chandor864
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Hysteria in Room 104 – Part 2
The thirtieth day finally arrived. For Clara, this month had been an eternity of exacerbated sensations, transforming her perception of her own body. She was no longer the same student as on the first day; she had become a creature of pure nervous reactivity, her feet having developed such sensitivity that a mere whisper seemed capable of making them twitch.
For this final session, the university administration and Marc had prepared a conclusion worthy of the "experience." When Clara slid her feet into the stocks for the last time, she immediately felt a difference. The assistants didn't settle for a thin layer of oil; they applied a special heating balm that dilated every pore and left every nerve ending raw.
Her toes were pulled back with maximum tension, exposing her soles like violin strings ready to vibrate. On the other side of the wall, an unusual crowd had gathered. Word had spread that this was the finale of the "Rebel of Room 104."
Marc stepped forward, but this time, he wasn't alone. He had invited two other students to help him with what he called the "sensory orchestra."
"It’s the last night, Clara," he announced through the partition. "We’re going to make sure you never forget it."
As soon as the first contact occurred, Clara instantly spiraled into total hysteria. It wasn't just one tool, but six hands and a dozen accessories that descended upon her feet simultaneously.
•Marc wielded two electric toothbrushes on her heels.
•The second student ran peacock feathers between her fixed toes.
•The third used ultra-soft makeup brushes to trace frantic circles on her arches.
Clara exploded. The sound that came from her throat was a high-pitched, staccato laugh, almost inhuman. She convulsed so violently that the chair itself creaked under the force of her spasms. Her feet, though solidly anchored, seemed to want to tear away from her legs, the tickling was so electric.
"HAHAHA! NO! MERCY! HEHEHE! STOP! ALL AT ONCE... IT'S TOO MUCH!" she screamed, tears flowing freely down her flushed cheeks.
She had no barriers left. Every brush of the bristles on her skin, overheated by the balm, triggered a jolt that made her arch until exhaustion. The sensation was so dense, so omnipresent, that she no longer knew where one tickle began and another ended. It was an ocean of unbearable stimuli.
After an hour of this intensive treatment, Marc signaled the others to stop. The silence that followed was only broken by Clara’s residual sobs of laughter and her panting breath.
Marc approached the wall one last time and, with an almost gentle gesture, he tapped the tip of her big toe. Clara jumped violently, a final burst of nervous laughter escaping her lips.
"It’s over, Clara. You’re free."
The stocks unlocked with a metallic click. Clara withdrew her feet slowly, her muscles still shaken by tremors. She sat for a long time, bare feet on the cold floor, savoring the simple quiet after the sensory storm she had just weathered.
To mark the end of her sentence, the university administration had planned one final check. Before officially validating the end of her "research service," Clara had to submit to a final examination in Room 104, not with Marc, but with Doctor Aris, the head of the sensory psychology department.
Clara was still settled in her chair, her feet finally free from the wall stocks but still suffering from exacerbated sensitivity. Doctor Aris entered, holding a tablet and a thin plexiglass rod.
"Mademoiselle, before signing your discharge, I must evaluate if the hypersensitivity developed at the plantar level has spread to other reflexogenic zones of the body. It is a routine procedure for our data," he explained in a clinical tone that did not reassure her at all.
He asked her to raise her arms and cross her hands behind her head. Clara, exhausted and still trembling, obeyed. The position completely exposed her flanks and armpits.
The doctor began with her ribs. He didn't use tools, but his latex-gloved fingers—cold and precise. He began to "play" rapidly along her ribcage.
The effect was instantaneous. Clara, whose nervous system was raw after a month of plantar torture, reacted with a violence she hadn't expected. "NOOO! Haha! Doctor!" she shrieked, desperately trying to pull her elbows down.
"Stay still, Clara. It's for science," he ordered calmly. He insisted on the soft areas between her ribs, his fingers sinking in slightly to stimulate the deepest nerves. Clara writhed in the seat, her laughter becoming jagged, almost hysterical. Her skin seemed to catch fire under every pressure.
Then, Doctor Aris moved up toward her armpits. It was her most vulnerable spot, an area she had managed to protect all month. When he began to make rapid circles with his index fingers, Clara completely lost it.
Her legs, now free, thrashed frantically in the air while her torso convulsed. The laughter that escaped her was pure, wild, devoid of all restraint. It was an explosion of tickles so intense that she lost her breath. "HAHAHA! PLEASE! HIHIHI! IT’S WORSE THAN THE FEET!"
The doctor scrupulously noted her reactions on his tablet: "Subject exhibiting a generalized hysterical response. Tolerance threshold near zero." He finished by using a small rotating brush directly in the hollow of her armpits, provoking one last fit of laughter so strong that Clara nearly slid off her seat, tears flowing harder than ever.
The doctor finally stopped, putting away his instruments. Clara remained prostrate, short of breath, her ribs still racking with painful spasms from laughing so hard.
"Impressive," he concluded, signing the official document. "Your sensitivity is indeed at its peak. You are free to go, Clara. But I suggest you avoid all physical contact for the next forty-eight hours."
Clara left the room, her arms hugged tight against her body as if to protect her ribs, which were still burning with sensation. She had survived the most vulnerable month of her life. She knew now that her laughter was her greatest weakness, but also that no one on this campus knew her as intimately as those who had stopped before that wooden wall, conscious that every step she took from now on would remind her, with a light shiver, of the indelible memory of Room 104.
THE END
The thirtieth day finally arrived. For Clara, this month had been an eternity of exacerbated sensations, transforming her perception of her own body. She was no longer the same student as on the first day; she had become a creature of pure nervous reactivity, her feet having developed such sensitivity that a mere whisper seemed capable of making them twitch.
For this final session, the university administration and Marc had prepared a conclusion worthy of the "experience." When Clara slid her feet into the stocks for the last time, she immediately felt a difference. The assistants didn't settle for a thin layer of oil; they applied a special heating balm that dilated every pore and left every nerve ending raw.
Her toes were pulled back with maximum tension, exposing her soles like violin strings ready to vibrate. On the other side of the wall, an unusual crowd had gathered. Word had spread that this was the finale of the "Rebel of Room 104."
Marc stepped forward, but this time, he wasn't alone. He had invited two other students to help him with what he called the "sensory orchestra."
"It’s the last night, Clara," he announced through the partition. "We’re going to make sure you never forget it."
As soon as the first contact occurred, Clara instantly spiraled into total hysteria. It wasn't just one tool, but six hands and a dozen accessories that descended upon her feet simultaneously.
•Marc wielded two electric toothbrushes on her heels.
•The second student ran peacock feathers between her fixed toes.
•The third used ultra-soft makeup brushes to trace frantic circles on her arches.
Clara exploded. The sound that came from her throat was a high-pitched, staccato laugh, almost inhuman. She convulsed so violently that the chair itself creaked under the force of her spasms. Her feet, though solidly anchored, seemed to want to tear away from her legs, the tickling was so electric.
"HAHAHA! NO! MERCY! HEHEHE! STOP! ALL AT ONCE... IT'S TOO MUCH!" she screamed, tears flowing freely down her flushed cheeks.
She had no barriers left. Every brush of the bristles on her skin, overheated by the balm, triggered a jolt that made her arch until exhaustion. The sensation was so dense, so omnipresent, that she no longer knew where one tickle began and another ended. It was an ocean of unbearable stimuli.
After an hour of this intensive treatment, Marc signaled the others to stop. The silence that followed was only broken by Clara’s residual sobs of laughter and her panting breath.
Marc approached the wall one last time and, with an almost gentle gesture, he tapped the tip of her big toe. Clara jumped violently, a final burst of nervous laughter escaping her lips.
"It’s over, Clara. You’re free."
The stocks unlocked with a metallic click. Clara withdrew her feet slowly, her muscles still shaken by tremors. She sat for a long time, bare feet on the cold floor, savoring the simple quiet after the sensory storm she had just weathered.
To mark the end of her sentence, the university administration had planned one final check. Before officially validating the end of her "research service," Clara had to submit to a final examination in Room 104, not with Marc, but with Doctor Aris, the head of the sensory psychology department.
Clara was still settled in her chair, her feet finally free from the wall stocks but still suffering from exacerbated sensitivity. Doctor Aris entered, holding a tablet and a thin plexiglass rod.
"Mademoiselle, before signing your discharge, I must evaluate if the hypersensitivity developed at the plantar level has spread to other reflexogenic zones of the body. It is a routine procedure for our data," he explained in a clinical tone that did not reassure her at all.
He asked her to raise her arms and cross her hands behind her head. Clara, exhausted and still trembling, obeyed. The position completely exposed her flanks and armpits.
The doctor began with her ribs. He didn't use tools, but his latex-gloved fingers—cold and precise. He began to "play" rapidly along her ribcage.
The effect was instantaneous. Clara, whose nervous system was raw after a month of plantar torture, reacted with a violence she hadn't expected. "NOOO! Haha! Doctor!" she shrieked, desperately trying to pull her elbows down.
"Stay still, Clara. It's for science," he ordered calmly. He insisted on the soft areas between her ribs, his fingers sinking in slightly to stimulate the deepest nerves. Clara writhed in the seat, her laughter becoming jagged, almost hysterical. Her skin seemed to catch fire under every pressure.
Then, Doctor Aris moved up toward her armpits. It was her most vulnerable spot, an area she had managed to protect all month. When he began to make rapid circles with his index fingers, Clara completely lost it.
Her legs, now free, thrashed frantically in the air while her torso convulsed. The laughter that escaped her was pure, wild, devoid of all restraint. It was an explosion of tickles so intense that she lost her breath. "HAHAHA! PLEASE! HIHIHI! IT’S WORSE THAN THE FEET!"
The doctor scrupulously noted her reactions on his tablet: "Subject exhibiting a generalized hysterical response. Tolerance threshold near zero." He finished by using a small rotating brush directly in the hollow of her armpits, provoking one last fit of laughter so strong that Clara nearly slid off her seat, tears flowing harder than ever.
The doctor finally stopped, putting away his instruments. Clara remained prostrate, short of breath, her ribs still racking with painful spasms from laughing so hard.
"Impressive," he concluded, signing the official document. "Your sensitivity is indeed at its peak. You are free to go, Clara. But I suggest you avoid all physical contact for the next forty-eight hours."
Clara left the room, her arms hugged tight against her body as if to protect her ribs, which were still burning with sensation. She had survived the most vulnerable month of her life. She knew now that her laughter was her greatest weakness, but also that no one on this campus knew her as intimately as those who had stopped before that wooden wall, conscious that every step she took from now on would remind her, with a light shiver, of the indelible memory of Room 104.
THE END
