Momma and Me (F/F)

[AlexUSA3]

This one I heavily adjusted and reordered to be less top-heavy and remove some of the unnecessary weight and details.

Momma and Me (F/F)

Life was hard for us after Papa was taken away, and Momma and I struggled for many years. Life was still better here than back in Russia, not that I remember it. Oh, where to begin? It's a long story that ends with tearful hugs, the story of how my family, once one, broke, and became one again.

Through my rowing teammates, I discovered TUGs. A friendship grew between those teammates and I that continues to this day, and I even told Momma of my joy at this new game. Momma had her own joy of dating to seek remarriage, and we shared our new joys with each other.

“They tie and gag each other? Isn't that sex game?” she asked me.
“Some people make sex games of it, but most of them don't. These girls are different, Momma; they actually care about me like my friends at church.”
“All right, I hear happiness instead of homesickness. Maybe these friends will be a blessing.”
“They already have been, Momma,” I never hid my heart from Momma nor she from me.

Forgive our grammar. The Russian language, which I speak almost exclusively with so many friends and family, has no articles. Our conversations are translated literally.

I discovered soon that I loved, most of all, to be tied up with old scarves I no longer wore out of the house. In fact, Momma not only approved of rope games, but she even would occasionally surprise me, when I was home, by tying me up with my scarves whilst I slept. I am not a heavy sleeper, but loving touches do not wake me so easily. Soon, Momma became very good at this, and during breaks she frequently would tie me up because she knew it was my favorite game.

I worked a long morning and early afternoon shift at McDonald’s one day during my second summer home from college; I had worked this job since I was 14. On this particular day, I returned home, changed clothes, went to the gym with friends, and came home very tired. This late July day was stressful for me as the anniversary of the death of my dear godmother, Tetja Natalya. I wore a black knee skirt, a loud blue t-shirt, as it was Tetja’s favorite color, and, on my head, a black bandana kerchief. I almost always wore my hair in a braid, and the hair tie I used was a blue that matched my shirt.

I was tired after so much work and knew Momma would be home soon. That night, I was to go to Papa’s for dinner with him and my half-sister and half-brother, and I flopped on my stomach on my bed and dozed off in haste from exhaustion. I had no idea that the plans had changed, or, truthfully, been kept from me. It was very hot, and I didn't even turn on the AC when I entered.

Momma was sneaky as a cat. I never felt her tie my wrists and ankles, and she woke me up by jerking on the second of those knowing I was already helpless. Used to this, I only gave a slight yelp of surprise and opened my eyes. A smile dawned upon my normally flat face; this had all been planned because Momma knew today was, and would be, a very hard day for me.

“Momma, you are kidnapping me, your only child?” I asked in perfect Russian as she wrapped a scarf around my arms just above my elbows.
“I don't think of it as kidnapping because I am making you happy.”
“It makes me happy,” I grunted as she pulled it tight to cinch, “I like tight scarf ties.”
“My daughter, you are so silly sometimes,” she wrapped between my arms.
“Me? Silly? I am dreadfully serious,” I correct her as she knots it.
“You do not show it, but you are an anxious girl about many things. It makes me fearful.”

I remembered the tears I shed earlier that summer when I confessed to her that I had seduced my boyfriend into sleeping with me after I had tied myself up. Never had I seen her cry over my actions, and she admitted she suspected based on how I spoke of him for a brief period. Still, she permitted me to play TUGs both at home and with my friends. Now was an example of this.

My body was tied up very well. Momma tied my forearms with a scarf before she tied one each on either side of my teats and one at my waist. Before this, she pulled my shirt up and revealed my matching bright blue sports bra. She also tied my legs very well on either side of my knee caps and below my panties, under my skirt for both thigh ties. She knew me too well; she took off my sneakers and socks. As I taught her, one sock went inside another with a red bandana tied around the opening of the outer sock. As I was taught by my friends, so I taught her.

“These smell terrible from you being so active,” she grimaced at the stench.
“It's OK. I don't mind a little humiliation,” I returned to my usual flat face and sat up.
“Nice knowing you,” she jammed them into my mouth.
“Mmmph,” I grimaced a little at the taste while she knotted the bandana.
“You like it so much. Your happiness makes me happy too,” she kissed me, “I’ll go shower and come back, OK? First a few things.”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Eww, Samantha Evangelina, you really should spray these things,” Momma commented on my sneakers.

Momma took two more scarves from my drawer and also some rubber bands from heads of broccoli. She forced me to my stomach on my bed, and she tied my ankles to my hands so they touched. Then she wrapped the other scarf around my braid so that they were intertwined, and she tied that to my wrists as well so my head was forced high. One rubber band wrapped twice around my big toes, and, as a test, another was wrapped around my palms at the base of my thumbs. She put my smelly sneaker over my nose and tied the laces behind my head and around my braid. Momma kissed me on the head, took some pictures and videos with my phone, and left me alone.

I am so happy when tied up and like it more than anything else except Church. I am not excellent at escaping, so it's a real challenge, and I discovered soon that scarves were the one thing I could not escape. Momma took advantage of this and, despite learning how to tie me with ropes and tapes, always tied me with scarves when she had a surprise for me so that I couldn't spoil the surprise. We played many, many games during our time together because we did not talk too much anyway; company was sufficient for us.

I now realized how hot and tired I was and how much I longed for some cool air, but I was now Momma’s captive and wouldn't be going anywhere on account of the scarves that now did her bidding. When tied by Momma, I never knew how long it could be as she had once kept me captive for most of a day while she finished and wrapped my Christmas present this past winter. I hoped she would not do that with my socks in my mouth like this.

Imagine getting up, getting ready to go to work at a McDonald’s with a shift starting at 7AM, getting off at 2, going home, changing your clothes, going to the gym with your friends, coming home around 3:30, taking a nap, and waking up to your Momma kidnapping you. Those socks were in my mouth. Yummy yummy yummy? I do not think so, but humiliation was a powerful drug to me.

Very warm conditions made me quite the wet and stinky girl captive from before I had become the girl captive. My socks served me a very piquant treat that I would easily remember for much time, but I had a rowing teammate who was worse without doubt. My bed became discolored from water pouring off my body, and I was shiny when I saw myself in my mirror. My sneaker was absolutely malodorous.

Life isn't funny until you look in a mirror and see yourself tied up and with a sneaker over your face. I briefly wished my friends were there because then I would get a good spanking and a bad tickling to go with it. There was a day, similar to today, with instead my hero being the one who surprised me and tied me up and took me away to her apartment for the day, and that was but a few weeks before this. I will tell this yarn another time.

Scarves can be tight as rope, but scarves have the advantage because I do not wish to ruin them by picking the fabric apart or cutting them. My baby soft skin ate any and all binding and sprang back whether for rope, tie wraps, scarves, tape, cuffs, cinches, ratchets, or anything else friends used on me. I was very bendable and had elbows tied with comical ease.

Hogties are OK, but hair ties are uncomfortable and exciting. Nothing makes blood flow through me like a hair tie or hair pulling except a hogtie choke, but I do not tell Momma about that. There is this constant pull on your hair that in turn pulls on your scalp, and it is a jerk of slight pain but mostly an increasingly uncomfortable thing. A hogtie was probably my favorite thing even without choking and hair pulling.

Naturally, I am a quiet, tight-lipped girl. Even while tied up, I don't say much unless I am first spoken to, and I did not make much noise even though I experienced all of the emotions of being in my position like a more talkative person. Just because I am not grunting or wild eyed does not mean I am not excited; I struggle like I am excited.

Pulls of my legs in an attempt to find any slack Momma left in my scarves only made me pull on my hair in an exciting, fun way. I warmed from this, and profuse sweating followed thereafter. I tried to shimmy my arms, but I only pulled on my ankles and my hair. It all felt so good, and I felt my heart hasten ever so slightly although, in general, I maintained a poise.

Again, I looked in the mirror. Dark colored bandanas such as the black one I wore are not so good for people who get excited by the sight of their own bondage; I cannot see the bandana absorbing the sweating like I could with my bright ones that slowly darken and discolor from the water. I never thought too much about appearance, but even I thought I looked cute like this.

Taking a deep breath was a mistake. What an awful stench! Momma was right! I needed to spray my shoes after I took them off. I let out my first truly loud groan when I then moved my tongue and doubled my foot odor with my foot flavor. That wasn’t such a good idea! Double whammies are so exciting though!

Most of the time, I enjoy my captivity. All of my motions are to ensure I can either escape or am truly helpless. I don’t move much like some people do because my motions are deliberate, like I am. Momma enjoys it more when I move a lot, and being poor it was fun to finally have a game we could play together in our own home besides using a deck of cards.

Attempting to push the socks out with my tongue wasn’t such a good idea either. How awful my feet tasted! My understanding of the body is terrible, and how such tastes and smells could come from my own body was beyond my comprehension. I attempted anything though to be as much of a troublesome captive as I could for Momma’s sake. From love, I wanted her to have fun, too.

Now, I was very warm and grateful that Momma had rolled my shirt up. If we are playing as part of another game or simply for fun, I normally take my shirt off first. She could not do that if I slept while she grabbed me though! I flopped on my side and, as best as I could, looked in the mirror and saw my chest taut and revealing my ribs very well from a childhood of hunger.

Hair ties become painful with time, and this one was no different. Flopping on my side removed gravity from the problem even though it was less comfortable for my neck. You need to make sacrifices to make gains. There was also relief on my wrists from the hogtie. So much pain was found, but it was good pain that filled me with joy and excitement.

Finally, I took a deep breath and tested the rubber bands. Mama never tied my toes in any other way than the rubbers, and she had on occasion used them to completely tie my fingers in one hand to their counterpart from my other hand. She had also done this to my toes for a nasty frogtie. I do not know why Momma enjoyed tying me so, but I think she enjoyed it as it made me happy and was symbolic of how I was such a willing captive of her heart.

When you're tied up, whether kidnapped or volunteered, by someone you love and trust, and they do nothing you wouldn't like, it builds love and trust more than any other game or activity. I knew I was safe and wouldn't get hurt by Momma or by my friends, especially not Momma. Momma and me had a special bond after such a long time living as we did, and nothing could compare to it.

Those socks in my mouth were disgusting, and it was so embarrassing to be sucking on the vile, sweat soaked cotton, but I sucked on worse before and after this day. Yes, it can get worse than just your own socks or even someone else's socks. Trust me. I loved being forced to handle the stewing of the fabric in my own mouth and being unable to do anything about it. Best was when the socks were held with a harness or tape because I could not push them out no matter how much I tried.

My sneaker was a bonus, really. Being forced to smell anyone's shoe is unpleasant and humiliating, but best is your own because it is a familiar smell. I tried to shake it off, but Momma had been efficient when she tied the laces. Every breath I took was accompanied by the smell of those hours of work and exercise, built up over 4 years of wearing this same pair. It was truly terrible, and being unable to remove it was so frustrating at moments when I wished to take a deep breath of fresh air.

Then I looked in the mirror yet again and rolled back onto my stomach. Vanity wasn't a struggle of mine, but I did think I was cutest when tied up while wearing short skirts like I presently wore. In Cool Girls’ Club, the girls nicknamed me “Gangsta Row” for wearing bandanas as they do and for being a rower, and I joyfully accepted the name. I was Samantha to Momma, Evangelina to my church family, and Sammy to friends and family, and Gangsta Row to my TUG buddies,

Momma finally came out of the shower after a mere 15 minutes, and she turned the AC on for us to be cool. She walked over to the bed where I was, sat down next to me, and undid the hair tie first and the hogtie second. She sat me up, and I could tell she had something to tell me.

“Samantha, I have to tell you something about my date. It's not much of date.”
“Hmmm?” I looked at her quizzically as she removed the shoe from my face.
“You see… things are different now. Proof has been made. Samantha, I love you and hope you are not angry with me.”
“Mmm mmm mmm?” I tried to question and instead got a taste of sweaty gym socks.
“My daughter, man I am seeing tonight, is your father.”
“Omma!” then I screamed loudly, “NOOOOOOOO!”

Martin Räänta, Papa, lived a bad life before he met Momma. He fell in love with Momma, Katerina Lagunova, his first lawful wife, and I was his first legitimate child. We left Russia when I was one year old. To make a long story short, Papa was a bad father and husband, and the police took him away. Shortly after, Momma and Papa divorced. It was during a big hail storm that Papa, in a drunken rage, did what he did to me, and to this day, I am scared of thunderstorms and will hide under a bed or in a closet during storms.

Over the years, despite the divorce, Papa would call and ask for me and send me letters and birthday cards and birthday gifts. I refused anything that had to do with him to the extent that it made Momma cry with sorrow because even she, a battered woman at his hands, felt so bad for him. She took to repackaging his presents in an effort to sneak them to me, and that Christmas I sat in a huff with my few presents as I could not decide which one was the reject and decided to reject all of them! The bad part, I discovered later, was that Papa had truly changed, and I was ripping his heart out of his chest and crushing it into the ground.

Godmother Natalya was my one spot of joy. She was my baptismal sponsor, and she moved here shortly before Papa was taken away. She brought much happiness, and I always cherish the times Tetja Natalya and I went to lunch together. Then the stroke came, and I still remember every detail of her memorial and burial like yesterday. I mourned her like a family member and wore black for all 40 days after her passing, even while working, at school, and at practice.

It was with great joy that Momma became a U.S. citizen, and soon after I followed with similar joy. I was 14 then but was resistant to accepting change even though I never knew any other place besides this one. I remember Momma letting me wear my USA flag bandana to church that Sunday even though it was a bit prideful. I wanted all of my family and friends at church to share in my joy, and Tetja Natalya beamed as she told me that it was rare to see me smiling and that she was happy I had accepted our home country as my country like Momma and she. I had accepted this change; I had to accept Papa’s change, no?

Freshman year of college brought harsh realities: my father needed me for real. He was dying of liver failure, and he begged Momma to let him see his little girl one more time. I did more than that; I gave him part of my own liver so that he could live. When I finally saw him, I realized he was not the man who had thrown me into the wall so many years ago. He was a changed man for the better, but I was a leery girl. I distrusted him a little for a time. Soon, we had a new relationship, and I mired in guilt of not being better to him all that time. Now a sudden widower, he moved back here to Madison to be near me, his daughter.

All the anger and hatred came back to me in this moment despite having, with my own eyes and ears, seen the changed man he was now. The man I knew now was incapable of the sins he did then, but I held firm to my olden self and cried like I cried when Tetja Natalya died, the same tears of the teenage me on her knees on the floor of a hospital burying herself against her mother's dress as they stood in the hallway outside the room, shrieking and bawling loudly and, for a moment, seeming to hate this life. Now, instead, I was bound and gagged and on my knees on the floor of my own bedroom, bawling and shrieking into my own socks, burying my face against my mother's dress.

“Samantha, you need some time alone to calm down,” Momma said and reached into my bag.
“Omma, how hou ou?” I asked her.
“Calm down, my daughter,” she started wrapping duct tape around my head.
“No! No! Nooooo!” I remembered being thrown into the wall 16 years before.
“I am sorry, Samantha, for your sorrow, but please try to give Papa a chance.”

Momma did not listen to my complaints though and crushed my head in seven layers of duct tape, a fantastic and tight gag on top of my stuffing cleave gag. Each layer was a little tighter than the one before it, and I could hear my bawling become less and less audible. Then, Momma grabbed a yellow bandana from my TUG bag and wrapped it over my eyes to blindfold me with another tight knot. Momma opened my tiny closet, pulled me into it so that I was squished on the floor with my knees in my chest. Another scarf wrapped around my knees and thighs in order to force me into a type of ball tie. After Momma had checked each and every knot of my bonds and put my shoe over my face, she shut the door and left me alone.

Godmother Natalya would have been so disappointed with me like Momma was. I was putting myself first, and I behaved like a spoiled child as I screamed and crashed against the walls of my closet. All I did was remember the pain of childhood without thinking of the many good memories that had been made in the past year. Then I recalled the words Tetja Natalya, eternal be her memory, told me about Papa.

“He was a good man who became bad. Give him his due as your father and keep your body, mind, and soul safe. You may well be what makes him choose the road to being a saint or the road to being damned.”

Oh, how I wanted to sit with her and hear her wisdom again! Tetja, I missed her so much! I cried more and in so doing forced more and more of my flavorful socks onto my tongue. The sorrow of the anniversary of her passing filled my soul so much that I almost forgot I was tied up in my own closet, gagged and blindfolded. This was the day I truly transformed from a teenager into a young adult.

Momma loved me so much. She knew me, her daughter, so well. This was Momma’s great act of love to me, by leaving me in this tight situation in this tight space where I kept only dresses and a few other things. This news was devastating to me, and she expected such a burst into hysteria and traumatic recollection of the past.

My socks seemed doubly disgusting to me now. I was truly silenced by the tape now, and I do not think Momma could hear anything except me slamming myself off the walls. How naughty I was for a girl who had turned 20 just a month before this! How awful I was behaving! I could not believe that my mother had done this to me! All I imagined was now being beaten just like she had been, only now instead of a 4 year old being tossed against a wall by a 37 year old man while her 31 year old mother watched in horror it would be a 20 year old getting beaten, just as her mother had, by a 53 year old man, while her 47 year old mother watched in that same horror.

How selfish I was! How unforgiving my soul was! The babushkas and matushkas and priests at church, Tetja, and Momma, they all chided me so much for my cold refusal to forgive, for being rude to visitors and potentially pushing them away from the Church forever, for not loving those who needed love, sometimes at the time they needed me to love them. How many children did not get the friend they sought? How many people, coming to me as a 16 year old standing in our church hall helping prepare the lunch, walked out of the building to never return because I faked not knowing how to speak English rather than answer their questions? I was a cruel, bitter girl.

Then I suddenly remembered my summer vacation. I had traveled with two of my friends from school and the sister of one of those girls. At the start of the trip, I thought that sister was quite a sad person by her own choice, and together that summer we had learned many things, among our many lessons, the power of forgiveness. The lessons I had been taught so well that I could teach others, but I never learned them in my own right! What would my friends think, all of them, not just those few, if they saw me acting this way?!

“Samantha Evangelina Räänta, please learn to forgive before you finally hurt yourself or, worse, your mother,” I heard the voice of one babushka.

Today, the day had come. I had hurt myself, and if I did not stop soon I would hurt my mother. Momma was not one to rush headlong into danger; she had survived the USSR. What a foolish girl I could be. I continued to cry a bit, but I cried more out of guilt for what I had done to the person who loved me most. Then I dried my tears; the blindfold did most of it for me.

Only a loving Momma would do this to her daughter. She knew I felt safe from all cares of my life when I was bound and gagged by her or my friends. The tape was to keep me quiet so that I would have to be alone with my thoughts; the blindfold was because she knew I’d be crying so long; the tight tie was so that I would not be violently throwing myself about the closet. Momma had planned it all so perfectly, and she had even added the socks and shoe to capture more senses to lessen my burden.

“-oh-a!” I tried to call out to her, but I was gagged too tightly for her to hear me.

The image of Papa lying in a hospital, dying, and shocked when I volunteered to give him a part of my own liver so that he could live filled my mind. How could I so easily forgive him at that first meeting in 15 years yet so easily hate him today one year later? If I did not love him in a way, I would not have done that; I have always been too selfish. Perhaps my whole life I have truly been longing for such a day to come?

My mind calmed finally, and my focus turned to the present, my bondage. As the shackles of my mental bondage released, the physical bondage again dominated the moment. I wondered what my friends would think of my predicament. I could imagine vividly how each would react, but it did not change that I was stuck. I let out another yell into my gag, but Momma did not hear me. Most likely, she had put a timer for me and would either ignore me or do something noisy, as I heard the fan in the kitchen roaring loudly. I kicked the wall a little, but it did no good as well. My scarves, my beloved scarves, bound me well, and the helplessness excited me. I enjoyed the old scarves so much that I put them in the bag I brought with me when I went to school and to the homes of my TUG friends.

Here I was a Russian girl, dressed like a Russian girl, and bound and gagged and blindfolded in the most Russian way possible. The imprisoning embrace of the fabric suddenly became, to me, a stark symbol of the imprisoning embrace of my mother’s love. Just as I let out a happy moan and took a deep breath, I was reminded of the socks in my mouth and the shoe on my face! So gross yet so good!

I struggled in my dark prison of love, my mother’s truly Christian love for her daughter. A push against the scarves by clenching my arm muscles demonstrated I could not budge an inch, but it would have nicely shown off my muscles if there had been any witnesses! I had experienced a multitude of emotions and feelings, but soon Momma opened the door.

“You’ve been through much in just 30 minutes, haven’t you?” she removed the blindfold.
“Hmmm?” I could not believe that all this had happened in so little time.
“Now, have you changed your mind? If not, Papa and I will wait longer.”
“Mmm,” I nodded slowly and confidently and wiggled my arms asking to be untied.
“Then, you need to get ready to go to Papa’s and see what Annie [my younger half sister Anneli] has made for you.”

Momma removed the rubber bands and untied me one scarf at a time. First she undid the ball tie, then my waist, then my teats, then my lower legs, then my upper legs, and my arms last so that we would enjoy the moment as long as possible. I gingerly unpeeled the tape from my face, and the residue remained strong on my face. There was no avoiding this. The scarves had left deep marks in my arms.

“Maybe I should go see my friends instead?”
“Or maybe you share joy of your favorite game with your sister?”
“Momma!” I was shocked, “Annie is only 13!”
“Wasn’t that girl you’ve admired so long playing when she was 7?” Momma shot me down.
“Perhaps, I will bring bag of scarves with me?” a wry smile replaced my frown.
“That’s spirit.”

Momma knew how much it meant to me and truly wanted me to spread the joy of something that had transformed my life through the friendships it brought and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I then walked to my drawers and armoire and got things for a shower. Interesting wasn’t enough to describe that game I had just played or what happened with me and Annie that evening.

Something special happened that day. I found a renewed appreciation for my transformed Papa, and I began a new and very special relationship with my half-sister with whom I had only limited time from not growing up together at all. I felt sad for her and for her brother because their mom was dead. It was only the first step in the ladder, though, but we did develop a bond, intentional pun, that night.

You see, it worked. It was meant to be. That winter, two of my friends, who were sisters, were given the rites to join my church. One of them, some months later, married my cousin, and the next day, in a quiet ceremony, my mother and father were reunited in matrimony. A sneaky roll of duct tape at my rowing teammate’s hand had spurred all of this on and accidentally transformed the Räänta family. Without those friends I got, I never would have visited Papa, and my father would have been dead. Instead, my family was one again, and my half-siblings got to share in the blessings of my mother. Of course, Annie became a part of Momma’s surprises, and mine as well.

Thank you for reading my story of forgiveness, healing, and, naturally, TUGs.

THE END

[Lucky Lottie]

That's a wonderfully deep connection they have. I can also see the emergence of more fun games in the future with Annie

[hafnermg]

Very good story! I hope things go better for all of them from now on. And for more tugs:)!