I am Sam. The tickling machine known as the Man Handler. A twin sized bed made by some mad artist. It massages then tickles with ever increasing intensity. It was the most comfortable and luxurious bed, and the darkest level of hell. Mechanical yet human like hands traced my sides, my armpits, my ribs, my stomach and my navel. Every touch tickled, every stroke a sharp precise sensation like the tips of a dry paint brush. If I was a captured spy, I would have told them everything. But all...