The Orchid Operation
Copyright© 2025 by Rose Garden
Chapter 16: Practice Makes Perversion
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 16: Practice Makes Perversion - 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 don’t think I like Doctor Brockhoist. He’s an odd sort of guy. Really quiet. Really invasive. Anytime I’m near him, I know he’s probably staring at me. I’m his specimen—a caged rat he’s intent on studying. He was there to wake me up this morning. He stood outside the bathroom while I bathed. He made me breakfast; watched me eat. Then he stripped me down and took me to a scale in the kitchen’s corner.
“You need more exercise,” he snaps. My skin prickles, watching the way he stares at the number on the scale’s screen.
“How am I supposed to get it?” I ask. I reach for my shorts, but he slaps my hand away.
“Walk around the Greenhouse. Acclimate yourself to the layout. Pace back and forth up and down the stairs. There are a number of ways. I cannot in good conscience lessen your meal portion, but you’ve got some fat that needs shedding.”
“I’m already so small,” I say, clutching my belly.
Brockhoist’s eyes slice through my skin. His glare glues my lips shut and shrinks me down until I am but a speck in his shadow.
“You will do as I say, Emma,” he says, his voice low like a growl. “Don’t ever talk back to me again.”
I hold my head low and nod. “Yes, Doctor.”
“And?”
“Sorry, Doctor.”
He jots something down on his clipboard. That’s another thing I don’t like about him. He’s always writing stuff. I can’t talk around him—I can hardly breathe in his direction without him feeling the need to journal it. I want to know what he’s writing, but he always snatches the paper away before I can read it. He snatches a lot, like he owns everything. He snatches me, especially. He likes to grab me by the arm and tug me behind him. I think it makes him feel strong. Maybe that’s why he wants me to stay so small.
Brockhoist clicks his pen shut like he’s trying to break it. I jolt and prepare myself for the inevitability of his latex-gloved fingers coiling around my arm. His grip is tight for a man so skinny. I don’t wriggle away like I used to. He’s not the type of man who would outright hit me, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have his sadistic side. I know it’s in there somewhere. Something tells me I’m better off just doing whatever he says.
“Sit,” he snaps, throwing me into a rickety breakfast chair.
I stumble, trying not to knock the whole chair over. My gaze locks onto my clothes across the room, but Brockhoist snatches me by the chin and yanks my head towards him.
“You won’t be needing those today,” he says. A dreary sigh rises up the back of his throat. “Clothing is a privilege, Emma. I suggest that if you wish to keep that privilege, then you will start respecting your betters.”
Everything is a privilege. The clothes, the kitchen, the yard, my bed. I’m at risk of losing it all. Hell, I’m at risk of going back to the cages. I stifle a huff that’s itching to escape and pose myself neatly to face my doctor. He frowns, almost disappointedly. I’m not praised for being obedient. I’m expected to obey.
Brockhoist pulls a penlight from his lab coat, then cups my chin and squeezes my cheeks. I know that means to open my mouth, so I comply. He’s been training me to obey without needing to be told. Like I’m a dog. There’s another reason to hate him.
He mutters something angrily under his breath as he pokes around the inside of my mouth. I try not to move my tongue too much, acutely aware of how ill-fitting it sits against my teeth. He presses two fingers against its slimy surface, and I immediately gag, lurching forward.
“Hold still!” Brockhoist snaps, forcing me back into place. “I swear, you’re far too sensitive for a girl your age.”
“She’s hardly older than when she was abducted, Doctor.”
I turn to find Minerva leaning against the kitchen door. She waves and flashes me a wink.
“She’s been tube-fed for years. So by no means should her throat be so tight,” Brockhoist snaps back. He sinks the light deeper into my mouth. I tremble, stifling another gag.
Minerva steps forward and brushes him out of the way. “Let me see.”
She, too, takes me by the chin, but her touch is much softer. She drags her thumb up and down my jaw to soothe me as she checks my every nook and cranny.
“Stick out your tongue, dear,” Minerva prompts.
I obey, letting it hang off my lips until I can’t push it forward any further.
Minerva and Brockhoist huff in unison.
“You’re right,” Minerva mumbles. “Far, far too tight. Does Wentzler know about this?”
“I’ll be sure to tell him today.” Brockhoist turns the pen off and pockets it once more. “I fear this issue needs to be addressed before we can begin proper fellatio training. Can you adjust today’s session to accommodate?”
Minerva flashes me a glance. Her ruby red lips curl into a wicked grin. “I’m sure we’ll manage, won’t we?”
“Yes, Mis—”
Minerva cuts me off, squeezing my cheeks and shaking her head. “Ah-ah-ah, little one. Don’t close your mouth. Not today. If that’s going to be a problem, I’m more than happy to gag you.”
Brockhoist scoffs. I catch a grin spreading across his face before he turns away.
Minerva gives me a shake, pulling my focus back to her. “Will it be a problem, Emma?”
I shake my head. “Auh-auh.”
She chuckles. “Good girl. Hop up now. We’ve got a full day ahead of us. Keep that tongue out while we walk. I want to see you drool.”
My cheeks flush. I catch a glimpse of Doctor Brockhoist watching me.
“I’m sure you’ve had a productive morning,” Minerva says. She pinches my breast, pulling my attention back to her.
I nod. “Uah-huah.”
“Don’t let Brockhoist get to you,” she whispers, but only once we’ve crossed the threshold into the ID-locked halls. “He’s a little stuffy, but he’s good to you. I’ve been watching.”
I struggle to keep my mouth open. I want to vent to her. I feel like I can. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or not. I am oddly comforted to hear that she’s been keeping her eye on me. But I know that means there are others watching, too. I make eye contact with a camera above me. I can feel Raven’s gaze on the other side of the glass.
“I’m sure you’ve already guessed what we’re going to be working on today,” Minerva says.
She lets out a weary sigh as she brings me into a classroom. I expect desks and chairs inside, but what greets me instead is a slick leather-covered table beneath a rig of metal hooks and bars. Equipment, rope, and sex toys line the cabinet-covered walls. I shudder, stalling by the door when it falls shut behind me.
“You got yourself into a lot of trouble, little girl,” Minerva says, arching a plucked brow. She nudges me toward the table, then pats my butt until I crawl on top. “You really pissed off your professor. Doctor Wentzler isn’t too pleased.”
I nod solemnly. A heavy line of saliva slips from my tongue like a long, slender slug. I shudder when it hits the table and puddles by my knee.
“I was going to teach you technique and finesse, but I suppose you heard what Doctor Brockhoist suggested.”
I nod again. I can already feel my throat shrinking up a bit.
“Don’t fear. We’ll take things slow. I’ve got all day to help stretch you out. I won’t let my little girl fall behind.”
Minerva rifles around the cabinets, pulling out a massive black dildo molded to look like the real thing. She sets it down on the table, suctioning its silicone testicles to a sturdy plate at the table’s end. I stare at it, then at her. She shrugs and motions towards it.
“Pretend like it belongs to your owner. Show me how you would pleasure him.”
I pause. Part of me is begging to ask her for advice—to ask how I should even begin—but the camera’s gaze burns hotter. The longer I sit around with my tongue hanging out, the closer I inch toward delayed obedience.
I shuffle forward, locked in on the dildo as it wobbles and bounces from side to side. I hold it shaft to keep it steady, then close my lips around its plastic-flavored head. I try my best to mimic what I observed from the other roses yesterday, but I don’t have a clue what to do for something that isn’t actual flesh and blood. I feel like an idiot, licking and sucking something that can’t feel. Minerva paces around me, sometimes getting up close and sometimes stepping across the room to watch.
“You’re awfully shallow,” she says wearily. She rests her hand on the back of my head and gently pushes me down. “You only have the head right now. You need to go deeper.”
Instinct kicks him before I can stop it, and I jerk against her when the dildo scrapes the back of my throat. I dry heave and choke, spiraling into a coughing fit when Minerva steps away.
She tuts her tongue and shakes her head. “No, no, no. That won’t do. Your gag reflex is far too sensitive.”
To my dismay, she peruses the cabinets once more and returns with a large metal ring gag. I whimper and shuffle back across the table.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” I whisper, shaking my head.
“This is not a punishment,” Minerva clarifies. She holds the gag up and beckons me forward. “This will make things easier for you, trust me.”
I purse my lips into a tight line and swallow my pride. I crawl back toward her across the table and widen my jaws for her to nestle the ring inside. All the nerves in my body explode with horror, writhing and itching to run as far as I can. When she locks the strap behind my head, I let out a shuddering breath and a tear falls down my cheek.
“None of that,” she scolds. She wipes my cheeks clean, then leaves a red lip print on my forehead. “I know gags aren’t your favorite, but you have got to get used to them. You cannot be throwing a tantrum every time one of your owners pulls one out. Understand?”
I nod, sniffling.
“Now try again. I want to see you try to swallow at least half of this. If you feel you’re starting to injure yourself, then pull away. But if not, I expect you to keep on pushing.” She takes a black riding crop from the cabinets and strikes the table. I squeal, inching away. “Relax, Emma. That’s step number one. Take a deep breath, then start again.”
I focus on breathing out of my nose as I approach the massive beast. It wriggles and bobs with my movements, like a big, black worm coming up from the dirt. I shrivel my nose when a long tendril of saliva drizzles over the dildo’s head. It drips down like the toy is orgasming.
Minerva strikes my butt with a harsh snap. I yelp, shuddering away. She doesn’t need to hit me again; I got the message.
I push the dildo’s head through the metal hole in my mouth. The sensation is odd, almost inhuman. I feel like I should be more robotic, like my movements aren’t really mine, but then the silicone hits the back of my throat and reminds me that this hell is mine to control.
I gag. My body lurches forward. But before I can come up for air, Minerva hits me between my shoulders, much harder than before.
“Don’t stop until I tell you to stop,” she snaps. She punctuates her sentence by striking the ground. I whimper, but don’t dare disobey.
I push deeper and deeper, clinging to the edges of the table to keep myself steady. The dildo snakes down my throat, cutting off my airways. I struggle to breathe out of my nose. My body hurdles itself into panic mode, and I flail around for Minerva’s pity.
The riding crop slaps my ass again, then Minerva pauses and studies me. When a tear trickles down my overstuffed cheeks, she dries the skin with a cruel lashing. I scream, and the dildo pushes deeper.
“Focus!” She shouts. She strikes my leg twice, leaving behind a swelling red welt. “Go deeper, Emma!”
My body trembles like a leaf. I can feel blood trickling out of my face. My heart races to keep up, but it isn’t strong enough. My eyelids grow heavy. My throat bulges. Minerva hits my esophagus with the crop, and all that terror I’ve been fighting to hold down explodes in my head. I rip myself off of the dildo, gasping for air. Minerva tuts her tongue, then strikes me in the face again.
“Bend over the table,” she snaps.