentioned does matter this year. Somehow, I loved the dessert more than ever. The present company was magical. Sammy is precious to both Chris and me in a sisterly manner. Sammy is a Cool Girl, to be fair! I felt so happy right then!
Only little kids eat two desserts, right? Well, then I was a little kid, because Sammy jumped me the moment I had my back to her—after we were back home—and gave me a second dessert for my enjoyment: her socks. Socks which she'd put on at 6 AM, worn to the gym for workouts, to her rowing exercises, while going to class, and to McDonald's. GROSS! Perfectly normal here though. She was (and still is) so strong that she only needed 5 wraps of white duct tape to seal my lips with a brutality that most Cool Girls needed 7-9 wraps to achieve.
"Don't be scared," she said in Russian—to menace me—with her usual flat expression, "It's your anniversary," and then she put her shoe over my nose and wrapped the tape three more times, "It will be fun for me now and then later for you two. My way of saying thank you for everything."
"Mmm!" I rolled my eyes, giggled, and wiggled my eyebrows, her permission to continue as she saw fit; what I'm about to describe would have happened at Chris's hands anyway! "Mmmph!"
She used more of the tape to secure my crossed wrists behind my back and to my waist. Before she taped my ankles, then removed my own footwear. Only then did she tape my ankles so she'd get the bare skin and not my socks, reducing wiggling. She tape my legs above my knees before she moved back to my torso. Yes, Sammy could be mischievous, pulling up my shirt but not my bra before taping my arms to my torso, wrapping the tape above and below my breasts. It was an effective binding, and it was genuinely pleasant except for the olfactory and gustatory elements.
"MMMMMM!" I looked at her as she stood me up and pulled down my shorts, again leaving the final touch for Chris while she taped my mid-thighs to keep my shorts in place, "MMMMM!"
"Be good, my friend," she again spoke in Russian—I knew barely any of the language then, "It's time for anniversary delight. I will give you to Chris, and he will finish it all off for you."
"I have no idea what she said," Chris accepted the gift, "But it's cute. Thank you, Sammy."
"Have fun. I suspect I'll see you two again by 8," she said in English, looking at the clock.
Chris carries me into the bedroom and shuts the door. This wasn't the first time that Sammy had kidnapped me to prepare me for intimacy with Chris. In fact, it was almost but another way that Chris used to initiate intimacy with me, which was adorable and trusting of him. I had to smell and taste Sammy's feet while Chris did all the things that either were his alone or which Sammy had left for him. These were exposing my breasts (fun, but not necessary) and my crotch (quite necessary for procreation!) as well as doing the act of procreation itself. I like to call it that so I am clear that we had a mutual desire—to have a family of our own.
This was how the moment went: Chris making love to me and using both himself and his hands to help me reach my own pleasure. It was soft and tender as always, just the way we liked it. I had tried engaging in rougher play with Chris before, but we didn't like aggressive play for such an important act. Rough play was only for oral, and we sure weren't about to do oral, were we?
"Well, I was wrong," Sammy winked at us when Chris carried me back out, my panties back in their proper place, "8:15. You seem happy. I could tell it was going to be a lighter game."
Chris took a shower. After? He and Sammy played video games and left me to enjoy her feet.
Straitjacket, No Chaser (M/F & F/F)
Thursday, October 29, 2020
The last of the three anniversaries with Sammy involved took unusual twists and turns—after a Big Mac, a Sprite, and a fry, Sammy and I played the card game. Remember her Meteorologist's Blue bandana? Well, Sammy had a pink one in the same style, Meteorologist's Pink, because it, too, was splotchy, patternless, and ranged from deep bright pink to white in its splotches. I wore a white kerchief bandana this time. We were Cool Girls—I was the Gangsta Queen and she was the Gangsta Row—playing to decide who was bound and gagged and in what manner. The loser was bound according to the cards; the other was bound according to Chris's whims.
It was cold today; I wore black jeans and a black turtleneck t-shirt with black socks and my white canvas sneakers. My outfit wasn't a mood statement. It was merely what made me happy today. Sammy had a pair of black jeans as well, and her bandana was a kerchief as well. It was good to see her with her hair down and not in a braid. She had a pink polo shirt, pink canvas sneakers, and most like, knowing her, pink crew socks. Just two Gangstas playing a card game.
Sammy was a bit vain about her hair and liked to wear it in a braid to hide it so that she would be less likely to receive compliments. It worked even as she failed to realize in her innocence that a lot of people liked her braid better than when she wore it down. The braid more was because she liked it down and seeing it out. The important part was that she was comfortable enough to let us see it down. Before, that was reserved for her mother and her mother alone.
Since it was Sammy and I playing in the knowledge that she would be abandoned while securely bound and gagged, we agreed to play the game in a way that ensured she'd be safe in her beloved abandonment while Chris and I played in the bedroom. Sammy loved little more in TUGs than a game in which she was bound and gagged—especially in humiliating fashion—and abandoned.
"I drew the bigger card," I laughed and shuffled the Uno cards, "Draw to decide your own fate."
"Sweet," Sammy forced a slight smile, "Let's get going. Ooh, a 0!" which meant 10 ropes.
"Well, next you get decide how thick your gag will be," I laughed, "Keep on drawing."
"Lucky me! It's a 9! How about this? If the next card is 5 or less, I get blindfolded!"
"Or you could draw a +2 to make that gag even worse!" I said before we howled in laughter.
"Enjoy that reverse card, Nichole," she flipped the next one, "Good luck! We need it tonight."
"Yeah, yeah," I giggled, "Well, I got a 7, so I guess there will be a blindfold after all!"
"1 to 5, your socks in the gag; 6-0 my socks!" Sammy suggested, "Mine!" she smiled at the 8.
"OK! 1 to 5, my shoe over the nose; 6-0 your shoe; anything else, my socks!" I said, "3!"
"All right, and the next card is… reverse! My turn again!" her eyes shone brightly.
"If the next card is a number, I'll expose your boobies," I giggled before she flipped a 1.
"All right, and the next card will decide whether you get tied to a chair or your bed."
And then she drew a "lose a turn" card, which meant the game was over.
Oh, We burst into such fits of laughter that I'm sure the people in the adjacent apartments had to think we were insane—if they could hear us. I decided to seat her on a chair and easily tied her wrists and elbows together behind her back because she was so flexible. Then I bound her legs together at the lower thighs and upper thighs, and I tied her ankles to the chair's legs. I already used 6 of the 10 ropes. Oh, we didn't care because we were having fun.
I pulled her shirt up to find a pink sports bra, and I pulled that up too. Then I tied the harness to secure her torso and arms to each other and the chair back and to accentuate her form. The waist and crotch rope went under her jeans for maximum delight with her verbal consent, and I worked it around her arms for extra imprisonment. I worked her hair into a braid while she laughed, and I used that braid as the anchor for a hairtie from the braid to the underframe of the chair. Last of all, I secured her thighs to the seat of the chair. There! I used all 10 ropes on her!
Chris watched me remove her footgear. I stuffed one sock in the other and tightly knotted a blue bandana around the neck of the outer sock. This made a sock gag that she wasn't liable to choke upon under any circumstances! Nasty socks they were, having been worn all day through school and rowing practice and such, and I tight knotted the cleave gag the way she liked it. I followed up with 4 strips of double sided tape covering her lips and cheeks and a pink bandana OTM gag. A purple bandana made a perfect blindfold. Two wraps of duct tape held my shoe on her nose.
"Enjoy, Sammy," I said and then turned to my husband, who held the straitjacket with my initials embroidered into the upper back region, "SNP" for Sarah Nichole Petersen. I knew what he was desiring, and I sweetly and quietly removed my own socks and looked at him with a mischievous grin. He nodded, and I stuffed my black socks in my mouth. He handed me the microfoam tape, and I applied a strip over my lips and turned to Sammy. She didn't know what just happened and would be jealous if she knew and even would have approved of that entire sequence.
Yes, this one is going to be a little more than the usual two 8.5"x11" single-spaced 1-inch margin vignettes, but the next one will be short to make up for that. This straitjacket was a present that a group of my friends all pitched together to buy for my 22nd birthday. They knew from both my bondage modeling experience and limited experience with the bondage sorority that black latex straitjackets were one of my favorite elements in TUGs. I took off my clothes—all of except my bandana, of course—so I would be at my husband's mercy. It was time for pleasure.
I squealed with happiness while letting him put the straitjacket on me. We mostly used it when a game was going to be playful, soft, and maybe even without marital relations even if erotic. But, tonight was the one night that seemed to require TUGs and relations every single year. Sammy was quietly struggling and enjoying herself, and I think the crotch rope perhaps was bringing her a bit too much pleasure, based on the tone of her gag talk and her movements. She was safe and, most of all, happy. She only felt this safe and loved when with her mother. She was clueless that I was being secured by the straps of the straitjacket and led away to the bedroom, the door closed behind us to abandon her in her captivity while Chris ran ropes from my ankles to the bed's legs.
I motioned to make it clear to Chris: I wanted him to push hard tonight. Most nights he pushed only as needed for us to orgasm; tonight I wanted it to be forceful. That's graphic detail for me, I know. He pushed hard, and how good that sigh felt when it quickly came before his own release into my body. That was all we needed—him periodically doing that as he regained enough to be able to do it again and abandoning me in between rounds. He kept his shorts on so he would be able to check on Sammy to make sure she was safe, and then he'd open his zipper and undies as needed to give himself access to my body. We were (still are) quite modest people here.
I didn't struggle too much really, and when the door was open I was able to see Sammy writhing on the chair. We were such happy young women, and it was hard to believe that my kindness to her would soon end. You see, I didn't make Sammy pay any rent since this was the same cost as the previous apartment Chris and I had rented. We knew she was destitute as a child and wished her to have no worries so she could focus on rowing and studying. We really do love Sammy.
What a wonderful night that was, and we all got along so well. Those were good times.
You Want Fries with That? (MF/F)
Friday, October 29, 2021
"GUH!" I was a catsuit spy in danger, bound and gagged and abandoned by my kidnapper while he went about his business. Yes, I was wearing my jet black spandex two-piece catsuit with my beloved black socks, black ankle boots, and black kerchief bandana to keep my hair back. There was a blue rubber dog ball—2 inches across—with a red bandana threaded through the holes in my mouth—the bandana tightly knotted behind my head—gagging me. "GMMMMMM!" I was all alone here in the apartment, unable to escape my captivity. I had a surprise for Chris, too.
I was tightly bound by zipties this time. My arms were behind me in the boxtie position, held by 5 white zipties. My thighs and legs were bound together in 6 places each with more of those and tightly at that. One went into the heels of my boots to hold my feet together. Longer, wider zips went around my body both above and below my breasts to secure my arms further. This was all done because I'm not flexible enough for elbow ties, and I'd been struggling for around 2 hours like this. Actually, that's wrong. I got off work at lunch today at his request, and he nabbed me at the end of lunch. Make that 3 or 4 hours like this. You'd think that by now I'd have found a pair of scissors except that I was also tethered to a chair. Yes, the chair is its own description!
Four zips secured my thighs to the seat of the chair. Six zips secured my trunk to the back of the chair. One zip ran from each knee and from each ankle to the legs of the chair. Another zip ran from my ankles to the underframe of the chair. We had a local friend who worked from my own desk in the living room so that someone was nearby. With my back to her and her working off a silent keyboard, I was effectively alone in the dark kitchen. She also kept all the lights off and all the curtains and blinds and doors closed for maximum immersion. She even set up a screen so I wouldn't get any light from her computer. It was genius and beautiful and just as I wanted it. As crazy as it sounds, this was my idea, and what a fun idea it was. We'd done this before but never on our anniversary. I know it sounds wild, but Emilia (the friend) was a loving guardian and one of my best friends—a Cool Girl, a fellow bondage model, and a member of the bondage sorority.
"GMMMMM!" I thrashed in my bondage, fully unable to escape this over-the-top situation.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" I heard Chris's voice behind me, "A captured… spy?"
"Guh!" you can only imagine how much drool was all over me and my catsuit after 3-4 hours.
"I have here your supper, my beautiful," he turned the chair and pointed to the McDonald's food.
"Hmmm?" I looked up at him, my heart pounding in my chest with excitement at the surprises.
"You must accept my appetizer while bound to this chair if you want that food," Chris explained.
You're probably wondering about the safety of being tied up so long and in such a rigid position. I only know it was OK from doing things exactly like this—him leaving me with a friend. We're not insane and certainly don't want to see me get harmed. No! Emilia had checked me no fewer than 2 times per hour, but now Emilia had quietly slipped away. I only mention her by name as I know she will appear in 2024's story. She was working on her Psy.D. here at Minnesota Tech.
"Do you accept my appetizer?" Chris undid his belt, and I understood what he meant.
"Uh huh," I nodded sadly, as if this isn't going to be the kinkiest appetizer of all time.
"Good," my husband—my captor—unknotted my gag after 3 or 4 long hours like this.
"Bluh!" the ball was totally soaked in drool, and a big blob came out of my mouth with it too.
"You will divulge your promised secrets when I'm done, won't you?"
"Yes, sir," I said, and I accepted the appetizer that filled my mouth.
How kinky is this? Seriously! I had to accept this before the zipties would be snipped off to free me. What a thriller this one had turned out to be. His surprise paled in comparison to what I was going to share with him in a moment. Bear with me a second. There are moments where the act is especially pleasing, and this is one of them. It's special; it's intimate; it tastes good. I happily accepted it all, not wasting a moment, and soon he withdrew and let me speak.
"Chris," I looked up at him, with happiness in my eyes, "I'm pregnant."
And Baby Makes Three (M/F)
Saturday, October 29, 2022
When I gave birth to Emily Danielle Petersen, it marked the culmination of a journey of agony I can't put into words. May 21, 2022 ended the stigma of three miscarriages that tortured me daily because I could still remember the pain, physical and hormonal, that resulted from each time my body miscarried. I thought I was cursed or defective, and to finally have one that survived so we could love and dote on our own child, in this case a daughter, meant more than we could put into words. Yes, recovery from childbirth was difficult, but it was worth it. The Gangsta Queen was a mother, and Emilia provided much help to me during my recovery from the delivery and even assisted me during the pregnancy. Again, more on Emilia in 2024's story. Back to 2022's story.
"Chris, it is still our anniversary, and we have traditions," I said to him hopefully.
He understood what I meant by that and nodded in understanding of my words. When the baby was back in her crib, Chris whispered in my ear, "I'll take care of her while you rest." Before he finished speaking, he hand gagged me. That's awfully bold for a guy who successfully defended his Ph.D. dissertation only two weeks before! While he held me gagged with one hand, he kept me still by squeezing me between the couch and him, giving easy access to remove my footgear.
"MMMMM!" my socks filled my mouth to gag me in absolutely perfect fashion—quiet mama!
"That's it, my love," he said, playfully stroking my head and kissing me to see how I reacted.
"GMMMM!" I struggled in an exaggerated manner, giving him permission to continue.
"There we go," he pretty much carried me with one hand on my mouth keeping my socks in my mouth and the other arm across my chest, delighting me with his masculinity and sensitivity.
Once in the bedroom, he used a tegaderm to ensure I wouldn't spit those socks out anytime soon, and he used clothesline to tie my crossed wrists behind my back. The classic Gangsta Queen had worn her white bandana as a kerchief that day because it was the one she was wearing the day he met her. My white gym shorts and navy Minnesota Tech t-shirt were also just like that day. This felt so good, so fulfilling. He bore my breasts and tied a chest harness and tied my ankles, knees, and thighs effectively and quickly. I sat up on the bed and glared at him playfully before we did that one part of our tradition that we hadn't done yet. I had my Big Mac, my Sprite, and my fry. Baby was in bed. I was bound and gagged. Lastly, he worked me to a deep orgasmic sigh while we engaged in that sacred act of procreation. That was the best sigh and the biggest arch ever. I will forever cherish that particular moment because it was done for me, to say "Nichole, I am in love with you and want you to be safe, happy, and cherished. Relax. Everything will be OK."
And it was OK. I napped that way despite the socks in my mouth, and everything was OK.
A Punch of Color (M/F)
Sunday, October 29, 2023
In 2023, Chris accepted a job at a Minneapolis engineering firm, and I got a job as a lab assistant at the University of Minnesota. I was now 28 years old, a long way from 19, my age when Chris and I first met when I was but a freshman and he a sophomore. I never knew then that within 2 years we would be married under the stressful circumstances that awakened his desire to protect me from those who hated me. I bore the physical scars of what happened to me the day I turned 21, and less than two months later we were married. We celebrated 6 years of love in 2023.
A red bandana headband. Me? Red? Yes! I felt like a tough Gangsta Queen on that day, and I wanted this to lead to a more energetic game of a more physically encouraged submission. Yes, I am speaking of spanking followed by rough, loud relations. Red bandana, red gym shorts, bright yellow t-shirt, white socks, and black canvas sneakers. I was truly the CGC's Gangsta Queen. It sounds bad on paper, but it was so much fun. As you can tell, I'm always in control here.
"So, Chris, think you can hold this down?" I asked seductively while we ate supper.
"What does that mean?" he asked, handing a fry to baby Emily, her first one ever.
"It means," I swallowed a gulp of my Sprite, "That I am a naughty girl who needs punishment."
"Oh, you're making a little request are you?" he turned back to me and took a bite from a burger.
"Mama!" Emily stole my attention away, but the thoughts were active in our minds.
"You're so cute," I turned to our daughter and let the conversation fade away until later.
The Gangsta Queen really was in the house, wasn't she? I was cruisin' for a rough usin'.
Once Emily was put to bed and asleep after I read her a story and said bedtime prayers with her, I knew it was going to be time. I like when I get spanked and tickled while I'm bound and gagged and helpless. I might like things to be done affectionately, but that doesn't mean I don't fight and resist at times. I have to make Chris work for the rewards every so often so that he gets the thrill of the conquest. Can you feel that Gangsta Queen red kerchief energy already?
I stepped into the bedroom, and I was nabbed, the same kind of nab as before. Chris held a hand over my mouth and wrapped an arm around my body, whispering his affection into my ear. Yes, it was going to be a fun night. He had to let go of me to use the white rope to bind me, though. I loved the feeling of the rope securing my wrists together behind my back. As you can imagine, I had a very kinky conversation with Chris while he tied me up.
"I'm not going down easy," I said with a grin, trying to escape his grasp.
"Now, baby, stay still," he ordered me as he knotted the wrist bond and pushed me onto the bed.
"I will not," I said firmly and looked into his eyes, "You're going to have to take this by force!"
"Well, then," he pulled off my shoes and socks despite my resistance, "Good gag or bad?"
"What's the good gag?" I threw my head around to toss my brown curls in a seductive manner.
"Homemade ball gag," he held my socks near my mouth, "Or you can have these lovelies."
"Make me eat them," I said and buried my face into my pillow, knowing the consequences.
Chris used this to his advantage to tie a harness, pinning my arms to my torso, while fighting my kicking legs. He wasn't going to back down, and he sat on me, gave me a few warning spanks, and tied my ankles together. Isn't this fun? I think it was fun then and that it's fun now. Yes, it's a rougher game, but it's all happening because we wanted it to happen this way. One spank was a trick to get me to shriek a little, allowing him to stuff my socks in my mouth. After 7 layers of white duct tape wrapped my head, I was unintelligible in speech and unable to expel my socks. I was living the true thrill of TUGs even if all my playful resistance was being stymied by Chris.
"Nmmmmmm!" I shook my head and my curls while he pulled my shirt up to expose me.
"You're in a feisty mood. Don't make this dirtier than our comfort zones," he reminded me.
"Mmmmm!" I rolled over onto my back, and he pulled my bottoms down, "Mmmmm!"
"Very well. You forced my hand," and he tightly blindfolded me with a brown bandana.
"Nmmmm," I knew the simple leg bounds had a goal, making classic approach possible.
"You're so much fun when you're a naughty Gangsta Queen," he kissed my gagged lips.
"Mmmmmmmmmmm," I practically melted upon feeling his kiss.
He pushed with force while doing the deed. Nearly every escapade, with few exceptions, had the blessed goal of expanding our family. I was excited tonight, and I quickly reached orgasm with a deep sigh and an attempt to arch his weight pushed down into our bed. I couldn't look into his eyes, but I could feel his kisses. He was soft and tender in his kisses even if rough otherwise. If a couple doesn't have each other's best interests at heart, what do they have? Nothing.
When you're in my position, you don't care that you're sucking on dirty socks. It's dirty socks in my mouth by my choice to fight him. The tape, texture, and taste are sensations. The bondage is a sensation. Chris reaching orgasm is a sensation, especially since he never ceases kissing me or whispering little bits of affection in my ears. He pulled out of me and used more rope to bind my knees, lower thighs, and upper thighs. A tight waist and crotch rope also followed. Sensations surround me, and they are wonderful sensations. Spanking is a wonderful punishment after I had been so naughty. I squealed and enjoyed the bursts of dirty sock flavor my squealing caused, and I enjoyed being told I was a bad girl and a naughty Gangsta Queen. Oh, it was incredible.
Then he shut me in a suitcase.
Yes, my husband is absolutely amazing.
Our Love Grows Every Day (MM/FF)
Tuesday, October 29, 2024
"What's that?" Emily, like all 2 year olds, pointed at things and wanted to know what they were.
"Oh, that's a robin," I said of the bird that hopped along the ground.
"It's red," she, like her mother, knew all her colors to perfection.
"Yes, it is red," I paused to adjust my icy blue kerchief bandana, the one I wore on my first date.
"All right, Emily, let's sit down and eat our supper, hmmm?" I picked her up.
"I want to see birds!" our child apparently chose to be the one causing a scene this evening.
Into the restaurant we finally went only to find my friend Emilia in there. Emilia now holds that eminent degree she so passionately pursued—Psy.D.—for so many years. She works at the local Mudville Juvenile Detention Center as one of their staff psychiatrists. God is good, and He let a part of the Juvie's growth include them happening to need someone like Emilia. Emilia is here at suppertime with her own husband, and so Emily gets to sit and be charmed by the Spaniard.
"Sweet little chiquita," Emilia asked Emily, "Are you also named Emilia? My name is Emilia."
"Emily!" the toddler responded, to Chris's delight, "Tiemily!"
"What is that supposed to be? Is that Tia Emilia?" the Spanish woman asked, fully charmed.
"Yes, I tell her you're ‘Tia Emilia,'" I explained while Emily ate a piece of apple, "So adorable!"
"Happy anniversary to you. Has it really been 7 years since that day?" Emilia has a cute accent.
"Yes, our friend," Chris nodded, remembering that day vividly, "It really has been 7 years."
Emilia was one of the friends in the hospital by my side the day my younger brother pulverized me. I was a mess of injuries from what happened, and she happened to hear the same scream for help that one of the school security guards heard. She knew my voice and came to help and was the one who managed to maintain her poise enough to tell Chris what had happened. She held an important place in Chris's heart, one of my few friends who was also his friend, hence her being my guardian in that wild 2021 catsuit spy adventure.
"You've come so far in 7 years, though. Maybe you are Protestants, and I was a lapsed Catholic, but you did more to help me come back to the Church than anyone else," Emilia smiled at us.
I couldn't deny this. Through her return to practicing the religion her parents and siblings held in such high regard, Emilia met her husband and found a renewed sense of happiness. We had been a blessing to others besides ourselves. Sammy and Emilia were merely the two who featured in our silly anniversary games. We'd made a difference in Emilia's and Sammy's lifes, and we'd be a good example to others so long as we strove to be good examples to each other like we were.
"Normally, Chris and I celebrate our anniversary with an adult TUG," I said, "Will you join us?"
"I will not do that in front of you two, and I know you will not do that in front of us!"
"No, just play a game after Emily's asleep. We're sane folks!" my laughter was palpable.
"After so many years in America, my brain is still wired like a Spaniard," Emilia laughed too.
"Is that a yes?" I looked into her eyes, and the smile and sparkle were the only answer I needed.
What better way for two girls to be dressed when it's finally time for the TUG than in their PJs? I of course still had my icy blue kerchief and matching crew socks. With it, I wore my navy blue PJs because icy and navy blue are awesome. Emilia had pink PJs and matching socks. Real PJs, of course—fleece button-up shirts and matching pants. We go into the bedroom so that, if by any chance Emily did wake up, we can easily keep things from her.
There we sat, Emilia—a tall, svelte Spaniard with long, jet black hair and dark brown eyes—and me—a below average mix of Portuguese and Irish with shoulder length brown curls and my own dark brown eyes. She has the Iberian skin tone, unlike me, and I quietly, mildly envy that about her. I hate looking Irish, considering my siblings and Irish father tortured me for so many years. It was time to enjoy some TUGs together, and Emilia brought her favorite yellow toys with her!
"Wish to use my prize?" Emila held up her head harness with its yellow ball gag.
"Sure!" I was (still am) more adventurous playing with friends then when alone with Chris.
That's how I got the head harness with the 2 inch yellow ball gag in my mouth, and she got one of the homemade rubber dog ball gags that the Minnesota Tech bondage sorority—of which she was a very active member—invented and shared with the CGC. Her gag was an orange ball with a green bandana threaded through the holes for a big pop of color.
I admit I chose the harness because it held my kerchief in place. We each had our arms put into one of Emilia's forearm binders. I got the yellow one; she got the black one; both were strongly padlocked into place. Unlike a standard armbinder, these, leather and all, better accommodate an inflexible girl like me while also working well on bendy girls like Emilia, who got a yellow strap above her elbows. Her yellow rope was used to tie my legs together at my ankles and thighs, and my clothesline was used to tie her legs in the same way. We each got a waist and crotch rope.
Then came the twist: I was laid on my back, and she was laid on her stomach with her legs more or less overlapping mine. Rope ran from my ankles to her crotch rope; rope ran from her ankles to mine. We were going to have ourselves a fun time with those, now weren't we? Nothing like working your bindings to cause happy distress to your fellow captive. That didn't stop us.
It was just the beginning of an incredible evening of fun, gagged laughter, and orgasm.
"HEY!" Emilia squealed when I made the first move, jerking my legs to cause her discomfort.
"Ha ha!" I didn't care that my gloating kickstarted the inevitable, unstoppable cycle of drooling.
"Ah ill hunith ou hor thith!" she twisted, glared at me, and jerked her own legs.
"Ahhhhhhh ha haaaaaaa!" I didn't care about the discomfort because it was so much fun.
"Is it like this when you go to Florida to visit her friend?" Chris asked Emilia's husband.
"Ooooooh! Haha Hihole Hehethen!" Emilia shrieked again when I repeated my own jerk.
The men then upped the ante. My gag was padlocked in place. Emilia received a simple muzzle gag, but that was also padlocked. As you can tell, Emilia likes the leather toys, but she's into an exact vibe that is limited to 5-10 items. I normally didn't allow such things, but tonight I was in the mood to permit the use of Emilia's vibrator wands. I got the battery-powered model, and she got the plug-in model. I'll let you imagine how that affected the dynamics.
Still, we made a game out of torturing each other, and we somehow managed to explain to both of our husbands that we wanted them to keep track of how many times we each orgasmed. Yes, I am telling the truth—we made a game out of using those ankle-crotch tethers and wands to force the other to orgasm. To my sisters in the CGC, let this be a lesson of how to tell a very adult tale of TUGs, bondage, and orgasm without getting into graphic body parts or bodily fluids. In case it wasn't obvious, my wand was yellow, and Emilia's was black. Guess Emilia's favorite colors! Guess the colors of the straps holding the wands in place? Black for me; yellow for her!
"Ohhhhhh, ooh ah a hah hohan!" Emilia jerked on my tether with perfect tension.
"Gmmmmm!" I yelled at her—maybe playfully flipped her off, too—before sighing and arching.
This only worked so well because we had similar response times to similar stimuli. Picture such a scene: us bound and gagged as we were and making sport out of trying to force the other one to orgasm. And all this happened with us wearing our PJs! This game was a favorite of the girls at the bondage sorority, and I'd played it with a few of the sorority girls who were also Cool Girls, like Emilia here. I was well outclassed in this game, and Emilia soon had me helplessly sighing and arching with regularity. I'd never won that game, and that night wasn't my first win either.
The wand got Emilia off, too, and she let out some of her patented wide-eyed, panting, drooling groans. She, however, had the upper hand to ensure that she won the match. No, it wasn't that close. OK, it was a rout. All right, all right, already! She won by a score of 16-3! She totally owned me that night, but I didn't care. I finally surrendered so that the tethers were removed, and I sat up and looked at her. Who was goofier looking? Me with the harness with the yellow ball gag, or Emilia with the muzzle on top of the homemade ball gag? We didn't care, either.
Golden Arches, eat your heart out . It was a wonderful evening. As a mom. As spouses. As friends. As Cool Girls.
So This Is Marriage (M/F, MF/F, F/F)
Tiedye Gangsta Queen in Trouble (M/F)
Sunday, October 29, 2017
My matching tie-dye t-shirt and kerchief bandana must have made quite the sight when Chris opened the door after a long day at the office and lab. I knew the bright blue trainers would stand out even more—and maybe that was the point. As he stepped inside, I couldn't help but make a small request for our date night. This wasn't just any date night, though. Tonight was special.
"You and me and Mickey D?" I asked, trying to sound playful but just a bit meek.
My brown hair, hanging just past my shoulders, felt like the only toned-down part of my whole outfit. Chris smiled, but I saw it in his eyes—he was remembering. He knew tomorrow would mark the anniversary of our Christian marriage. We'd been married by a judge on September 17, but it was the October ceremony that really meant something deeper to us. That was the day our marriage was blessed by God. I'd come a long way from the stubborn atheist I was as a teen.
I remember the first time I saw him—back when I worked in the Physics labs as the stockroom associate, even though I was a chemist. He came in with a broken part. Nothing remarkable. But then, two weeks later, he came back. He didn't really have a reason to stick around, but he did so anyway—and talked to me for nearly half an hour. That's when I realized he was being coy. One week later, he finally asked me out. I still remember what I was wearing each of those times. It's funny how some memories cling to you. In fact, I'm wearing the outfit I wore on our third date.
McDonald's meant a lot to me for more reasons than I usually admit out loud. Yes, it's cheap, but it was also the first off-campus date we had. That night was everything. That was when I felt our relationship shift from "casual" to "this is real." So now, when I get a Big Mac or some nuggets, it's not just fast food—it's nostalgia. I even tried to order the same thing I did back then. Though I sometimes have to remind him. Marriage is beautiful, and I highly recommend it.
"What would you like?" Chris asked me as we walked into the restaurant.
"What we had the first time we came here," I said, tossing my curls back with just a touch of dramatic flair and then casually adjusting my tiedye kerchief, "You should know that by now."
"A Big Mac… and?" He looked at me, trying to recall, "A Sprite for sure."
"And a medium fry," I added, letting him take my hands and smiling as he kissed them.
"I always forget the fries," he said, lowering my hands slowly and stepping back.
"I'll see if that same booth is open," I told him, eyes glowing with that kind of love that fills your chest until you can barely hold it all in. I looked down at my blue canvas sneakers and red crew socks, knowing very well what would almost certainly happen with one or both of those things.
To most people, this wouldn't be romantic. But to me? To us? Romance was just being together. It was breakfast in bed. It was folding laundry side by side. It was him knowing I always want fries. Our love showed up in all kinds of little ways over the years—but it was the quiet, normal moments like this that meant the most. These were the stories I'd one day tell our kids, the ones I'd treasure if, God forbid, I ever became an old widow. I felt the weight of his love every day, and it never stopped humbling me. McDonald's was merely the first arch of the evening.
Even if it had only been a day or two since our last deep conversation, we always had more to say. And as we so often did, Chris and I held hands on the way back to the car. The ride back to our apartment was quiet but warm. This was our first year living together as a married couple; we weren't about to waste a single second. This was the best day of the year. Hands down. As we entered the apartment , he grabbed me in his loving embrace, and his hand clamped down on my mouth. He duct taped my crossed wrists behind my back. I was helpless, spellbound whilst I was captured by romance. He spun me around so I was looking into his eyes.
"Do what you must do," I said in a soft voice, staring into his kindly brown eyes.
"Very well," he smiled and pushed me onto the sofa, removing my sneakers and socks.
"Is this," I asked him, staring at my red socks with a mischievous grin, "what you must do?"
"Unfortunately," he said, and pushed my socks into my mouth with a smile.
"Mmmmmmm!" I groaned, my brown eyes looking into his while strips of grey duct tape sealed my lips to ensure the socks stayed put, and I squirmed for his entertainment.
This was all we needed. He taped my ankles together before he pulled down my shorts—and his as well. Then we made love on the sofa while he kissed me. How great is my husband's love? I can tell you in the simplest way: he made sure I orgasmed before he did. That was the best sigh I ever sighed—I strongly arch, quietly sigh, and deeply exhale during orgasm. He kissed my lips and playfully explored my bust with his hands. It was so perfect. The girl who was nicknamed Gangsta Queen as a frightened teenager was a Tiedye Gangsta Queen in love. And I love him.
He soon undid the tape bonds and playfully ordered me to strip. He zipped my wrists behind me so we could take a bath together. I know of people doing that while showering. But while bathing? Oh, he knew how to make the silliest things turn into sexy things. I'm not saying much because… why say it when you can infer it from the actions?
"Happy anniversary, my beloved," he stared into my eyes while he filled me up during the bath.
"Ah -ove -ou," I stared into his eyes, enjoying every moment of this bizarre and fun evening.
He washed the tape residue off my face. Does the dominant in your marriage do that for the sub?
The Card Game (M/F)
Monday, October 29, 2018
I took a deep breath and stared into his eyes while we sat in that familiar place. Date nights are always special, but anniversary date night is special in a very different way. Adding to the little moments like these is having our roommate, Sammy, sitting by herself in a corner not far from us since we felt it was rude to get supper for ourselves and not her. She lovingly gave us space for a little time alone so we could rekindle a fire that could not be extinguished.
Who knew a Big Mac, a Sprite, a fry, and an apple pie could be so romantic? Yet, there I sat in a trance, silently loving my husband while he silently loved, the love being an undertone of a more mundane conversation about work or school. Our love dominated the atmosphere. Yet, after the meal, we began to explore a different side to things, the fun and sexy side of our relationship.
"Shall we play," I looked right into Chris's eyes to see his reactions, "The card game?"
The card game can be played with just about any deck of playing cards so long as you've agreed to a set of rules that govern that deck. In this case, I was using Skip-Bo cards, with any Skip-Bo card becoming a wild card for Chris. He could use it to add 1 to another number, even if I'd not flipped the card for him to… never mind—actions speak louder than words. You'll see. Chris is standing behind me while I sit at the table drawing the cards, petting my kerchief-covered head.
"Well, well, well, a 7," I held up the first card for the number of ropes, "That'll hold me down."
"Plenty of rope for a Gangsta Queen, though," he kissed me, and I motioned for him to sit down.
"Oh, my, 9 layers of gag," I showed him the card. "Will shut me up, especially if my socks are two of the layers of gag," I said, because each sock counts as a layer of gag.
"What if I used Sammy's socks instead?" he asked me with a sneaky look in his eyes.
"Not today, big guy," I looked into his eyes and flipped the next card, "Too bad. It's a 4."
"Well, that's a shame," he winked at me because he needed a 7 or higher for oral sex.
"Yeah, but at least this is a 3," and the remainder of 3 divided by 4 is 3, or 3 procreative acts.
"I'm doing pretty well so far, don't you think," he couldn't stop looking into my eyes.
"How about an 11?" which is greater than 6, so I get blindfolded. "I won't see what you do."
"The Gangsta Queen is going to have a very fun time," he wiggled his eyebrows.
"Well, look at this little Skip-Bo card," it was my turn to wiggle my eyebrows, "Use it wisely."
"How about that 4 you just drew?" he pointed to it, "That's a decent amount of your pleasure."
"I hope they're 4 moments of orgasmic magic," I smiled at him and drew the next card, a 6.
"A 6?" he asked in mock surprise, "Well, that's a lot of spanks. Almost 20 of them."
"Like we don't multiply by 3 because I can handle 36," I adjusted my icy blue bandana.
"True, hence why you just drew 21 minutes of tickling as well. I love you, Nichole."
"Yes, you do, but I love you even more," I stood up, approached him, and kissed him.
I don't remember the origins of the card game. I think it may have started at the Minnesota Tech bondage sorority, who actually had a house down the road. I wasn't a member, but many of my friends and co-workers were members. As a result, there was a lot of overlap between them and the CGC. I loved the uncertainty of the card game and even used it in non-kinky contexts, like in light-hearted TUGs with Sammy (who will play a big part in the 2019 anniversary story).
I did what anyone would do in my situation: stripped down to nothing except my kerchief so my husband—in the privacy of our bedroom—could use 7 ropes to bind me. That meant my crossed wrists bound, a harness, a waist rope, and ropes at my ankles, knees, and thighs. Rope 7? Not a rope, but a string for my big toes. For a blindfold, he used a white bandana to coordinate with my kerchief. I felt safe and loved when I was alone with him, knowing he would never hurt me.
"How will you use the Skip-Bo?" I asked him coyly, "More rope? More gag? Something else?"
"May I add 1 to the 0 I got on the oral card?" he responded, petting his helpless wife's head.
"If that's what you wish, it is our anniversary, after all," I smiled and weakly struggled.
"Let's make the first one count, though," and then he did something that made me so happy.
"Oh, Chris, I'll never stop loving you," I said with a laugh knowing I couldn't get away.
"You say the sweetest and most ironic things in the middle of making love to me."
I'm not going to go into details of the moment, but he made me feel so precious and desired even as he procreated with me. His touch was kind and tender while I used my mouth to bring him to fullness and to release. His lips kissed my lips in kindness and warmth. You can't ask for a man to be more caring and protective than Chris, and I can't thank God enough for my husband. That was the best use of a Skip-Bo card yet, and I hoped there would someday be happier uses.
Now, when I orgasm, it's simple and quiet. A deep sigh accompanies the stereotypical arching of most girl's orgasms. But the sigh is but a massive exhale that empties my lungs, and I inhale just as strongly to fill them up with the emotional pleasure of the moment. My first sigh comes when Chris is performing the second procreative act. The second comes from squeezing my breasts. I get the third unexpectedly from squirming while he is spanking me. The fourth comes in a sweet moment as I reach my pleasure at the same moment he does his third and final inside me.
The tickling is like a light-hearted dessert, the perfect way to end this game. My socks are filling my mouth under a neon pink bandana cleave gag, purposefully chosen to clash with my kerchief and blindfold. Six wraps of tape complete the nine, ensuring I'm silent from the end of the oral pleasure to the end of the tickling. It tastes bad, but it's fun like this. Release from it is good.
But sleeping like this—me as the little spoon and Chris as the big spoon—is amazing.
Gangsta-in-Distress (MF/F)
Tuesday, October 29, 2019
Sammy is half-Russian and was raised by her fully Russian mother. They speak Russian at home and on the phone, and Sammy is an extremely devout Russian Orthodox Christian who is always quick to admit her flaws and foibles. You can imagine how it was, then, for her, working at one of her local McDonald's starting at age 14, riding her bike to work after school every day, often unable to eat anything off the menu during her meal breaks except French fries. As her favorite fast food joint, she knew that the food was really slop on the inside and still chose to work there to bring much needed extra income into her and her mother's life! Ah, Sammy, I love you! The story of how I chose Sammy to be my roommate isn't relevant right now, but it's 100% true that I indeed called Sammy's mother many times when I was unsure how to best love her.
It was the usual food this anniversary: Big Mac, Sprite, French Fry. That year, Sammy sat with us at our preferred booth. It was such a sweet moment we had. I was in my 2nd year of working on my Master's degree; Chris was in his third of his Ph.D.; Sammy was an undergraduate junior. I don't know why I love the big strong rower so much, but I do. It took time for us to reach any understanding and develop a meaningful bond. I love the patternless blue monochromatic tiedye bandana she wore as a headband—she calls it "Meteorologist's Blue" since that's her major. She also had bright blue canvas sneakers, bright blue gym shorts, white crew socks, and a clean white t-shirt. She was so adorable, eating in silence while Chris and I did our usual sappy talk.
It says a lot that we asked her to sit with us this year , unlike last year when we let her sit alone when she expressed insecurity about potentially interfering in our anniversary celebration. This time, I felt like she was part of the family in her own way. She fit perfectly into the smell of the cheap fryer grease, the low-quality beef, and yellow plastic that legally can't be called cheese. I loved it; Chris loved it; Sammy loved it; it was toxic; we knew it; we hated it; we loved it.
I sat there on the colored plastic seat that's part of a booth and table that's all plastic and particle board. I had my navy bandana headband and navy gym shorts with a pink t-shirt. My footwear won't matter in this story, but the footwear I mentioned does matter this year. Somehow, I loved the dessert more than ever. The present company was magical. Sammy is precious to both Chris and me in a sisterly manner. Sammy is a Cool Girl, to be fair! I felt so happy right then!
Only little kids eat two desserts, right? Well, then I was a little kid, because Sammy jumped me the moment I had my back to her—after we were back home—and gave me a second dessert for my enjoyment: her socks. Socks which she'd put on at 6 AM, worn to the gym for workouts, to her rowing exercises, while going to class, and to McDonald's. GROSS! Perfectly normal here though. She was (and still is) so strong that she only needed 5 wraps of white duct tape to seal my lips with a brutality that most Cool Girls needed 7-9 wraps to achieve.
"Don't be scared," she said in Russian—to menace me—with her usual flat expression, "It's your anniversary," and then she put her shoe over my nose and wrapped the tape three more times, "It will be fun for me now and then later for you two. My way of saying thank you for everything."
"Mmm!" I rolled my eyes, giggled, and wiggled my eyebrows, her permission to continue as she saw fit; what I'm about to describe would have happened at Chris's hands anyway! "Mmmph!"
She used more of the tape to secure my crossed wrists behind my back and to my waist. Before she taped my ankles, then removed my own footwear. Only then did she tape my ankles so she'd get the bare skin and not my socks, reducing wiggling. She tape my legs above my knees before she moved back to my torso. Yes, Sammy could be mischievous, pulling up my shirt but not my bra before taping my arms to my torso, wrapping the tape above and below my breasts. It was an effective binding, and it was genuinely pleasant except for the olfactory and gustatory elements.
"MMMMMM!" I looked at her as she stood me up and pulled down my shorts, again leaving the final touch for Chris while she taped my mid-thighs to keep my shorts in place, "MMMMM!"
"Be good, my friend," she again spoke in Russian—I knew barely any of the language then, "It's time for anniversary delight. I will give you to Chris, and he will finish it all off for you."
"I have no idea what she said," Chris accepted the gift, "But it's cute. Thank you, Sammy."
"Have fun. I suspect I'll see you two again by 8," she said in English, looking at the clock.
Chris carries me into the bedroom and shuts the door. This wasn't the first time that Sammy had kidnapped me to prepare me for intimacy with Chris. In fact, it was almost but another way that Chris used to initiate intimacy with me, which was adorable and trusting of him. I had to smell and taste Sammy's feet while Chris did all the things that either were his alone or which Sammy had left for him. These were exposing my breasts (fun, but not necessary) and my crotch (quite necessary for procreation!) as well as doing the act of procreation itself. I like to call it that so I am clear that we had a mutual desire—to have a family of our own.
This was how the moment went: Chris making love to me and using both himself and his hands to help me reach my own pleasure. It was soft and tender as always, just the way we liked it. I had tried engaging in rougher play with Chris before, but we didn't like aggressive play for such an important act. Rough play was only for oral, and we sure weren't about to do oral, were we?
"Well, I was wrong," Sammy winked at us when Chris carried me back out, my panties back in their proper place, "8:15. You seem happy. I could tell it was going to be a lighter game."
Chris took a shower. After? He and Sammy played video games and left me to enjoy her feet.
Straitjacket, No Chaser (M/F & F/F)
Thursday, October 29, 2020
The last of the three anniversaries with Sammy involved took unusual twists and turns—after a Big Mac, a Sprite, and a fry, Sammy and I played the card game. Remember her Meteorologist's Blue bandana? Well, Sammy had a pink one in the same style, Meteorologist's Pink, because it, too, was splotchy, patternless, and ranged from deep bright pink to white in its splotches. I wore a white kerchief bandana this time. We were Cool Girls—I was the Gangsta Queen and she was the Gangsta Row—playing to decide who was bound and gagged and in what manner. The loser was bound according to the cards; the other was bound according to Chris's whims.
It was cold today; I wore black jeans and a black turtleneck t-shirt with black socks and my white canvas sneakers. My outfit wasn't a mood statement. It was merely what made me happy today. Sammy had a pair of black jeans as well, and her bandana was a kerchief as well. It was good to see her with her hair down and not in a braid. She had a pink polo shirt, pink canvas sneakers, and most like, knowing her, pink crew socks. Just two Gangstas playing a card game.
Sammy was a bit vain about her hair and liked to wear it in a braid to hide it so that she would be less likely to receive compliments. It worked even as she failed to realize in her innocence that a lot of people liked her braid better than when she wore it down. The braid more was because she liked it down and seeing it out. The important part was that she was comfortable enough to let us see it down. Before, that was reserved for her mother and her mother alone.
Since it was Sammy and I playing in the knowledge that she would be abandoned while securely bound and gagged, we agreed to play the game in a way that ensured she'd be safe in her beloved abandonment while Chris and I played in the bedroom. Sammy loved little more in TUGs than a game in which she was bound and gagged—especially in humiliating fashion—and abandoned.
"I drew the bigger card," I laughed and shuffled the Uno cards, "Draw to decide your own fate."
"Sweet," Sammy forced a slight smile, "Let's get going. Ooh, a 0!" which meant 10 ropes.
"Well, next you get decide how thick your gag will be," I laughed, "Keep on drawing."
"Lucky me! It's a 9! How about this? If the next card is 5 or less, I get blindfolded!"
"Or you could draw a +2 to make that gag even worse!" I said before we howled in laughter.
"Enjoy that reverse card, Nichole," she flipped the next one, "Good luck! We need it tonight."
"Yeah, yeah," I giggled, "Well, I got a 7, so I guess there will be a blindfold after all!"
"1 to 5, your socks in the gag; 6-0 my socks!" Sammy suggested, "Mine!" she smiled at the 8.
"OK! 1 to 5, my shoe over the nose; 6-0 your shoe; anything else, my socks!" I said, "3!"
"All right, and the next card is… reverse! My turn again!" her eyes shone brightly.
"If the next card is a number, I'll expose your boobies," I giggled before she flipped a 1.
"All right, and the next card will decide whether you get tied to a chair or your bed."
And then she drew a "lose a turn" card, which meant the game was over.
Oh, We burst into such fits of laughter that I'm sure the people in the adjacent apartments had to think we were insane—if they could hear us. I decided to seat her on a chair and easily tied her wrists and elbows together behind her back because she was so flexible. Then I bound her legs together at the lower thighs and upper thighs, and I tied her ankles to the chair's legs. I already used 6 of the 10 ropes. Oh, we didn't care because we were having fun.
I pulled her shirt up to find a pink sports bra, and I pulled that up too. Then I tied the harness to secure her torso and arms to each other and the chair back and to accentuate her form. The waist and crotch rope went under her jeans for maximum delight with her verbal consent, and I worked it around her arms for extra imprisonment. I worked her hair into a braid while she laughed, and I used that braid as the anchor for a hairtie from the braid to the underframe of the chair. Last of all, I secured her thighs to the seat of the chair. There! I used all 10 ropes on her!
Chris watched me remove her footgear. I stuffed one sock in the other and tightly knotted a blue bandana around the neck of the outer sock. This made a sock gag that she wasn't liable to choke upon under any circumstances! Nasty socks they were, having been worn all day through school and rowing practice and such, and I tight knotted the cleave gag the way she liked it. I followed up with 4 strips of double sided tape covering her lips and cheeks and a pink bandana OTM gag. A purple bandana made a perfect blindfold. Two wraps of duct tape held my shoe on her nose.
"Enjoy, Sammy," I said and then turned to my husband, who held the straitjacket with my initials embroidered into the upper back region, "SNP" for Sarah Nichole Petersen. I knew what he was desiring, and I sweetly and quietly removed my own socks and looked at him with a mischievous grin. He nodded, and I stuffed my black socks in my mouth. He handed me the microfoam tape, and I applied a strip over my lips and turned to Sammy. She didn't know what just happened and would be jealous if she knew and even would have approved of that entire sequence.
Yes, this one is going to be a little more than the usual two 8.5"x11" single-spaced 1-inch margin vignettes, but the next one will be short to make up for that. This straitjacket was a present that a group of my friends all pitched together to buy for my 22nd birthday. They knew from both my bondage modeling experience and limited experience with the bondage sorority that black latex straitjackets were one of my favorite elements in TUGs. I took off my clothes—all of except my bandana, of course—so I would be at my husband's mercy. It was time for pleasure.
I squealed with happiness while letting him put the straitjacket on me. We mostly used it when a game was going to be playful, soft, and maybe even without marital relations even if erotic. But, tonight was the one night that seemed to require TUGs and relations every single year. Sammy was quietly struggling and enjoying herself, and I think the crotch rope perhaps was bringing her a bit too much pleasure, based on the tone of her gag talk and her movements. She was safe and, most of all, happy. She only felt this safe and loved when with her mother. She was clueless that I was being secured by the straps of the straitjacket and led away to the bedroom, the door closed behind us to abandon her in her captivity while Chris ran ropes from my ankles to the bed's legs.
I motioned to make it clear to Chris: I wanted him to push hard tonight. Most nights he pushed only as needed for us to orgasm; tonight I wanted it to be forceful. That's graphic detail for me, I know. He pushed hard, and how good that sigh felt when it quickly came before his own release into my body. That was all we needed—him periodically doing that as he regained enough to be able to do it again and abandoning me in between rounds. He kept his shorts on so he would be able to check on Sammy to make sure she was safe, and then he'd open his zipper and undies as needed to give himself access to my body. We were (still are) quite modest people here.
I didn't struggle too much really, and when the door was open I was able to see Sammy writhing on the chair. We were such happy young women, and it was hard to believe that my kindness to her would soon end. You see, I didn't make Sammy pay any rent since this was the same cost as the previous apartment Chris and I had rented. We knew she was destitute as a child and wished her to have no worries so she could focus on rowing and studying. We really do love Sammy.
What a wonderful night that was, and we all got along so well. Those were good times.
You Want Fries with That? (MF/F)
Friday, October 29, 2021
"GUH!" I was a catsuit spy in danger, bound and gagged and abandoned by my kidnapper while he went about his business. Yes, I was wearing my jet black spandex two-piece catsuit with my beloved black socks, black ankle boots, and black kerchief bandana to keep my hair back. There was a blue rubber dog ball—2 inches across—with a red bandana threaded through the holes in my mouth—the bandana tightly knotted behind my head—gagging me. "GMMMMMM!" I was all alone here in the apartment, unable to escape my captivity. I had a surprise for Chris, too.
I was tightly bound by zipties this time. My arms were behind me in the boxtie position, held by 5 white zipties. My thighs and legs were bound together in 6 places each with more of those and tightly at that. One went into the heels of my boots to hold my feet together. Longer, wider zips went around my body both above and below my breasts to secure my arms further. This was all done because I'm not flexible enough for elbow ties, and I'd been struggling for around 2 hours like this. Actually, that's wrong. I got off work at lunch today at his request, and he nabbed me at the end of lunch. Make that 3 or 4 hours like this. You'd think that by now I'd have found a pair of scissors except that I was also tethered to a chair. Yes, the chair is its own description!
Four zips secured my thighs to the seat of the chair. Six zips secured my trunk to the back of the chair. One zip ran from each knee and from each ankle to the legs of the chair. Another zip ran from my ankles to the underframe of the chair. We had a local friend who worked from my own desk in the living room so that someone was nearby. With my back to her and her working off a silent keyboard, I was effectively alone in the dark kitchen. She also kept all the lights off and all the curtains and blinds and doors closed for maximum immersion. She even set up a screen so I wouldn't get any light from her computer. It was genius and beautiful and just as I wanted it. As crazy as it sounds, this was my idea, and what a fun idea it was. We'd done this before but never on our anniversary. I know it sounds wild, but Emilia (the friend) was a loving guardian and one of my best friends—a Cool Girl, a fellow bondage model, and a member of the bondage sorority.
"GMMMMM!" I thrashed in my bondage, fully unable to escape this over-the-top situation.
"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" I heard Chris's voice behind me, "A captured… spy?"
"Guh!" you can only imagine how much drool was all over me and my catsuit after 3-4 hours.
"I have here your supper, my beautiful," he turned the chair and pointed to the McDonald's food.
"Hmmm?" I looked up at him, my heart pounding in my chest with excitement at the surprises.
"You must accept my appetizer while bound to this chair if you want that food," Chris explained.
You're probably wondering about the safety of being tied up so long and in such a rigid position. I only know it was OK from doing things exactly like this—him leaving me with a friend. We're not insane and certainly don't want to see me get harmed. No! Emilia had checked me no fewer than 2 times per hour, but now Emilia had quietly slipped away. I only mention her by name as I know she will appear in 2024's story. She was working on her Psy.D. here at Minnesota Tech.
"Do you accept my appetizer?" Chris undid his belt, and I understood what he meant.
"Uh huh," I nodded sadly, as if this isn't going to be the kinkiest appetizer of all time.
"Good," my husband—my captor—unknotted my gag after 3 or 4 long hours like this.
"Bluh!" the ball was totally soaked in drool, and a big blob came out of my mouth with it too.
"You will divulge your promised secrets when I'm done, won't you?"
"Yes, sir," I said, and I accepted the appetizer that filled my mouth.
How kinky is this? Seriously! I had to accept this before the zipties would be snipped off to free me. What a thriller this one had turned out to be. His surprise paled in comparison to what I was going to share with him in a moment. Bear with me a second. There are moments where the act is especially pleasing, and this is one of them. It's special; it's intimate; it tastes good. I happily accepted it all, not wasting a moment, and soon he withdrew and let me speak.
"Chris," I looked up at him, with happiness in my eyes, "I'm pregnant."
And Baby Makes Three (M/F)
Saturday, October 29, 2022
When I gave birth to Emily Danielle Petersen, it marked the culmination of a journey of agony I can't put into words. May 21, 2022 ended the stigma of three miscarriages that tortured me daily because I could still remember the pain, physical and hormonal, that resulted from each time my body miscarried. I thought I was cursed or defective, and to finally have one that survived so we could love and dote on our own child, in this case a daughter, meant more than we could put into words. Yes, recovery from childbirth was difficult, but it was worth it. The Gangsta Queen was a mother, and Emilia provided much help to me during my recovery from the delivery and even assisted me during the pregnancy. Again, more on Emilia in 2024's story. Back to 2022's story.
"Chris, it is still our anniversary, and we have traditions," I said to him hopefully.
He understood what I meant by that and nodded in understanding of my words. When the baby was back in her crib, Chris whispered in my ear, "I'll take care of her while you rest." Before he finished speaking, he hand gagged me. That's awfully bold for a guy who successfully defended his Ph.D. dissertation only two weeks before! While he held me gagged with one hand, he kept me still by squeezing me between the couch and him, giving easy access to remove my footgear.
"MMMMM!" my socks filled my mouth to gag me in absolutely perfect fashion—quiet mama!
"That's it, my love," he said, playfully stroking my head and kissing me to see how I reacted.
"GMMMM!" I struggled in an exaggerated manner, giving him permission to continue.
"There we go," he pretty much carried me with one hand on my mouth keeping my socks in my mouth and the other arm across my chest, delighting me with his masculinity and sensitivity.
Once in the bedroom, he used a tegaderm to ensure I wouldn't spit those socks out anytime soon, and he used clothesline to tie my crossed wrists behind my back. The classic Gangsta Queen had worn her white bandana as a kerchief that day because it was the one she was wearing the day he met her. My white gym shorts and navy Minnesota Tech t-shirt were also just like that day. This felt so good, so fulfilling. He bore my breasts and tied a chest harness and tied my ankles, knees, and thighs effectively and quickly. I sat up on the bed and glared at him playfully before we did that one part of our tradition that we hadn't done yet. I had my Big Mac, my Sprite, and my fry. Baby was in bed. I was bound and gagged. Lastly, he worked me to a deep orgasmic sigh while we engaged in that sacred act of procreation. That was the best sigh and the biggest arch ever. I will forever cherish that particular moment because it was done for me, to say "Nichole, I am in love with you and want you to be safe, happy, and cherished. Relax. Everything will be OK."
And it was OK. I napped that way despite the socks in my mouth, and everything was OK.
A Punch of Color (M/F)
Sunday, October 29, 2023
In 2023, Chris accepted a job at a Minneapolis engineering firm, and I got a job as a lab assistant at the University of Minnesota. I was now 28 years old, a long way from 19, my age when Chris and I first met when I was but a freshman and he a sophomore. I never knew then that within 2 years we would be married under the stressful circumstances that awakened his desire to protect me from those who hated me. I bore the physical scars of what happened to me the day I turned 21, and less than two months later we were married. We celebrated 6 years of love in 2023.
A red bandana headband. Me? Red? Yes! I felt like a tough Gangsta Queen on that day, and I wanted this to lead to a more energetic game of a more physically encouraged submission. Yes, I am speaking of spanking followed by rough, loud relations. Red bandana, red gym shorts, bright yellow t-shirt, white socks, and black canvas sneakers. I was truly the CGC's Gangsta Queen. It sounds bad on paper, but it was so much fun. As you can tell, I'm always in control here.
"So, Chris, think you can hold this down?" I asked seductively while we ate supper.
"What does that mean?" he asked, handing a fry to baby Emily, her first one ever.
"It means," I swallowed a gulp of my Sprite, "That I am a naughty girl who needs punishment."
"Oh, you're making a little request are you?" he turned back to me and took a bite from a burger.
"Mama!" Emily stole my attention away, but the thoughts were active in our minds.
"You're so cute," I turned to our daughter and let the conversation fade away until later.
The Gangsta Queen really was in the house, wasn't she? I was cruisin' for a rough usin'.
Once Emily was put to bed and asleep after I read her a story and said bedtime prayers with her, I knew it was going to be time. I like when I get spanked and tickled while I'm bound and gagged and helpless. I might like things to be done affectionately, but that doesn't mean I don't fight and resist at times. I have to make Chris work for the rewards every so often so that he gets the thrill of the conquest. Can you feel that Gangsta Queen red kerchief energy already?
I stepped into the bedroom, and I was nabbed, the same kind of nab as before. Chris held a hand over my mouth and wrapped an arm around my body, whispering his affection into my ear. Yes, it was going to be a fun night. He had to let go of me to use the white rope to bind me, though. I loved the feeling of the rope securing my wrists together behind my back. As you can imagine, I had a very kinky conversation with Chris while he tied me up.
"I'm not going down easy," I said with a grin, trying to escape his grasp.
"Now, baby, stay still," he ordered me as he knotted the wrist bond and pushed me onto the bed.
"I will not," I said firmly and looked into his eyes, "You're going to have to take this by force!"
"Well, then," he pulled off my shoes and socks despite my resistance, "Good gag or bad?"
"What's the good gag?" I threw my head around to toss my brown curls in a seductive manner.
"Homemade ball gag," he held my socks near my mouth, "Or you can have these lovelies."
"Make me eat them," I said and buried my face into my pillow, knowing the consequences.
Chris used this to his advantage to tie a harness, pinning my arms to my torso, while fighting my kicking legs. He wasn't going to back down, and he sat on me, gave me a few warning spanks, and tied my ankles together. Isn't this fun? I think it was fun then and that it's fun now. Yes, it's a rougher game, but it's all happening because we wanted it to happen this way. One spank was a trick to get me to shriek a little, allowing him to stuff my socks in my mouth. After 7 layers of white duct tape wrapped my head, I was unintelligible in speech and unable to expel my socks. I was living the true thrill of TUGs even if all my playful resistance was being stymied by Chris.
"Nmmmmmm!" I shook my head and my curls while he pulled my shirt up to expose me.
"You're in a feisty mood. Don't make this dirtier than our comfort zones," he reminded me.
"Mmmmm!" I rolled over onto my back, and he pulled my bottoms down, "Mmmmm!"
"Very well. You forced my hand," and he tightly blindfolded me with a brown bandana.
"Nmmmm," I knew the simple leg bounds had a goal, making classic approach possible.
"You're so much fun when you're a naughty Gangsta Queen," he kissed my gagged lips.
"Mmmmmmmmmmm," I practically melted upon feeling his kiss.
He pushed with force while doing the deed. Nearly every escapade, with few exceptions, had the blessed goal of expanding our family. I was excited tonight, and I quickly reached orgasm with a deep sigh and an attempt to arch his weight pushed down into our bed. I couldn't look into his eyes, but I could feel his kisses. He was soft and tender in his kisses even if rough otherwise. If a couple doesn't have each other's best interests at heart, what do they have? Nothing.
When you're in my position, you don't care that you're sucking on dirty socks. It's dirty socks in my mouth by my choice to fight him. The tape, texture, and taste are sensations. The bondage is a sensation. Chris reaching orgasm is a sensation, especially since he never ceases kissing me or whispering little bits of affection in my ears. He pulled out of me and used more rope to bind my knees, lower thighs, and upper thighs. A tight waist and crotch rope also followed. Sensations surround me, and they are wonderful sensations. Spanking is a wonderful punishment after I had been so naughty. I squealed and enjoyed the bursts of dirty sock flavor my squealing caused, and I enjoyed being told I was a bad girl and a naughty Gangsta Queen. Oh, it was incredible.
Then he shut me in a suitcase.
Yes, my husband is absolutely amazing.
Our Love Grows Every Day (MM/FF)
Tuesday, October 29, 2024
"What's that?" Emily, like all 2 year olds, pointed at things and wanted to know what they were.
"Oh, that's a robin," I said of the bird that hopped along the ground.
"It's red," she, like her mother, knew all her colors to perfection.
"Yes, it is red," I paused to adjust my icy blue kerchief bandana, the one I wore on my first date.
"All right, Emily, let's sit down and eat our supper, hmmm?" I picked her up.
"I want to see birds!" our child apparently chose to be the one causing a scene this evening.
Into the restaurant we finally went only to find my friend Emilia in there. Emilia now holds that eminent degree she so passionately pursued—Psy.D.—for so many years. She works at the local Mudville Juvenile Detention Center as one of their staff psychiatrists. God is good, and He let a part of the Juvie's growth include them happening to need someone like Emilia. Emilia is here at suppertime with her own husband, and so Emily gets to sit and be charmed by the Spaniard.
"Sweet little chiquita," Emilia asked Emily, "Are you also named Emilia? My name is Emilia."
"Emily!" the toddler responded, to Chris's delight, "Tiemily!"
"What is that supposed to be? Is that Tia Emilia?" the Spanish woman asked, fully charmed.
"Yes, I tell her you're ‘Tia Emilia,'" I explained while Emily ate a piece of apple, "So adorable!"
"Happy anniversary to you. Has it really been 7 years since that day?" Emilia has a cute accent.
"Yes, our friend," Chris nodded, remembering that day vividly, "It really has been 7 years."
Emilia was one of the friends in the hospital by my side the day my younger brother pulverized me. I was a mess of injuries from what happened, and she happened to hear the same scream for help that one of the school security guards heard. She knew my voice and came to help and was the one who managed to maintain her poise enough to tell Chris what had happened. She held an important place in Chris's heart, one of my few friends who was also his friend, hence her being my guardian in that wild 2021 catsuit spy adventure.
"You've come so far in 7 years, though. Maybe you are Protestants, and I was a lapsed Catholic, but you did more to help me come back to the Church than anyone else," Emilia smiled at us.
I couldn't deny this. Through her return to practicing the religion her parents and siblings held in such high regard, Emilia met her husband and found a renewed sense of happiness. We had been a blessing to others besides ourselves. Sammy and Emilia were merely the two who featured in our silly anniversary games. We'd made a difference in Emilia's and Sammy's lifes, and we'd be a good example to others so long as we strove to be good examples to each other like we were.
"Normally, Chris and I celebrate our anniversary with an adult TUG," I said, "Will you join us?"
"I will not do that in front of you two, and I know you will not do that in front of us!"
"No, just play a game after Emily's asleep. We're sane folks!" my laughter was palpable.
"After so many years in America, my brain is still wired like a Spaniard," Emilia laughed too.
"Is that a yes?" I looked into her eyes, and the smile and sparkle were the only answer I needed.
What better way for two girls to be dressed when it's finally time for the TUG than in their PJs? I of course still had my icy blue kerchief and matching crew socks. With it, I wore my navy blue PJs because icy and navy blue are awesome. Emilia had pink PJs and matching socks. Real PJs, of course—fleece button-up shirts and matching pants. We go into the bedroom so that, if by any chance Emily did wake up, we can easily keep things from her.
There we sat, Emilia—a tall, svelte Spaniard with long, jet black hair and dark brown eyes—and me—a below average mix of Portuguese and Irish with shoulder length brown curls and my own dark brown eyes. She has the Iberian skin tone, unlike me, and I quietly, mildly envy that about her. I hate looking Irish, considering my siblings and Irish father tortured me for so many years. It was time to enjoy some TUGs together, and Emilia brought her favorite yellow toys with her!
"Wish to use my prize?" Emila held up her head harness with its yellow ball gag.
"Sure!" I was (still am) more adventurous playing with friends then when alone with Chris.
That's how I got the head harness with the 2 inch yellow ball gag in my mouth, and she got one of the homemade rubber dog ball gags that the Minnesota Tech bondage sorority—of which she was a very active member—invented and shared with the CGC. Her gag was an orange ball with a green bandana threaded through the holes for a big pop of color.
I admit I chose the harness because it held my kerchief in place. We each had our arms put into one of Emilia's forearm binders. I got the yellow one; she got the black one; both were strongly padlocked into place. Unlike a standard armbinder, these, leather and all, better accommodate an inflexible girl like me while also working well on bendy girls like Emilia, who got a yellow strap above her elbows. Her yellow rope was used to tie my legs together at my ankles and thighs, and my clothesline was used to tie her legs in the same way. We each got a waist and crotch rope.
Then came the twist: I was laid on my back, and she was laid on her stomach with her legs more or less overlapping mine. Rope ran from my ankles to her crotch rope; rope ran from her ankles to mine. We were going to have ourselves a fun time with those, now weren't we? Nothing like working your bindings to cause happy distress to your fellow captive. That didn't stop us.
It was just the beginning of an incredible evening of fun, gagged laughter, and orgasm.
"HEY!" Emilia squealed when I made the first move, jerking my legs to cause her discomfort.
"Ha ha!" I didn't care that my gloating kickstarted the inevitable, unstoppable cycle of drooling.
"Ah ill hunith ou hor thith!" she twisted, glared at me, and jerked her own legs.
"Ahhhhhhh ha haaaaaaa!" I didn't care about the discomfort because it was so much fun.
"Is it like this when you go to Florida to visit her friend?" Chris asked Emilia's husband.
"Ooooooh! Haha Hihole Hehethen!" Emilia shrieked again when I repeated my own jerk.
The men then upped the ante. My gag was padlocked in place. Emilia received a simple muzzle gag, but that was also padlocked. As you can tell, Emilia likes the leather toys, but she's into an exact vibe that is limited to 5-10 items. I normally didn't allow such things, but tonight I was in the mood to permit the use of Emilia's vibrator wands. I got the battery-powered model, and she got the plug-in model. I'll let you imagine how that affected the dynamics.
Still, we made a game out of torturing each other, and we somehow managed to explain to both of our husbands that we wanted them to keep track of how many times we each orgasmed. Yes, I am telling the truth—we made a game out of using those ankle-crotch tethers and wands to force the other to orgasm. To my sisters in the CGC, let this be a lesson of how to tell a very adult tale of TUGs, bondage, and orgasm without getting into graphic body parts or bodily fluids. In case it wasn't obvious, my wand was yellow, and Emilia's was black. Guess Emilia's favorite colors! Guess the colors of the straps holding the wands in place? Black for me; yellow for her!
"Ohhhhhh, ooh ah a hah hohan!" Emilia jerked on my tether with perfect tension.
"Gmmmmm!" I yelled at her—maybe playfully flipped her off, too—before sighing and arching.
This only worked so well because we had similar response times to similar stimuli. Picture such a scene: us bound and gagged as we were and making sport out of trying to force the other one to orgasm. And all this happened with us wearing our PJs! This game was a favorite of the girls at the bondage sorority, and I'd played it with a few of the sorority girls who were also Cool Girls, like Emilia here. I was well outclassed in this game, and Emilia soon had me helplessly sighing and arching with regularity. I'd never won that game, and that night wasn't my first win either.
The wand got Emilia off, too, and she let out some of her patented wide-eyed, panting, drooling groans. She, however, had the upper hand to ensure that she won the match. No, it wasn't that close. OK, it was a rout. All right, all right, already! She won by a score of 16-3! She totally owned me that night, but I didn't care. I finally surrendered so that the tethers were removed, and I sat up and looked at her. Who was goofier looking? Me with the harness with the yellow ball gag, or Emilia with the muzzle on top of the homemade ball gag? We didn't care, either.
Golden Arches, eat your heart out . It was a wonderful evening. As a mom. As spouses. As friends. As Cool Girls.
