tkl-pen
1st Level Orange Feather
- Joined
- Dec 30, 2001
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THE TICKLISH TRAVELS OF RACHEL COOK
PART FOUR – THAILAND
Rachel’s flew on to Thailand from her stop in Shanghai. She still had some pain in her most private parts from the various dildos that had worked on her the night before in the research laboratory. Some of those dildos like the dildo of the ox, the tiger and the horse were enormous. At least, they were all thoroughly lubricated and probably didn’t do any damage to her insides. The tickling had been terrible – a machine in the dark tickling all of her most sensitive places at once with her completely unable to move or even to call for help.
Having been in Thailand for a few days, Rachel had accumulated quite a lot of information and video footage about the cuisine of this beautiful country, not only in the capital city of Bangkok, but also in the resort city of Phuket. One of her main interests in Thailand, though, had been the birds nests that were so dreadfully expensive and used in Chinese cooking. These were swallows nests that were collected on cliffs high above the ground in limestone caves. Some people in Thailand made a great deal of money from this business, and they soon became aware that Rachel had been asking about the swallows nests everywhere she went.
She was invited to visit the actual limestone caves where the birds nest were collected and to see how it was done. Unfortunately, the invitation did not include Ed, her cameraman, because the boat was very small and there was only room for one extra person. It was an opportunity Rachel did not want to pass up, though, and she told Ed that she would be okay and to take the day off in Bangkok. She would meet him later that night, probably quite late, as the cliffs were some three hundred miles away from the capital. She put on her jeans and a red t-shirt and joined the gentleman who came to pick her up at the hotel.
It was quite a trip to reach the limestone cliffs, though, with a one-hour plane ride on Bangkok Airways turboprop plane, a forty five minute drive to the boat dock in one of the local villages, and then a ride in a motorized canoe to the actual caves where the cliffs were located, some miles offshore from the mainland. Thailand was so beautiful, she thought, but she had no idea some places were as remote as the nesting cliffs of the birds that produced the wonderful birds nests for soup and other delicacies.
When she entered the cave, she looked up at the cliffs some two hundred feet above her with the many birds flying about attending to their business. Her eyes went wide at the sight, as they often did, and she was simply agape with the view of these cliffs and the men who would climb on bamboo structures to reach them.
“Miss Cook,” said the man who had escorted her from Bangkok, “the business of harvesting and marketing the swallows nests is a very private one, as are the majority of the recipes used in their preparation. My associates in Bangkok and I would like to know why you are asking so many questions about our business.”
“I am the host of a cooking show in America,” she started.
“Wait just a moment, Miss Cook,” he said, “I hardly believe your present state of attire is conducive to a truthful and thorough interview. Would you be so kind as to remove your clothes for us, and then we can proceed.”
“What did you say,” she asked, looking at the six local men who had encircled her, “remove my clothes?”
“Yes, that is what I said,” he responded, “either you remove them, or these gentlemen will remove them for you.”
“What are you going to do,” she asked, as her trembling fingers removed each of her clothing pieces, her shoes, her t-shirt, her jeans, her bra and her panties.
“There,” she said defiantly, “are you happy now?”
“In part, Miss Cook,” he said, “now please hold out your arms.”
He fastened leather cuffs with chrome D-rings on each of her wrists and attached these to a leather thong which had been attached to the frame of one of the bamboo climbing structures. Her arms were then drawn up above her head until she was standing high up on her toes, her muscles straining under the tension of the position with her heels so high up off the ground. She started to sweat.
Two of the other men lifted her legs off the floor and backwards so that the man could fasten similar leather cuffs onto her ankles. These leather cuffs were also attached to a leather thong and Rachel now found herself hanging at a forty five degree angle with her feet up behind her and facing the floor. The strain on her arms, shoulders and upper back was considerable.
“Much better,” the man said, “now we can conduct a much more precise interview.”
“Fuck you,” said Rachel, “this hurts – let me go.”
“Aaaaaah, shit,” she screamed, as she felt the lash of a leather strap across the soles of her feet.
“Now, perhaps you would like to tell me why you have been making so many inquiries into our business.”
“Like I said, I am a cooking show host from America,” she said, as the next lash fell onto the soles of her feet, “aaaaah, please, that hurts!”
“Who do you work for, Miss Cook?”
“The culinary television network in America,” she said, screaming again as another last landed onto the soles of her feet, “aaaaah, shit, that hurts, please don’t!”
Rachel hung helplessly in her bonds as she took a total of fifteen lashes of the leather strap on the soles of her feet, another fifteen on the round cheeks of her ass, and a further fifteen on her breasts. She was a sweaty mess with her hair stuck to her face, her tears flowing down her cheeks, and her muscles sore from her position.
“You simply will not tell us the truth, will you, Miss Cook?”
“I am telling the truth,” she said, “I am the host of a cooking show in America and I’m touring the world looking for the best local foods to tell my viewers about. Nothing more than that, please believe me, I don’t work for any of your competitors or anyone else you need to worry about.”
“Well, Miss Cook, I’ll give you this much – you are persistent.”
One of the other men brought in a bowl with a thick, syrupy fluid, that looked very sweet. Using one of the tools that was normally applied to the swallows nests to remove them from the cliffs, the man generously and thickly applied the fluid to various parts of Rachel’s body, thickly applying it to her armpits, her breasts, her navel, and her genitals.
“As the whipping did not seem to gain us any further information, Miss Cook,” he said, “I thought perhaps we should let our guard dogs entertain you for a while.”
Rachel struggled and screamed as she saw the big guard dogs coming toward her, each of the four on a leash with a handler.
“These dogs love that sweet paste, made from various local fruits, that has been applied to your body. They will be happy to remove it for you.”
“Nohohoho, aaaaah, nohohoho,” Rachel screamed as the dogs licked the sweet, stickly paste from her breasts, “pleaheaheahease, nohoho.”
Her nipples were gorged with blood and so stiff they hurt as the two dogs continued to lick her breasts, helplessly dangling toward the ground. They particularly concentrated on her nipples as there was more sweet paste there than anywhere else.
“Oh, shihihihit,” she pleaded, “make them stohohohop.”
Another handler brought his dog into range. The big dog immediately stuck his tongue deeply into her belly button and began to lick off all of the sticky paste that had been forced deeply into her navel. Rachel bucked and struggled as she tried to lift her belly away from the dog’s ministrations. But it was to no avail – the dog continued to lick in and around her belly button and the forces of gravity never allowed her to lift her stomach away for more than a second or two.
“Ah, Gohohohod, pleaheahease stohohop!”
The last dog headed straight for her most private parts, licking all around Rachel’s pussy and forcing his tongue deeply inside to remove the sweet paste that had been forced inside her. Not only did the dog attend thoroughly to her vagina but also to her butt crack and her asshole, which had been liberally plastered with the sweet paste.
“Ohhh, shit, pleaheahease stohohop!”
“Alright, Miss Cook, what would you like to tell me then.”
“I can’t tell you anything,” she said, “I am only a cooking show host from America, honest, I don’t work for anybody other than that. I don’t know anything about your business. All I wanted was to get some new recipes.”
“If that’s going to be your story, Miss Cook, then I’ll just have to give you something to remember us, and our swallows up above, after you leave Thailand. We still have an hour or two before we have to leave for Bangkok.”
“No, please not the dogs,” said Rachel, as she saw another bowl of sticky paste being brought in.
“Oh no, Miss Cook, the dogs are quite satisfied now, each having had a sweet snack that you so graciously provided.”
“What’s that for then?”
“You, Miss Cook, are going to feed the birds – unfortunately your hands are tied up, though, and you will not be able to give the birds their seed that way.”
The man himself liberally applied the sweet, sticky paste to the soles of Rachel’s feet, covering them with the stickiness from her toes to her heels, across the soft soles and down the sides as far as they could. He then poured birdseed all over the now sticky soles of her feet until they were completely covered. Some of the seed that did not adhere to her feet dropped to the floor beneath her.
“Now, Miss Cook, I’ll just join the workers over there for a few drinks while you feed the birds. It will take them a few minutes to notice you, though, but don’t worry – the swallows will come.”
“Please, don’t do this!”
“Why not, Miss Cook, don’t you like animals? You are going to be closer to the swallows of Thailand than almost anyone has ever been.”
Rachel tried her best not to move, knowing that movement attracts attention. After several minutes, though, she saw a swallow beneath her pecking at the bird seed. A moment later, another, and then two more.
“Aaaah, Gohohohod, aaaaah,” she screamed, struggling violently in her bonds, as she felt dozens of swallows picking at the bird seed on the soles of her feet, including her soft insteps and between her toes. She screamed and screamed as the picking continued, finally passing out from the strain.
She later awakened outside of her hotel in Bangkok, her clothes having been put on for her, albeit in a dishevelled way. The man was right – she would remember the swallows for a long time to come – and she would never, ever eat birdsnest soup again.
PART FOUR – THAILAND
Rachel’s flew on to Thailand from her stop in Shanghai. She still had some pain in her most private parts from the various dildos that had worked on her the night before in the research laboratory. Some of those dildos like the dildo of the ox, the tiger and the horse were enormous. At least, they were all thoroughly lubricated and probably didn’t do any damage to her insides. The tickling had been terrible – a machine in the dark tickling all of her most sensitive places at once with her completely unable to move or even to call for help.
Having been in Thailand for a few days, Rachel had accumulated quite a lot of information and video footage about the cuisine of this beautiful country, not only in the capital city of Bangkok, but also in the resort city of Phuket. One of her main interests in Thailand, though, had been the birds nests that were so dreadfully expensive and used in Chinese cooking. These were swallows nests that were collected on cliffs high above the ground in limestone caves. Some people in Thailand made a great deal of money from this business, and they soon became aware that Rachel had been asking about the swallows nests everywhere she went.
She was invited to visit the actual limestone caves where the birds nest were collected and to see how it was done. Unfortunately, the invitation did not include Ed, her cameraman, because the boat was very small and there was only room for one extra person. It was an opportunity Rachel did not want to pass up, though, and she told Ed that she would be okay and to take the day off in Bangkok. She would meet him later that night, probably quite late, as the cliffs were some three hundred miles away from the capital. She put on her jeans and a red t-shirt and joined the gentleman who came to pick her up at the hotel.
It was quite a trip to reach the limestone cliffs, though, with a one-hour plane ride on Bangkok Airways turboprop plane, a forty five minute drive to the boat dock in one of the local villages, and then a ride in a motorized canoe to the actual caves where the cliffs were located, some miles offshore from the mainland. Thailand was so beautiful, she thought, but she had no idea some places were as remote as the nesting cliffs of the birds that produced the wonderful birds nests for soup and other delicacies.
When she entered the cave, she looked up at the cliffs some two hundred feet above her with the many birds flying about attending to their business. Her eyes went wide at the sight, as they often did, and she was simply agape with the view of these cliffs and the men who would climb on bamboo structures to reach them.
“Miss Cook,” said the man who had escorted her from Bangkok, “the business of harvesting and marketing the swallows nests is a very private one, as are the majority of the recipes used in their preparation. My associates in Bangkok and I would like to know why you are asking so many questions about our business.”
“I am the host of a cooking show in America,” she started.
“Wait just a moment, Miss Cook,” he said, “I hardly believe your present state of attire is conducive to a truthful and thorough interview. Would you be so kind as to remove your clothes for us, and then we can proceed.”
“What did you say,” she asked, looking at the six local men who had encircled her, “remove my clothes?”
“Yes, that is what I said,” he responded, “either you remove them, or these gentlemen will remove them for you.”
“What are you going to do,” she asked, as her trembling fingers removed each of her clothing pieces, her shoes, her t-shirt, her jeans, her bra and her panties.
“There,” she said defiantly, “are you happy now?”
“In part, Miss Cook,” he said, “now please hold out your arms.”
He fastened leather cuffs with chrome D-rings on each of her wrists and attached these to a leather thong which had been attached to the frame of one of the bamboo climbing structures. Her arms were then drawn up above her head until she was standing high up on her toes, her muscles straining under the tension of the position with her heels so high up off the ground. She started to sweat.
Two of the other men lifted her legs off the floor and backwards so that the man could fasten similar leather cuffs onto her ankles. These leather cuffs were also attached to a leather thong and Rachel now found herself hanging at a forty five degree angle with her feet up behind her and facing the floor. The strain on her arms, shoulders and upper back was considerable.
“Much better,” the man said, “now we can conduct a much more precise interview.”
“Fuck you,” said Rachel, “this hurts – let me go.”
“Aaaaaah, shit,” she screamed, as she felt the lash of a leather strap across the soles of her feet.
“Now, perhaps you would like to tell me why you have been making so many inquiries into our business.”
“Like I said, I am a cooking show host from America,” she said, as the next lash fell onto the soles of her feet, “aaaaah, please, that hurts!”
“Who do you work for, Miss Cook?”
“The culinary television network in America,” she said, screaming again as another last landed onto the soles of her feet, “aaaaah, shit, that hurts, please don’t!”
Rachel hung helplessly in her bonds as she took a total of fifteen lashes of the leather strap on the soles of her feet, another fifteen on the round cheeks of her ass, and a further fifteen on her breasts. She was a sweaty mess with her hair stuck to her face, her tears flowing down her cheeks, and her muscles sore from her position.
“You simply will not tell us the truth, will you, Miss Cook?”
“I am telling the truth,” she said, “I am the host of a cooking show in America and I’m touring the world looking for the best local foods to tell my viewers about. Nothing more than that, please believe me, I don’t work for any of your competitors or anyone else you need to worry about.”
“Well, Miss Cook, I’ll give you this much – you are persistent.”
One of the other men brought in a bowl with a thick, syrupy fluid, that looked very sweet. Using one of the tools that was normally applied to the swallows nests to remove them from the cliffs, the man generously and thickly applied the fluid to various parts of Rachel’s body, thickly applying it to her armpits, her breasts, her navel, and her genitals.
“As the whipping did not seem to gain us any further information, Miss Cook,” he said, “I thought perhaps we should let our guard dogs entertain you for a while.”
Rachel struggled and screamed as she saw the big guard dogs coming toward her, each of the four on a leash with a handler.
“These dogs love that sweet paste, made from various local fruits, that has been applied to your body. They will be happy to remove it for you.”
“Nohohoho, aaaaah, nohohoho,” Rachel screamed as the dogs licked the sweet, stickly paste from her breasts, “pleaheaheahease, nohoho.”
Her nipples were gorged with blood and so stiff they hurt as the two dogs continued to lick her breasts, helplessly dangling toward the ground. They particularly concentrated on her nipples as there was more sweet paste there than anywhere else.
“Oh, shihihihit,” she pleaded, “make them stohohohop.”
Another handler brought his dog into range. The big dog immediately stuck his tongue deeply into her belly button and began to lick off all of the sticky paste that had been forced deeply into her navel. Rachel bucked and struggled as she tried to lift her belly away from the dog’s ministrations. But it was to no avail – the dog continued to lick in and around her belly button and the forces of gravity never allowed her to lift her stomach away for more than a second or two.
“Ah, Gohohohod, pleaheahease stohohop!”
The last dog headed straight for her most private parts, licking all around Rachel’s pussy and forcing his tongue deeply inside to remove the sweet paste that had been forced inside her. Not only did the dog attend thoroughly to her vagina but also to her butt crack and her asshole, which had been liberally plastered with the sweet paste.
“Ohhh, shit, pleaheahease stohohop!”
“Alright, Miss Cook, what would you like to tell me then.”
“I can’t tell you anything,” she said, “I am only a cooking show host from America, honest, I don’t work for anybody other than that. I don’t know anything about your business. All I wanted was to get some new recipes.”
“If that’s going to be your story, Miss Cook, then I’ll just have to give you something to remember us, and our swallows up above, after you leave Thailand. We still have an hour or two before we have to leave for Bangkok.”
“No, please not the dogs,” said Rachel, as she saw another bowl of sticky paste being brought in.
“Oh no, Miss Cook, the dogs are quite satisfied now, each having had a sweet snack that you so graciously provided.”
“What’s that for then?”
“You, Miss Cook, are going to feed the birds – unfortunately your hands are tied up, though, and you will not be able to give the birds their seed that way.”
The man himself liberally applied the sweet, sticky paste to the soles of Rachel’s feet, covering them with the stickiness from her toes to her heels, across the soft soles and down the sides as far as they could. He then poured birdseed all over the now sticky soles of her feet until they were completely covered. Some of the seed that did not adhere to her feet dropped to the floor beneath her.
“Now, Miss Cook, I’ll just join the workers over there for a few drinks while you feed the birds. It will take them a few minutes to notice you, though, but don’t worry – the swallows will come.”
“Please, don’t do this!”
“Why not, Miss Cook, don’t you like animals? You are going to be closer to the swallows of Thailand than almost anyone has ever been.”
Rachel tried her best not to move, knowing that movement attracts attention. After several minutes, though, she saw a swallow beneath her pecking at the bird seed. A moment later, another, and then two more.
“Aaaah, Gohohohod, aaaaah,” she screamed, struggling violently in her bonds, as she felt dozens of swallows picking at the bird seed on the soles of her feet, including her soft insteps and between her toes. She screamed and screamed as the picking continued, finally passing out from the strain.
She later awakened outside of her hotel in Bangkok, her clothes having been put on for her, albeit in a dishevelled way. The man was right – she would remember the swallows for a long time to come – and she would never, ever eat birdsnest soup again.
