CGC Short Stories - The Gangsta Friend's Support (May 2, 2024)

[harveygasson]

Another great little story for the collection.

[AlexUSA3]

The Gangsta Friend’s Support (ff/f)

Hi! It’s me, Jenny Kristensen, also known as the Gangsta Princess! I’m here to tell you about a great little bit of fun we had one wintery day at the house of my friend Casey Clark, who we all nicknamed the Gangsta Friend. This story happened during the winter of my senior year of high school. In fact, it was the day before my birthday that this happened.

My sister from another mother, Nichole, and I went to visit our friend at her own house. Casey’s home had one advantage: they were cool with TUGs as long as we kept the door shut! What fun we could have then! In my house, I knew I’d be dead if I got caught. Dead! My mom would be spitting mad. During the summer after freshman year of college, I did get caught, and she threw me out of the house for a week! This was junior year of high school, though!

I’ll give you the backstory. As a high school sophomore, Casey fell off a scaffold while helping her dad around the house. Her brain bled so badly she had a crippling stroke, and now she’s got permanent disabilities. During sustained periods of sub-freezing temperatures, the cold gets to her damaged nerves, and she ends up having to use crutches or a wheelchair. It’s so sad! Casey is such a sweet girl, though, that she never complains.

We’re the Cool Girls’ Club, so of course we’re sitting around and talking about the usual things girls like us talk about: school, food, friends, family, TUGs, boys, parents, and so forth. We’re all sitting around the room. Casey’s in bed under the covers; Nichole’s wearing a hoodie and under a blanket; and I am just free as can be. For lack of a better seat, I’m sitting in that trusty old wheelchair.

Casey’s the Gangsta Friend; she’s got a charcoal gray sweatshirt (that much is obvious even to me despite my blue-yellow colorblindness!), burgundy sweatpants, and a burgundy kerchief bandana. She’s awesome; she’s positive; she’s a Jesus freak. I love her!

Nichole’s the Gangsta Queen; she’s wearing the white short-sleeve t-shirt and kerchief bandana I dyed into tiedye blue versions just for her! She’s got the tie-dye over a green long-sleeve t-shirt and a matching color of sweatpants. She’s awesome; she’s adorable; she’s my sister. I love her!

Jenny’s the Gangsta Princess; she’s wearing “just” a pink long-sleeve t-shirt, brown sweatpants, and a red bandana headband. That’s me! All of us share the love of canvas sneakers, although mine are white. I have pink socks; Nichole has white; Casey has black. It’s a matter whose, not if, socks someone will end up eating!

“Are you really that cold?” I ask my handicapped friend.
“Is this cold enough?!” she pulls the covers down to reveal she has a gray bandana mask too!
“Wow! The cold always got to you even before this happened, though,” I say thoughtfully.
“Oh, yeah, but it doesn’t get my arms,” she sits up straight, “Nichole, hand me the guitar.”
“This?” Nichole points to the case and grabs it, “OK.”
“Oh boy! What are you going to play?” I ask excitedly.
“I can strum Jesus music, peacefully pluck some Baroque, and maybe stumble through Spain.”
“Oh, can you play Bach?” Nichole asks her.
“I can. The big green book is my Bach. Set it up on the edge here.”

Casey still has a hospital bed. It’s sad in a way to know she was so sick, but it’s in the past. I realize she keeps the bed for the conveniences it brings, like propping her up as she is making it do right now. Nichole sets up the book, and Casey announces a Bach invention. I didn’t know Bach invented anything, but she laughs at my silliness and explains that it’s just a term he used for certain pieces of music.

How beautifully she plays! If she were a boy, I’d swoon, but she’s my friend and we’re all quite straight in this room. She is talented even if she’s not an epic talent like Nichole is on a piano (in my opinion!). It’s like me and my violin; we play to bring joy. I love bringing joy to others, and Casey does too. What a girl!

“That was fun!” Casey says, and then whispers something to Nichole.
“On it!” Nichole responds and tosses a drawstring bag to Casey before getting up
“What's going on?” I ask in my natural curiosity.
“‘What's going down?’ is the question,” Nichole laughs, “And the answer is ‘Jenny!’”
“Hey!” Nichole sits on me in the chair, “Mmmmmm!”
“That's our Gangsta Princess!” Casey cackles and shows me coils of clothesline.

It's me. It's always me. I’m always getting kidnapped no matter where I am or who I am with. People take advantage of me and tie me up. Oh, sure, even at fully grown I am just 5’1” and barely weigh 100 pounds, but that's not justification! It's almost like I am a total rope bunny and love being tied up at every opportunity!

Nichole's hand covers my loud mouth while Casey ties my right hand to the right arm of the wheelchair. I am squirming as much as I possibly can under the weight of my best friend, but Casey has no problems with me! My arm is crushed against that cold metal; I am in trouble now and loving it! Wheeeeee!

I am circling back now to Nichole. Bestie. Sis. Gangsta Queen. Nichole is my life in so many ways. She arrived in my life mere weeks after my big brother died from a brain tumor. I was four; he was five. I was devastated, so God gave me Nichole! We met at school, and we have been friends ever since. That wavy haired brunette known as the Gangsta Queen is the Queen because she was the one who first wore bandanas like so many of us Cool Girls do. Well, she was the first of the founding members of the Club, so as to give credit to those girls who joined the Club later and were Gangsta types before then. The funny part is that Nichole has pasty freckled skin like her Irish surname of Blakely suggests.

Another coil, another bond! My left wrist gets tied the same way to the left arm of the wheelchair. I will squirm out if they give me the opportunity, and Nichole holds me in position using her weight and size. No one pins me down with love like Nichole does. I love this girl so much she has her own bed in my bedroom so she can stay any night she pleases.

Casey Clark is an interesting girl with a natural tendency to tan despite having what is otherwise a very Nordic appearance, typical of nearly every Mudville girl. Her hair is short on the side where her surgery scar is; the doctors had to do brain surgery to save her life! She's a true blonde and an inch taller than Nichole. Speaking of that naughty blonde, she is taking off her socks.

I can't forget about me. It's my story! I’m a blonde, too, but I’m a good three inches shorter than Nichole. My hair is more brown-blonde, though; I’m mostly Danish. I have a pale skin that will tan in the sun if I try, but I also make a nice roast chicken if I am not careful. Casey and I are blessed, unlike Nichole, who could get a sunburn just from thinking about it.



“Jennnnnyyyyyyyyy, open wiii-iddddddde!” Casey holds her socks near my mouth.
“Nuh uh!” I will take any socks, but I prefer my own.
“Just take them!” Nichole pinched me on the arm.
“Yowchpffff!” I squawk and eat Casey’s laundry, “Blegh!”
“That's our Jenny,” she ties a purple bandana as a cleave gag, or is it a gray bandana?
“Wheeeeee!” I squeal in my happiness at being bound and gagged.

Nichole smiles at me and takes a coil of clothesline to tie my right ankle to the right foot support of the chair. While she does that, Casey ties my left elbow to that joint where the arm of the chair connects to the back of it. This is so exciting! The more they tie me down, the less likely I am to escape. Escaping is super disappointing; it means I wasn't tied up well enough! Of course, an escape challenge is different since the goal is to escape.

My beloved Nichole is a genius. She is wrapping the clothesline around each possible piece of metal in that region where the foot support meets the leg of the chair. My leg will not be escaping that anytime soon. She always gives me her best; I must give her my best struggle in return.

Then they swap sides. Nichole ties my right ankle and knee while Casey secures my right elbow. It just gets better! This time, when Casey finishes first, she trusses up my chest in a strong and heavily cinched harness that takes advantage of the chair’s design to squeeze my body against the back of the chair. Did I squeal with joy? The final clothesline wraps my waist to both the seat and the back of the chair; cinching again is the most important part. I am kidnapped and helpless!

“She is so freaking happy,” Nichole smiles and masks herself with a green bandana.
“She certainly is,” Casey grabs a roll of pink duct tape to squeeze my face.
“Nmmmm!” I say when the tape first sticks down, but I love it!
“Just a few moments,” Casey fills my nose with the smell while wrapping my face.
“That’ll make her quiet,” Nichole laughs at my predicament.
“Mmmm mm mmmmmm!” I wail quite contentedly in my restricted state.
“That should do it!” my friend says before nibbling the tape to cut it after 7 layers.
“I love her soooo much!” my masked sister beams with pride.

Now is the time for that thing for which the CGC is best known: my friends are masked, and now it is time to take selfies with me, photos of me, and film of me. These are done so we can recall a happy moment in our lives. It is humiliating and enchanting.

I am happy when they take their selfies. Casey and Nichole are such good people, and being their captive is an honor. Being tied up is awesome, but it's even better when I love the people this much. I am having so much fun, and now it's time to really enjoy myself because they're filming me.

“Uhh-uhnk!” I squirm on the wheelchair, “Mmm mmm! Eeeeeee!”
“There, there, Gangsta Princess. You're going nowhere anytime soon,” Casey laughs.
“Nnnnnnnn! Let me go!” I said albeit quite unintelligibly in beautiful gag talk.
“She wants us to tickle her,” Nichole declares with a smile I can see despite the mask.
“Nooooooo!” I shriek, “No no noooo!’
“I like that idea!” the Gangsta Friend ends her film.

The shoes on my feet are essential to keeping me in place; the friction helps prevent me from wiggling. My belly, ribs, and armpits, however, are still vulnerable. I squeal and squirm and squeak as if my life counts on it. I act like I am desperate to escape; I am so excited though! Bring it on!

I love tickling. I can't stop them. I am forced to laugh until it hurts and even beyond. Their fingers assault my rib cage, my squishy armpits, and my soft belly. It's so good but so bad. I can't help myself; I love it so much. Keep it up, girls!

Speaking of these girls, they enjoy it too. Casey is a lot slower than Nichole; the cold is crippling her. It's sad to see her fingers moving like clubs, her legs being useless, and her speech coming out slurred. She doesn't complain about it; she accepts her lot in life and quietly trusts that God has a plan. Nichole genuinely loves tickling her captives, just like I enjoy receiving the torture. She might have a mask, but I know she’s grinning ear to ear underneath the green cloth!

Words cannot describe how much I love my family, my friends, cars, and TUGs, in that order. It could only be the divine that gave me such a happy life with people like Casey and Nichole; they are such good friends to me and I to them. Over the years since we were high school freshmen, I have grown to enjoy being tied up as my favorite way of spending time with friends. I love it!

“Unlock the wheels, and take us for a ride,” Casey sits on me!
“MMMMM!” I wail from the sudden weight of a girl 4 inches taller than me using me as a chair.
“All right,” Nichole laughs, “I’ll push you around the room. This isn’t your first chair, is it?”
“Oh, no,” Casey says while the chair moves, “We got this one so I could have my room back.”
“I think your folks left,” Nichole puts her ear against the door.
“Probably. Pop has work, and Mom probably went to get dinner from Colonel Sanders.”
“If you’re getting dinner, then let’s make this count before Jenny and I go.”
“Wheee!” I yell into Casey’s socks.

Don’t get me wrong; I love a dirty sock gag as much as anybody. I just am wary when the socks are not my own. Honestly, the taste of Casey’s socks isn’t bad, but it’s still humiliating and not as comfortable as being gagged with my socks. OK, I love it!

I’m tied up. I’m happy. I’m safe. I’m with good people. Casey and I are getting pushed around the house while all three of us laugh even if I’m crushed under Casey. The Gangsta Friend is a delight, and the Gangsta Queen is a pleasure. I feel so loved that I cannot put it into words. Just accept it when I say it: I love them.

“How was that?” Casey asks when the chair stops in her room again.
“Mmmmmm!” I squeal with a bright gaze at her happy eyes.
“See how you are? That’s how it was for me at one point,” she grows wistful.
“What do you mean?” Nichole asks.
“Mmmmm!” I groan because Casey is turning to be seated on my lap and hugging me.
“When I came home, it was to lie down in a semi-comatose state. When I could sit up, Pop would put me in the wheelchair while I wore socks and fuzzy pajamas, and he’d wheel me out to the living room and put me on the sofa while we did whatever. As silly as it sounds, I have more fond memories of the time I spent recovering from the stroke. How many 15 year old girls find themselves half dead from that? Here I am, and it’s good to be able to play TUGs again.”

This chair may be the Gangsta Friend’s physical support, but we girls are her moral support. She has such a big heart, a heart of gold. She truly makes such a big difference in the lives of those around her. None of us knew just how big of things she was going to accomplish over the next 18 or so months.

We had so much fun listening to Casey tell her story with such animation. It was hard for me of all people to forget considering how many times I visited her when she was sick. Love knows no limits. Watching Casey mature through her suffering was a privilege, and it is a privilege to sit here as her captive.

“Casey! I’m home! I bought extra for your friends, too!” Mom Clark shouts.
“Well, come on, Nichole, let’s get her out of this!” Casey says.
“Oh, boy, I love fried chicken,” Nichole almost bounces.
“Mmmmm!”

With that happy note, it’s time to end this little story.

THE END