The Orchid Operation
Copyright© 2025 by Rose Garden
Chapter 14: Longing
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 14: Longing - Hidden on the planet exists a facility that specializes in rehabilitating forgotten, worthless members of society into something more useful for their betters. A young woman finds herself a prisoner of this facility, faced with daily torment at the hands of six violent sadists who want nothing more than to watch her squirm and scream for their delight. This story is a never ending buffet for hardcore bdsm lovers of all appetites.
Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including ft NonConsensual Slavery BiSexual Fiction Vignettes Science Fiction BDSM DomSub Humiliation Rough Sadistic Torture Polygamy/Polyamory Infantilization Caution Violence
I never want to leave this bed. Its plush sheets hug my body in a way the ones in the medical facility never could. They’re thick, warm, and so soft that I easily could sleep through the rest of the day if not for the melodic chime ringing through a speaker above my head. The speaker’s mesh screen is so well hidden that I hurl myself into a panic at first, thinking the noise is a figment of my imagination. By the time the music stops, I’m already too alert to go back to bed. My eyes snag on the closest security camera. I can feel someone’s gaze on the other side of the screen. They probably wouldn’t want me going back to sleep, so I suck in my disappointment and slide into my slippers.
When I was first taken out of my cage, tasks like brushing my hair and my teeth seemed so foreign it was like I was being asked to paint a masterpiece or knit a ball gown. But at some point in my mental recovery, my muscle memory must have kicked in. My body sleepily jumps into action, putting myself together piece by piece until my breath is fresh, my skin is scrubbed, and my hair is tangle free. Ignoring the number tattooed onto my inner lip and the branding burned into my belly, I almost feel like a real person again. To be honest, I think there’s a chance I can get used to this life.
My bedroom door is unlocked, much to my relief. I knew it would be, but part of me couldn’t help but wonder if Minerva was lying yesterday. I’m not the same kind of prisoner I was before. Sure, I’m still trapped in a cage, but the cage is bigger. It’s plush and warm. I don’t mind it all that much. Let those freaks do whatever they want to my holes. Just as long as I can spend every morning like this, I’ll be satiated.
Someone has already cooked breakfast for me by the time I make it downstairs. Who the mysterious chef was, I have no clue. But there’s a tray on the counter with a light meal and a glass of orange juice. An orchid-branded notecard sits on the cutlery. My name is scrawled out on top. The inside reads: “Rest up, child. You will be retrieved once I have prepared.” The note is signed with fancy swoops and swirls that vaguely resemble the word “Master.”
That’s right. I keep forgetting that today is another therapy session. I wonder why Doctor Wentzler isn’t hosting it like he did last time. Maybe I did something wrong. To be honest, I don’t remember much of that day. Most of my memories are a little blurry, but some are just gone entirely. Like someone stole several puzzle pieces from my head and chucked them out before the whole picture was put together. Maybe that’s for the best. I still remember the pain. The horrible electric agony. I shudder, struggling to choke down a bite of eggs.
Breakfast goes quickly. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I look down to find my plate is clean and my stomach is disappointed. Today’s session must be starting soon. I can’t imagine it’s smart to have a lot of food in my system before being lit up like a Christmas tree.
A gust of wind outside catches my attention. Bamboo wind chimes clink and jingle in the breeze. My heart jerks with anticipation, but before I make my way to the door, I wash my dishes. I want to seem grateful for all that I’ve been given. Knowing my captors, the tiniest act of neglect or selfishness could reward me with brutality tenfold. With that in mind, I scrub each dish twice.
I can’t help but hold my breath again when I reach for the back door. It seems like a cruel prank. The thought that freedom is so close—close enough that I can taste it. The ocean behind me. A beautiful yard in front of me. But then the handle turns, and my dreams become reality.
Fresh air fills my nostrils when I step outside. I leave my slippers by the door and settle my bare toes on the wooden porch. The sky is awfully bright, and the sun is settled just over my head. It isn’t morning at all. It’s likely noon. Time is a luxury, I have to keep reminding myself that. Subjects like me aren’t allowed to know about seconds or minutes. I can barely remember how to count anymore. That should upset me, but right now all I can think about is how glorious the sun feels on my bare skin.
My minimal clothes allow my body to soak up as many rays as it can. I nearly rip my shirt off, but then I spot more cameras in the scattered lawn decor. Doesn’t matter. I’m content like this. The soft, warm grass between my toes. The light breeze in my hair. I stretch out my arms and embrace the bite of freedom I’ve been given like it’s my last moment left on earth.
This is what I’m after. This is what I’m fighting for. I want to feel like this every day of my life. Freedom. And if I have to be raped, beaten, and tortured to get it, then so help me God I will suffer death and reconstruction a million times.
I want to curl up in the dirt, but I just bathed. If I have time after my session, I’ll let myself get a little dirty. But for right now, I settle on a picnic bench, sitting on the table with my legs kicking off the edges. My feet sway like flowers in the wind. I hold my face to the sky. My hair whips all around me like a cape. Some strands become tangled in my ears and around my neck. I wish they’d cut my hair already. It’s so inconvenient to be this long. I wonder if I can remember how to braid it. It can’t be that complicated, right?
I take a fistful of strands, then another fistful on the opposite side and try my best to twist and knot the locks together. I barely get the hairdo down to the nape of my neck before it falls apart in my fingers. I think I’m supposed to split it into three strands, actually. I try again. Over, under, all around—I twirl my hair around my hands over and over until the sculpture falls apart three more times. A groan rises from my throat. Even so, I try again. Then again. And again.
I end up losing count of how many times I’ve tried and failed. Sometimes I think I’ve almost got it, but then the strands fall loose and I’m forced to start over from the beginning. The sun has slipped behind a thick, fluffy cloud. It’s getting a little grey out. Moisture clings to the air.
The wind chimes behind me sing a song of oncoming rain as I thread my fingers through my hair to start all over. I suck in a heavy breath, catching a whiff of the distant weather, along with something far earthier and rich. Before my brain can identify the familiar cologne, its wearer identifies himself.
“Stubborn little thing,” Raven hums. I startle at the sound of his voice and spin around. He stands just a few feet away, wearing a devilish smirk with his eyes held narrow. His black shirt hangs loosely from his muscular form. Part of it is tucked into his dress pants, but the rest billows in the breeze.
“I can’t remember,” I say, my voice squeaking.
Raven chuckles and pushes his sleeves up to his elbows. My breath hitches at the sight of his terrifying forearms. From his back pocket, he produces the hairbrush from my bathroom. He motions for me to turn back around, and I promptly obey.
“I believe I owe you an apology,” he begins. He gently runs the brush down my scalp, careful not to tug too hard. I let my eyes fall shut as he smooths out my every tangle.
“You don’t need to apologize,” I say. “I was the one being naughty.”
Raven lets out a puff of breath from his nostrils. “Be that as it may, your parents took things too far. I feared they would, yet I still allowed them the responsibility of handling your punishment. That reflects poorly on my leadership skills, and for that, I apologize. Your familial relationship to them is minuscule. I am your master and you are my toy. Your care is my responsibility, and I neglected it. I am truly sorry, Emma.”
I toy with the hem of my shirt. “I’m sorry, too. I didn’t mean to disobey ... I was just scared.”
“Fear is a luxury you are not yet allowed,” he says. He settles the brush beside me and poses my head straight forward. “But I forgive you regardless. You suffered your punishment and are prepared to adjust your behavior accordingly, yes?”
I nod, but Raven puts my head back in place.
“Then that is all that matters,” he says. “You did very well yesterday with your mistress.”
I spy one of the cameras across the lawn. “You were watching?”
“Of course. Several of us were. You’ll need to get used to that.”
“I know.”
“It illuminated something for me. Something I think we forgot when beginning your treatment.”
I bite my lip. “What is it?”
Raven doesn’t answer. He keeps exceptionally quiet as he shifts my hair from side to side. I can feel the braid getting longer as he works. Soon it’s resting neatly against my spine, then hangs loose when Raven ties off its paintbrush end. When he pulls away, I drape my fingertips over the beautiful black artwork. The braid is fluffy and light, and it holds my hair higher than usual, giving me freedom to move without getting caught up in the strands.
“Thank you,” I say. I rest the braid over my shoulder and hop onto my feet. A drop of water hits my forehead and drips down my nose.
Raven’s mustache twitches when another hits him. He throws a scowl at the sky, then gently takes me by the hand.
“We have important work to do,” he says. “Are you prepared?”
I nod, but it’s a lie. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be prepared. Not truly. But I remind myself what I’m fighting for. And when I step back inside, and the chill of the indoors rapes my skin, I suddenly find myself ready to face my torment head-on.
Raven holds my hand tight as he guides me down the halls. We breeze past the lobby on the way to the clinic wing when a familiar lab coat catches my eye. Doctor Brockhoist sits on one of the front sofas. One hand clutches a cup of coffee while the other rifles through folders stuffed with spreadsheets. I frown.
“What is the doctor doing here?” I ask.
“You need to get used to seeing him more regularly,” Raven says. I’m not sure if that counts as an answer, but I also don’t push him for more. I wonder if he’s on standby for some kind of emergency. I hold Raven’s hand tighter.
“I asked if you were prepared,” Raven says, his tone darkening.
“I am.” A lie again. Raven’s grip squeezes, and I swallow a yelp.
“You aren’t being untruthful, are you?”
“Of course not, Master. I am prepared. I’m just a little nervous.”
“Hm.”
He brings me to a clinic room closest to the second floor stairs. Inside is set up just like a cramped medical examination suite, but the usual paper-covered table is missing. Instead, a metal bedframe-like structure sits in its place. The shiny silver net beckons me nearer. Black leather restraints are already strapped in place where my limbs need to go. I suck in a sharp breath when Raven closes the door behind me. Two cameras watch us from overhead.
“Remove your clothes, please,” he instructs.
While I undress, he prepares a notepad and pencil, then settles into a plush leather armchair. Once fully nude, I present myself before his wandering eye. Raven drinks in my every inch, his fingers twitching to feel my supple flesh. But he controls himself.
He pulls a pill bottle from his pocket and presents one of the chalky tablets inside. “Do you remember these?”
I nod and rest the pill on my tongue. It takes only seconds for it to dissolve. I open my mouth for Raven to inspect, then he gives me a sharp nod of approval, flips an hourglass, and motions me toward the metal grill.
“What do you recall from your last therapy session?” He asks.
I rest my body against the freezing, unforgiving surface. The bolts keeping the metal slats in place poke and prod. I try to shuffle into a more pleasing position, but Raven is already strapping down my wrists and ankles to their own respective corners. He spreads me out like a starfish as I recant to him the questions game Doctor Wentzler and I played. I tell him what little memories I still have from my last therapy session while he lays a strap over my waist, another across my knees, and two more onto my chest that make an “X” shape. He finishes my restraint with a stiff leather cushion that cups my head and straps it down to keep me from splitting my skull open against the metal. I’m locked up so tight that all I can do is blink and wriggle my digits.
“Do you remember what that pill does?” He asks after ensuring each of my straps is as tight as they’ll fit.
I try to nod, but the movement is nullified. “Something about opening my mind to instruction, right?”
“Suggestion,” he corrects. “Though I suppose instruction is a fine word, too. We need you obedient and willing.”
“I’m trying to be.”
“On a conscious level, yes. But unconsciously, your cognitive state is still cemented in the rules and regulations of your old life. You have a natural aversion to activities that are expected to be performed casually. Our intent is to remove those aversions entirely. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You’re trying to make me like sex?”
Raven chuckles, his focus deep in a pile of papers. “You’ll like sex regardless of therapy treatments, little one. Everyone in the world is a slut so long as you know what buttons need to be pushed right. Rather, we’re trying to make you crave pain. Crave it in the way your body craves water. Do you see now?”
I squirm—a futile and helpless motion. “You’re going to rewrite my brain for that?”
“It’s why you’re here. It’s your calling. Just embrace it.”
“Is that what you’re going to do to me today?”
Raven shrugs. He settles the paperwork aside, then rifles around in a nearby cabinet. Inside is a large black box covered in dials, switches, and numbers. Several long, spindly wires hang from its side. Attached to each is a massive metal clamp with sharp iron teeth. I hold my breath as Raven attaches each of them to opposite corners of the bed frame. They bite into the edges close to my limbs, locking neatly into pre-cut grooves.
“Today will be simple for you,” he finally begins. “I’m going to ask you several questions that you will answer to the best of your ability. There is no right or wrong today. I will commence your treatment whenever I deem fit. That is why I asked you if you were prepared, Emma. There will be no warning between shocks. This is not a game. This is medicine.”
“Yes, Master,” I whisper.
Raven settles back into his chair after positioning the box within reach. He scribbles out several long sentences onto his notepad, then reaches for the dial. I flinch and hold my breath, but then he moves his hand back with a half-hearted chuckle.
“We’ll start off easy,” he begins. He churns up the dial with a smirk, igniting the box with mechanical whirring. Luckily, the dam is still in place to keep me from harm. “We’ll begin the shocks at seventy-five and work our way up fifty volts.”
“What?”
Raven tuts his tongue. “Child, if you can handle one hundred, you can handle a little more. Eventually you’re going to have to suffer up to five hundred, you know. We need to ready your body for that kind of pain so that it won’t kill you. Be grateful for this mercy. I’m only doing what’s best for your treatment. A thank you will suffice.”
I swallow my pride and half of my tongue as I force out the words, “Thank you, Master.”
“Without the attitude next time,” he says with a wistful sigh. He jots down something else on his paper, then clicks the dial up a little bit higher. “Eighty. Then we’ll finish at one-forty if you’re going to throw a tantrum anyway.”
A whimper rises from my throat. I do my best to stifle it, but Raven’s eyes glance up in response. My body braces, fighting the urge to wiggle against my restraints. He leans back, studying me. His hand rests near the switch.
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