I am Sylvanas Windrunner. The tickling machine known as the Man Handler. It massages then it tickles in ever increasing intensity. A twin sized bed made by some mad artist. It's probes touch my sides, my armpits, my ribs, my stomach and my navel. Every touch tickled, every sensation precise like the tips of dry paint brushes. If I was a captured spy I would have told them everything. But all the audience in shadow wanted was a steady stream of giggles and hysterical laughter.