Nichole and Me 2: The Human Taco (F/F)

[AlexUSA3]

Nichole and Me 2: The Human Taco
Saturday, March 21, 2020

I don't know why I love McDonald's and Taco Bell so much. I think they're associated with the way Momma and I loved each other in hard times. McDonald's and Taco Bell were our treats on the rare occasions we had the money to eat something from a "restaurant," and it felt right to eat like Americans instead of Russians for our treat. It sounds silly, but it's true.

I remember telling my priest, when I first started rowing, how I would not eat and be hungry in the hours after intense activity. He quite kindly and sternly ordered me to eat something full of protein and not to let the fasting rules to which I strictly adhere deter me from it. My health is a valuable thing, and I am not to misuse that. So, today I stopped at Taco Bell after my race.

I walk into the apartment in which I live with my landlady, Nichole, and her husband, Chris. The two of them are kind: they let me live here without paying rent out of kindheartedness toward my childhood destitution, so I may focus on my studies and rowing and also have time to bask in the friendship that they both provide. They pay the same for this two bedroom abode as they did for their old one bedroom, and Nichole has developed her own friendship with my mother.

I sit down and begin quietly eating my 12-pack of tacos. What I don't eat, I will eat another time or give to either Nichole or Chris. I'm wearing my rowing "uniform," which is navy gym shorts, a navy-and-white horizontal striped tank top, white crew socks, navy sneakers, and, of course, in a nod as much to my Orthodox upbringing as to being a Cool Girl, a navy bandana headband. It is an outfit that looks good, matches the team, represents the school, and looks like Sammy.

I tend to be a girl with little by way of obvious outward expression. Little curls of the lip are the most you get out of me. My platinum blonde hair with its brown streaks is in its usual braid held by a pair of white and navy scrunchies, and my glasses sit in their usual position on the bridge of my nose, strengthening the sight of my weak blue-gray eyes. I'm hard to read, but Nichole reads a book very well and reads me just as well as a book.

I've returned after a day of rowing competitions. Indoor competitions, to me, are harder than an outdoor competition, because there is an artificiality to using a rowing erg as opposed to the real boat. Ironically, the strength that makes me the best bench presser on the women's rowing squad also makes me the best in the school in erg-based competition. It's funny, and I embrace it even while blushing when I hear Nichole squealing my name with great excitement for my sake.

"You were wonderful," Nichole enters the room and sits on the table, putting a bag on the table.
"Is that," a little smile curls up on my limit, "my bag of scarves?" I take a bite of a taco.
"Yes, and when you're done eating, you'll become the human taco, complete with tasty filling."

I watch her point to my socks, socks that have been on my feet since I finished my shower about 9 hours ago, around 6:15 AM, right after I woke up at 6 sharp, like I do every day. They'd make a most humiliating gag, and I almost salivate at the thought of being gagged with them. The best TUGs are the most humiliating ones with tickling, spanking, and liberal use of dirty laundry. An obvious pause comes over my eating, and I close my eyes for a moment before resuming eating.

I know Nichole sees it all. We're in too close of subliminal communication; she sees everything and knows me too well. I can feel my heart rate increase every so slightly, which for me means a jump from like 50 BPM to like 55 BPM. It's the embarrassment, though. I flush when I realize I am craving being tied up after a hard day at rowing. Nichole reaches into the box and takes only one taco for herself, but she takes it and makes a show of unwrapping the soft-shelled creation. I prefer the soft tortillas as opposed to the corn shells, which makes the scarf-taco connection even more brilliant. I then light up in a smile, the kind of smile reserved for my dearest loved ones.

"I prefer the crunchy shells," Nichole seems unaware of the strength of her huma taco joke.
"Yes, but scarves are soft, my friend," I calmly deadpan without looking at her before stealing an innocent glance out of the corner of my eye and see the bemused look on her face, "Yummy and scrumptious tacos," I say, waiting to see how she'll react to my humor, "and cheesy socks."
"Bahhhh! Ha ha haaaaaa!" my friend cannot help herself.

While she laughs, let me identify Nichole as I see her. She sits here in her famous navy bandana, the one that led to her becoming the Cool Girls' Club Gangsta Queen as the one who first wore a bandana and liked it. From her, it spread through her friends, after many years including me as a privileged member of that circle of unconditional friendship. The bandan, a kerchief, goes with a pair of navy sweatpants and an icy blue turtleneck t-shirt. It's cold, but I'm dressed for rowing as a matter of function and unity with my team. She's a cozy individual dressed cozily. Her brown curls bob around her shoulders in kindness, and her brown eyes are deeply affectionate.

I now realize that I am sweaty. I am hot. I am tired. I am sore. I am ripe for being captured and bound and gagged by Nichole. I can feel the beads of water on my face. My hair is frizzy, but it is contained by the braid and my bandana. The thought of having my socks stuffed in my mouth is becoming increasingly pleasing to me, and I always cherish the moments of friendship she and I share. I'm now smiling while eating my eighth taco; I guess I'm a hungry girl.

"Gangsta Row, you are such a sweet girl. I love having you in my life," Nichole smiles brightly.
"I…," I blush a little before being strangely open, "Nichole, Gangsta Queen, I love you, too."
"Is the Row ready for her Queen to turn her into a human taco, though?" she asks mischievously.
"Yes," I finish the taco and close the box, "Use as many scarves as you like. I'm relaxed."
"My goal is for this bag to be as close to empty as possible," she looks at me and smiles

All of my TUG scarves are retired scarves that Momma, my cousins, and I retired from wearing in church. There are enough to thoroughly tie up two people because people like Nichole go to thrift stores and give me the scarves they find in there. It's a big collection, and we've had lots of fun with the scarves. I don't know why scarf bondage is my favorite except that it seems like the perfect way for a Russian girl to be tied. I overstate my Russian heritage. I'm a Räänta; my dad is Finnish; I was born in St. Petersburg; my parents moved to America when I was 1 year old.

The first scarf arrives shortly after I stand up, tying my wrists together behind my back. It's the touch of the human that I notice most, their techniques for wrapping and cinching and knotting the scarf. I bend like rubber, so elbow ties will be easy. I can't help but smirk while Nichole is doing this, and I giggle a little when she knots it. Giggle? Am I that comfortable that I do that which I only do when Momma ties me when she and I are alone? This is true friendship. How much trust I have for this girl I met only 2 and a half years ago! I don't even flinch as a scarf is used to crush my elbows together behind my back. I guess I'm a tough Gangsta Row.

"Sit down for me," Nichole motions to the chair, and I sit down without a complaint.

She unknots my sneakers and pulls my socks off my feet. This is going to be scrumptious. My socks are inveigled in a huge scarf that Nichole tightly knots, inescapably trapping the socks in the package. I don't protest and accept the large wad, and Nichole then wraps the long tails of the big behind my head for a single knot and wraps it around my head once for a double cleave gag before double knotting it behind my head. It's a slow release gag: as my saliva moistens the scarf, there will come a point, likely before Nichole finishes binding me, when the flavor of the socks will "hit me like a box of rocks," as the saying goes. So humiliating and wonderful.

"Gmmmm!" is mostly all I can say now, and I don't say it much but love saying it when I do.
"Hmm, how many more scarves will bind my sweaty human taco," Nichole says, using a scarf to tie my ankles together, "and ensure that the strong, victorious rower is mine and mine alone?"
"MMMMM!" I help her thrust us into a game; she's stealing me from Momma forever!
"Yes, my dear," she tightens the ankle bond and cinches it well, "You will become my Sammy!"
"Nmmmmm!" I shake my head, but she is knotting the scarf, "Nm mmm mmmmmmm!"
"I'm sorry, my beloved Gangsta Row," she starts tying my legs above the knees, "But my mind's set on this. You will become mine," the Gangsta Queen playfully chortles, "And only mine!"

This is how I play with Nichole and whenever my sisters or mother are involved. Plots are made up on the fly to bring artificial drama to the situation and to accompany the TUGs. Bondage is a fun thing, but TUGs are wonderful. They are distinct, and TUGs are a favorite in my home since it is interactive and creative and allows us to explore submission and domination in safe ways. It is a favorite, and I never know when Momma—or Nichole—will surprise me by initiating TUGs.

Nichole moves with playful, careful, smooth motions. She ties my thighs three more times going up to my waist. She ties my lower legs three more times above my ankles, up to my knees. It's a good feeling to be increasingly helpless, and I'm shimmying my legs to test it out. My gag nears that dreadful, wonderful, delightful, awful point where I will start to taste those horrible socks. It seems incredible to have four scarves on each leg segment, but overkill is beautiful.

"Mmmmm! Mmmmmm!" I playfully protest Nichole's traitorous actions while she ties me up.
"No hope, Gangsta Row. You're now mine and no longer your mothers, my athletic beauty."
"Mmmmm!" I repeat my desperate pleas, "Mmmmmmm!"
"You may talk as much as you wish," she squeezes my cheek for a moment, "Uselessly talk."
"Ugghh!" the first taste of socks that went through a day of rowing competitions hits my tongue.
"Does that taste good, my Russian beauty? I am sure it does," the Queen knots another scarf.

My friend and landlady moves to my torso, stopping me from calmly twisting my arms like I've been the entire time. A scarf ties my arms below the elbow, and a scarf goes at the middle of my forearms. I like how thorough she is and how she crosses from thorough to overkill. This is way too much fun for something seemingly mundane, but for me it's evolved into a moment in which we display the depths of our friendship. My socks taste terrible, and soon they will taste worse.

"Mmmmmmmm!" I groan in resistance, trying to whip her with my braid, but it's useless.
"I see the sweaty Gangsta Row Samantha Evangelina Räänta thinks she can escape me!"
"Unk!" I stand up and try to hop away, but she easily reels me into her arms once again.
"You will be punished," she spanks me twice and grabs more scarves on me.
"Nmm mmmmmmm!" my wails are exaggerated yet calm like me, "Mmmmmm!"
"Stop it!" she laughs at my repeated whippings because braid whipping is like a pillow fight.

Nichole intensifies things now. She takes a long scarf and wraps it as another cleave gag with three wraps around my head, shoving the initial gag further into my mouth. She double knots it behind my head one and then double knots it a second time to trap my braid against my head. It is a perfect step to take and one of which Momma would approve. A scarf wraps around below my boobs to pin my arms to my chest. She repeats it above my boobs and then at my waist for her assertion of control in this fun little scenario which she has created.

"Mmmmmmmm!" I try but no longer can twist my arms, and she has more scarves.
"Sammy, my Russian beauty," she says and ties a babushka style scarf on my head, knotting it beneath my chin much like the stereotypical Russian old women do, "It's a start."
"Mmmmmm!" is all I can say while she adds a big triangular OTN gag to trap one of my stinky sneakers over my nose so that I must filter my breaths through it, "Ukkkkk!"

She ties the next scarf like a classic kerchief, knotted under the hair, but she pulls it down so far that it covers my eyes. Another babushka scarf follows, and then she adds another cleave gag. I am a Russian scarf girl who is a damsel in distress. Such is life, and Nichole is satisfied with this and tenderly lies me down upon the sofa so I may struggle and enjoy my stinky, tasty captivity.

She knows I desire more, though, and she sits me up once again, although now on the sofa. She adds another OTN gag, another babushka scarf, another head scarf blindfold, and one last scarf, another cleave gag. I am a Russian girl in a very Russian bondage. Back onto the sofa I go, on my stomach, and she sits on me as if I'm a human chair. It is tight, fun, and affectionate.

"Mmmmmm!" I protest and struggle, getting massive bursts of nasty, sweaty sock flavor.
"Now you are all mine, my beloved Sammy. I'll keep you forever," Nichole sneers in character.
"Nmmmm!" I squirm in the bondage, but my struggles are useless and only for show.
"My little Sammy taco… all wrapped in scarves and her mouth stuffed with a dainty!"
"Hmph," I roll my eyes, but it is quite the dainty which I permitted to be used to gag me.
"Truth be told, Samantha… I feel privileged to be your landlady," Nichole shifts the tone.

For some reason, scarf bondage stymies me more than any other. I don't know why. Tape, rope, cinches, and zips all do less to ensure my continued captivity than scarves. It sounds silly, yes; I cannot explain it except that perhaps no binding makes me feel so safe and loved like scarves, so I relax too much. That's not much, but it's the best I can offer you. I apologize for such a lousy explanation of this truth. Nichole and Momma do it well, and both love me even if differently.

It's undeniable that I love Nichole and her husband as people I trust to protect and cherish me the way that gives my mother the assurance that I am in safe, loving hands. The Gangsta Queen has a strange love for me that began the day we met. She saw someone special in the shy Russian at the moment our eyes made contact, and she wanted to protect me. She really has protected me at times, and I'm grateful that I have her and her husband's friendship. How many women are able to trust their husband alone with a bound and gagged girl? Nichole and I can, for sure.

"Mmmmmm!" I squirm, getting a massive shot of flavor from the dainty in my mouth, "Blugh!"
"Aww, you only wore those socks for 9 hours and did rowing competitions in them, my beautiful Navy Blue Gangsta Row," she made a reference to my bandana headband, hidden by the scarves.
"Gmmm mmmmm!" I fight, deliberately forcing myself to taste the socks and the scarf in which they are entangled, although the scarf is merely soft and silky, while the socks are horrible.
"Struggle, my big strong captive; struggle," Nichole whispers in my hidden ear, "It's useless."
"GMM MMMMMM! MMMMMMMM!" I loudly yell into the gag while trying to buck her.
"Ha ha! You're energetic still despite working so hard," my captor breaks character in laughter.
"GMMMMMM!" I shake my head, breathing through my horrid, stink sneaker, which filters all the air I breathe now both against my will and in keeping with my will, "AUGGGGHHHH!"

I thrash so much that it is exhausting, but soon I am being cuddled. Cherished. Kissed. Loved. Nuzzled. Adored. Pet. Teased. I have become an integral part of her life, and oh how we share a common bond. You see, both of us were abused by our fathers, albeit my abuse was a one-time innocent that led to genuine compunction and a change in my father's heart for the better. While I love my father, it took me longer to forgive him than he deserved. Nichole's dad was a monster who hated her needlessly, and she systematically suffered for years.

"GMMMMMMMM!" I squirm, but the scarves keep me in Nichole's loving bondage.
"My Sammy taco!" Nichole taunts me in the layers of scarves that make me her prisoner of love.
"NMMMMM!" I resist her beautiful love in the spirit of play, receiving horrid tastes and smells.
"Gangsta Row, I do love you!" teasing gives way to affectionate hugs and cuddles.
"GMMM MM MMMMMM!" my struggles are weakening because I am tired.
"And you're all mine!" she whispers in my ear as if her words are sinister and not affectionate.

It is time for this game to end. One by one, the scarves come off my head and body until all that remains is what is essential: the original gag holding my socks in my mouth and the bonds at my ankles, thighs, wrists, and elbows. I stand up to look into Nichole's face with nothing to be seen except my love for her. I'm barefoot, and my socks still taste terrible. I'm safe and happy, and I am loved. Friendship like this can never be broken, and I hop in place, starting a new chapter of our game. Most likely, she will give me a shower, but that's for adult stories. A simple day of us being us has turned into something both of us will remember forever.

Nichole, I love you.

THE END

[hafnermg]

Great story!! I love the scarf bondage, and these two are incredible together!!