chandor864
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- Apr 14, 2025
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Hysteria in Room 104 – Part 1
At nineteen, Clara was enjoying her status as a sophomore. She thought she had left the days of high school report cards and detention halls far behind. But the university, despite its veneer of freedom, had rules that were far more rigid, especially when its brand image was at stake.
The scandal had erupted during the prestigious graduation ceremony. While the Dean began his speech before a crowd of patrons and dignitaries, Clara, hidden in the control room, activated her script. In a second, the giant screens of the amphitheater no longer displayed the school crest, but a stinging protest message against rising tuition fees, accompanied by unflattering caricatures of the donors sitting in the front row.
The silence that followed was the heaviest of her life.
Twenty-four hours later, she found herself in the administrative wing, standing before the massive door of the Dean’s office, Madame Vasseur. Inside, the air felt charged with static electricity. Madame Vasseur, a woman whose steel gaze seemed capable of reading one's most secret thoughts, did not invite her to sit.
"Mademoiselle, you have shown remarkable technical ingenuity, but deplorable judgment," she began, her voice a glacial whisper. "You did not just disrupt a ceremony; you humiliated our most prestigious donors. The very ones who fund your research scholarship."
Clara felt a shiver run down her spine. The cancellation of her scholarship would mean the immediate end of her studies and a humiliating return to her parents' house.
The Dean slid a cardboard folder across the desk. "Normally, the disciplinary committee would expel you this evening, with no possibility of re-enrollment in the country. However, the university prefers to avoid the negative publicity that a trial or a publicized expulsion could generate."
She paused, staring at Clara intensely. "We have a partnership with the experimental psychology department. They are conducting a study on 'passivity under social constraint and sensory response.' They are looking for... voluntary subjects. If you agree to participate in this 'research service' program for one month, we will clear your record. You keep your scholarship, and this incident will be forgotten."
Clara grabbed the document. It was a standard waiver form, filled with complex legal terms about consent and external stimuli. To her, it looked like a lifeline. She imagined spending her afternoons filling out questionnaires or wearing electrodes to monitor her sleep.
"One month? That’s it?" she asked, looking for the catch.
"Thirty days. Four hours every evening, in Room 104 of the East Wing," the Dean replied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It is an ordeal of patience more than labor. Sign here, and we won’t speak of it again."
Fearing for her professional future and eager to end the confrontation, Clara grabbed the pen and scribbled her signature at the bottom of the waiver. She had just validated her entry into a protocol whose profoundly sensory and public nature she did not yet suspect.
The following Monday, at dusk, Clara headed to the East Wing, the crumpled consent form in her pocket. Curiosity battled with a slight sense of apprehension. The wing, usually buzzing with the hum of scientific experiments, was strangely quiet at this late hour.
She found the door to Room 104. It wasn't marked with a number, but with a simple engraved brass plate: "Behavioral Study Laboratory - Phase II." As she pushed the door open, a deafening silence enveloped her.
The room was spartan but clinically clean. The walls were painted a neutral white, and the lighting was soft and indirect. There was no desk, no computer, no examination beds. Only an ergonomic chair, almost like a throne, in the center of the room, facing a wall that stood out from the others. This wall, made of light, polished wood, was impressively thick.
Two research assistants, a man and a woman, both dressed in immaculate white lab coats, were waiting for her with professional smiles. "Welcome, Clara. Thank you for your participation," the man said in a neutral voice. "The protocol begins now."
He gestured for her to approach the chair. Clara then noticed the most striking detail of the wooden wall: about forty centimeters from the floor, two perfectly circular openings, about fifteen centimeters in diameter, were cut out. They were framed by a discreet metallic device.
"For the study, it is essential that you are completely relaxed and that you do not move," the assistant explained. "We will need you to remove your shoes and stockings."
Clara frowned. "My... my stockings? What for?"
The assistant gave a polite but firm smile. "It is an integral part of the protocol to maximize the cutaneous sensory response. Please comply."
Reluctantly, Clara sat down and complied, dropping her pumps and removing her thin black stockings. Her bare feet touched the cool floor of the laboratory. A shiver ran through her.
"Make yourself comfortable," the man invited. "Then, we will place your feet in the openings in the wall."
Clara obeyed, instinctively placing them into the holes. The wood was soft to the touch, but a mechanical sensation froze her: an audible, precise "click" echoed. Her ankles were now firmly held by a stocks mechanism hidden inside the wall. She tried to pull her feet back, but it was useless. The device was perfectly adjusted, keeping her immobile.
"What... what is this?" she asked, her voice a bit higher than she would have liked.
"It is a sensory restraint system," the assistant replied. "To ensure perfect immobility and optimal exposure. The study focuses on the perception of external stimuli, you understand."
Clara did not understand at all. She was trapped, her feet passing through the solid wooden wall toward an unknown destination. A sense of vulnerability began to wash over her. She could hear muffled sounds coming from the other side of the wall—footsteps, distant voices. A hallway?
"And what's going to happen on the other side?" she asked, her anxiety rising a notch.
The assistant merely offered an enigmatic smile. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough, Clara. The experiment is just beginning." He left the room, leaving the female assistant alone with Clara.
A tense silence set in. Clara felt her toes twitch, a disagreeable anticipation building within her. Her feet, exposed on the other side, were about to become the target of an experiment whose exact nature she still did not know.
As Clara waited, heart pounding, in the silence of Room 104, the action was shifting to the other side of the partition.
Outside, in one of the university’s busiest hallways, the scene was surreal. Between two lab doors, Clara’s two bare feet suddenly emerged from the wall, at knee-height for someone sitting down. The student’s pale, delicate skin contrasted sharply with the dark wood of the panel.
The research assistant who had just left the room approached the wall. He carried a leather briefcase which he placed on a high table, set up just in front of the captive feet. With a theatrical gesture, he opened it, revealing a collection of miscellaneous objects neatly aligned:
•Silk brushes intended for art restoration.
•Long, stiff pheasant feathers.
•Bristly beard brushes.
•Flexible rubber nubbed rollers.
Under the intrigued gaze of a few students who were already stopping, the assistant began the final phase of the protocol. He grabbed transparent binding ribbons and, with disconcerting skill, he spread Clara’s toes apart. He pulled them delicately but firmly backward, fixing them against the rim of the stocks.
Now, the soles of the young girl’s feet were perfectly arched, taut, and totally immobile. She could no longer even curl her toes to protect herself. To top it all off, he applied a peppermint-scented massage oil. As the liquid evaporated slightly, it created an intense cooling sensation that decupled the sensory sensitivity of the skin.
A small sign was placed on the table: SENSORY EXPERIMENT N°104: OPEN PARTICIPATION. Instruction: Test the subject's reflex response using the tools provided. No time limit.
Clara, on her side of the wall, heard a collective murmur from the other side. She felt her muscles tense. Then, the first shock.
It wasn't pain, but something far more destabilizing. A pheasant feather brushed the base of her toes, descending slowly, very slowly, toward the center of her arch. Clara jumped, her foot twitching in the stocks, but the bindings did not budge.
"Oh my God..." she whispered, as a nervous laugh was already rising in her throat.
Hardly had the feather finished its journey when a stranger’s hand grabbed a beard brush and began to vigorously scrub her left heel. The sensations mingled: the soft, the prickly, the cold of the oil, the warmth of invisible hands.
On the other side, two medical students joked while observing the reaction of Clara's feet. "Look how she reacts when we press on the arch," one of them mused, grabbing a fine paintbrush.
Clara was now at the mercy of the campus. She had become a public "tickle station." At every class change, a new wave of students would come to amuse themselves with her vulnerability, turning her punishment into an interminable torture by laughter, from which she could only escape once the four-hour session was over.
Rush hour had just struck. The hubbub in the hallway intensified, signaling the end of the lectures. Clara, eyes closed and breath short, tried to concentrate on her breathing so as not to succumb to the disorganized assaults of feathers and brushes. But a familiar voice, rising above the murmur of the crowd, froze her instantly.
"Well, well... aren't these the feet of our dear rebel, Clara?"
It was Marc. A brilliant but arrogant student with whom she was in fierce competition for the top spot in civil law. They did not like each other, and Marc had never missed an opportunity to highlight Clara’s "misconduct."
On the other side of the wall, Marc had stopped in front of the small table. A sardonical smile spread across his face as he observed his rival’s feet, perfectly immobilized and shining under the layer of mint oil.
"I knew you ended up in detention, Clara, but I didn't think the university had found you such an... exposed position," he called out loudly enough for his voice to pierce the wooden wall.
Clara felt a wave of heat rise to her cheeks. The shame was almost as unbearable as the tickling. She tried to remain silent, not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, but Marc knew his subject too well.
He didn't choose a feather. He preferred a long, springy calligraphy brush, the most formidable tool in the collection.
"Let’s see if your legal arguments are as solid as your resistance to tickling," he murmured.
He began by very slowly brushing the sensitive space between her big toe and the next. Clara contracted her legs with all her might, but the stocks held her still. Then, with cruel precision, Marc brought the brush down, tracing small, fast circles in the center of her sole, right where she was most vulnerable.
"Marc... stop..." she managed to articulate between two gasps.
But he did no such thing. On the contrary, he intensified the rhythm. "Oh, but I’m participating in a scientific study, Clara. I’m only doing my duty as a student."
He then seized a hard-bristled toothbrush with his left hand, using it to vigorously scrub her heel, while the brush continued its tormented journey across her backward-fixed toes.
It was too much for Clara. Laughter exploded—wild and uncontrollable. She writhed in her chair, head thrown back, as tears of laughter began to bead at the corners of her eyes. She was totally at his mercy. The fact that it was Marc, her rival, who had total control over her sensations made the experience both exasperating and strangely electrifying.
For long minutes, he persisted with undisguised pleasure, stopping occasionally to observe the twitching of her foot muscles before starting up again. Around him, other students were amused by the scene, some even waiting their turn to "test" the young woman’s resistance.
Clara realized then that this month of detention would not just be a physical ordeal, but a true lesson in humility before those she was used to defying.
To be continued...
At nineteen, Clara was enjoying her status as a sophomore. She thought she had left the days of high school report cards and detention halls far behind. But the university, despite its veneer of freedom, had rules that were far more rigid, especially when its brand image was at stake.
The scandal had erupted during the prestigious graduation ceremony. While the Dean began his speech before a crowd of patrons and dignitaries, Clara, hidden in the control room, activated her script. In a second, the giant screens of the amphitheater no longer displayed the school crest, but a stinging protest message against rising tuition fees, accompanied by unflattering caricatures of the donors sitting in the front row.
The silence that followed was the heaviest of her life.
Twenty-four hours later, she found herself in the administrative wing, standing before the massive door of the Dean’s office, Madame Vasseur. Inside, the air felt charged with static electricity. Madame Vasseur, a woman whose steel gaze seemed capable of reading one's most secret thoughts, did not invite her to sit.
"Mademoiselle, you have shown remarkable technical ingenuity, but deplorable judgment," she began, her voice a glacial whisper. "You did not just disrupt a ceremony; you humiliated our most prestigious donors. The very ones who fund your research scholarship."
Clara felt a shiver run down her spine. The cancellation of her scholarship would mean the immediate end of her studies and a humiliating return to her parents' house.
The Dean slid a cardboard folder across the desk. "Normally, the disciplinary committee would expel you this evening, with no possibility of re-enrollment in the country. However, the university prefers to avoid the negative publicity that a trial or a publicized expulsion could generate."
She paused, staring at Clara intensely. "We have a partnership with the experimental psychology department. They are conducting a study on 'passivity under social constraint and sensory response.' They are looking for... voluntary subjects. If you agree to participate in this 'research service' program for one month, we will clear your record. You keep your scholarship, and this incident will be forgotten."
Clara grabbed the document. It was a standard waiver form, filled with complex legal terms about consent and external stimuli. To her, it looked like a lifeline. She imagined spending her afternoons filling out questionnaires or wearing electrodes to monitor her sleep.
"One month? That’s it?" she asked, looking for the catch.
"Thirty days. Four hours every evening, in Room 104 of the East Wing," the Dean replied with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It is an ordeal of patience more than labor. Sign here, and we won’t speak of it again."
Fearing for her professional future and eager to end the confrontation, Clara grabbed the pen and scribbled her signature at the bottom of the waiver. She had just validated her entry into a protocol whose profoundly sensory and public nature she did not yet suspect.
The following Monday, at dusk, Clara headed to the East Wing, the crumpled consent form in her pocket. Curiosity battled with a slight sense of apprehension. The wing, usually buzzing with the hum of scientific experiments, was strangely quiet at this late hour.
She found the door to Room 104. It wasn't marked with a number, but with a simple engraved brass plate: "Behavioral Study Laboratory - Phase II." As she pushed the door open, a deafening silence enveloped her.
The room was spartan but clinically clean. The walls were painted a neutral white, and the lighting was soft and indirect. There was no desk, no computer, no examination beds. Only an ergonomic chair, almost like a throne, in the center of the room, facing a wall that stood out from the others. This wall, made of light, polished wood, was impressively thick.
Two research assistants, a man and a woman, both dressed in immaculate white lab coats, were waiting for her with professional smiles. "Welcome, Clara. Thank you for your participation," the man said in a neutral voice. "The protocol begins now."
He gestured for her to approach the chair. Clara then noticed the most striking detail of the wooden wall: about forty centimeters from the floor, two perfectly circular openings, about fifteen centimeters in diameter, were cut out. They were framed by a discreet metallic device.
"For the study, it is essential that you are completely relaxed and that you do not move," the assistant explained. "We will need you to remove your shoes and stockings."
Clara frowned. "My... my stockings? What for?"
The assistant gave a polite but firm smile. "It is an integral part of the protocol to maximize the cutaneous sensory response. Please comply."
Reluctantly, Clara sat down and complied, dropping her pumps and removing her thin black stockings. Her bare feet touched the cool floor of the laboratory. A shiver ran through her.
"Make yourself comfortable," the man invited. "Then, we will place your feet in the openings in the wall."
Clara obeyed, instinctively placing them into the holes. The wood was soft to the touch, but a mechanical sensation froze her: an audible, precise "click" echoed. Her ankles were now firmly held by a stocks mechanism hidden inside the wall. She tried to pull her feet back, but it was useless. The device was perfectly adjusted, keeping her immobile.
"What... what is this?" she asked, her voice a bit higher than she would have liked.
"It is a sensory restraint system," the assistant replied. "To ensure perfect immobility and optimal exposure. The study focuses on the perception of external stimuli, you understand."
Clara did not understand at all. She was trapped, her feet passing through the solid wooden wall toward an unknown destination. A sense of vulnerability began to wash over her. She could hear muffled sounds coming from the other side of the wall—footsteps, distant voices. A hallway?
"And what's going to happen on the other side?" she asked, her anxiety rising a notch.
The assistant merely offered an enigmatic smile. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough, Clara. The experiment is just beginning." He left the room, leaving the female assistant alone with Clara.
A tense silence set in. Clara felt her toes twitch, a disagreeable anticipation building within her. Her feet, exposed on the other side, were about to become the target of an experiment whose exact nature she still did not know.
As Clara waited, heart pounding, in the silence of Room 104, the action was shifting to the other side of the partition.
Outside, in one of the university’s busiest hallways, the scene was surreal. Between two lab doors, Clara’s two bare feet suddenly emerged from the wall, at knee-height for someone sitting down. The student’s pale, delicate skin contrasted sharply with the dark wood of the panel.
The research assistant who had just left the room approached the wall. He carried a leather briefcase which he placed on a high table, set up just in front of the captive feet. With a theatrical gesture, he opened it, revealing a collection of miscellaneous objects neatly aligned:
•Silk brushes intended for art restoration.
•Long, stiff pheasant feathers.
•Bristly beard brushes.
•Flexible rubber nubbed rollers.
Under the intrigued gaze of a few students who were already stopping, the assistant began the final phase of the protocol. He grabbed transparent binding ribbons and, with disconcerting skill, he spread Clara’s toes apart. He pulled them delicately but firmly backward, fixing them against the rim of the stocks.
Now, the soles of the young girl’s feet were perfectly arched, taut, and totally immobile. She could no longer even curl her toes to protect herself. To top it all off, he applied a peppermint-scented massage oil. As the liquid evaporated slightly, it created an intense cooling sensation that decupled the sensory sensitivity of the skin.
A small sign was placed on the table: SENSORY EXPERIMENT N°104: OPEN PARTICIPATION. Instruction: Test the subject's reflex response using the tools provided. No time limit.
Clara, on her side of the wall, heard a collective murmur from the other side. She felt her muscles tense. Then, the first shock.
It wasn't pain, but something far more destabilizing. A pheasant feather brushed the base of her toes, descending slowly, very slowly, toward the center of her arch. Clara jumped, her foot twitching in the stocks, but the bindings did not budge.
"Oh my God..." she whispered, as a nervous laugh was already rising in her throat.
Hardly had the feather finished its journey when a stranger’s hand grabbed a beard brush and began to vigorously scrub her left heel. The sensations mingled: the soft, the prickly, the cold of the oil, the warmth of invisible hands.
On the other side, two medical students joked while observing the reaction of Clara's feet. "Look how she reacts when we press on the arch," one of them mused, grabbing a fine paintbrush.
Clara was now at the mercy of the campus. She had become a public "tickle station." At every class change, a new wave of students would come to amuse themselves with her vulnerability, turning her punishment into an interminable torture by laughter, from which she could only escape once the four-hour session was over.
Rush hour had just struck. The hubbub in the hallway intensified, signaling the end of the lectures. Clara, eyes closed and breath short, tried to concentrate on her breathing so as not to succumb to the disorganized assaults of feathers and brushes. But a familiar voice, rising above the murmur of the crowd, froze her instantly.
"Well, well... aren't these the feet of our dear rebel, Clara?"
It was Marc. A brilliant but arrogant student with whom she was in fierce competition for the top spot in civil law. They did not like each other, and Marc had never missed an opportunity to highlight Clara’s "misconduct."
On the other side of the wall, Marc had stopped in front of the small table. A sardonical smile spread across his face as he observed his rival’s feet, perfectly immobilized and shining under the layer of mint oil.
"I knew you ended up in detention, Clara, but I didn't think the university had found you such an... exposed position," he called out loudly enough for his voice to pierce the wooden wall.
Clara felt a wave of heat rise to her cheeks. The shame was almost as unbearable as the tickling. She tried to remain silent, not to give him the satisfaction of a reaction, but Marc knew his subject too well.
He didn't choose a feather. He preferred a long, springy calligraphy brush, the most formidable tool in the collection.
"Let’s see if your legal arguments are as solid as your resistance to tickling," he murmured.
He began by very slowly brushing the sensitive space between her big toe and the next. Clara contracted her legs with all her might, but the stocks held her still. Then, with cruel precision, Marc brought the brush down, tracing small, fast circles in the center of her sole, right where she was most vulnerable.
"Marc... stop..." she managed to articulate between two gasps.
But he did no such thing. On the contrary, he intensified the rhythm. "Oh, but I’m participating in a scientific study, Clara. I’m only doing my duty as a student."
He then seized a hard-bristled toothbrush with his left hand, using it to vigorously scrub her heel, while the brush continued its tormented journey across her backward-fixed toes.
It was too much for Clara. Laughter exploded—wild and uncontrollable. She writhed in her chair, head thrown back, as tears of laughter began to bead at the corners of her eyes. She was totally at his mercy. The fact that it was Marc, her rival, who had total control over her sensations made the experience both exasperating and strangely electrifying.
For long minutes, he persisted with undisguised pleasure, stopping occasionally to observe the twitching of her foot muscles before starting up again. Around him, other students were amused by the scene, some even waiting their turn to "test" the young woman’s resistance.
Clara realized then that this month of detention would not just be a physical ordeal, but a true lesson in humility before those she was used to defying.
To be continued...
