The Orchid Operation
Copyright© 2025 by Rose Garden
Chapter 17: Medical Marvel
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 17: Medical Marvel - 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 sit on one of the plush armchairs in the lobby, waiting for Doctor Brockhoist’s return. After tying back my hair and dressing me in a paper gown, Minerva bound my wrists in sturdy leather cuffs and left me on my own while she cleaned up the classroom. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. It’s pitch black outside. When my session first started, it was still sunny. I thought when I woke up that it was maybe early morning, but now I think it was probably early evening instead. How long did I usually sleep between sessions? And how long did they take? What was the point, exactly, of removing my sense of time? If I ever got sold, I’d just be surrounded by clocks again.
Just another form of torture, I guess.
I gnaw down on the metal ring in my mouth. My jaw is killing me. It’s definitely been hours since it was first shoved into me. I’m worried that my mouth might never go back to its normal shape once the gag is removed.
Brockhoist’s voice echoes down the hall. He’s on the phone, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. He sounds hopeful. Excited, even. Transport is already on their way, and Wentzler gave him the green light to take me to the Lab.
I stare at a camera lens hidden in the flower painting across from me. I know he’s on the other side. I wonder how much of the day he spends watching me. I wonder how much it tantalizes him.
Brockhoist snaps his phone shut, and I jerk out of my trance. He’s standing in the doorway, having donned a fresh lab coat. He studies me with the same cold, expressionless face he always has on. Yet there’s a sparkle in his eyes that even he can’t hide. He pulls something from his pockets and approaches me with it. It’s phallic-looking, with some kind of pump on the other end. I shake my head and inch away, but Brockhoist snatches the strap of my gag like it’s a horse’s reins.
“Hold still,” he says with a huff.
The toy snaps in place inside of my gag, fit snugly with the help of deep grooves. No matter how hard I try to push it out, it remains stuck. At least it isn’t so big, I guess. But then Brockhoist holds two fingers to the very top of my esophagus and begins to pump. I brace myself as the silicone toy swells until it’s bulging against my tongue and cheeks. Brockhoist stops right before it hits my gag reflex, then runs his hand down my neck and nods. I squirm, but the fight is useless. It takes all of my focus to keep breathing through my nose.
A light outside the window catches his eye. I recognize it. Golf cart headlights. My heart plummets to my feet, and I collapse back into the chair like a limp rag.
“Oh no,” Brockhoist snaps. He snatches me by the arm and yanks me up to my feet. “You’re going to behave today, Emma. No tantrums, no whining, and no crying. I’m presenting you to a very highly esteemed team of researchers, one of whom happens to be a respected friend of mine. If you make me look like a fool in front of them, I will have you ripped open from throat to anus and sell you as a roadside attraction, do you understand me?”
I swallow, nearly gagging on the blowup toy. Too scared to make a noise, I nod.
Brockhoist’s grip on me loosens, but he doesn’t let go. “Good. You will do everything that is asked of you today. That begins with walking.” He shoves me toward the door, leaving me to catch my footing without the help of my hands.
I have to wait to be buzzed out alongside him, leaving me trembling as he breezes past. The air outside is freezing, and a gust of wind blows my already teeny skirt up to reveal my girlhood. It doesn’t help that the back of the gown doesn’t lace all the way up, and instead connects at the collar by a single, flimsy button. I have basically no coverage to protect myself from the cart driver’s wandering gaze.
Brockhoist makes me share the backseat with him, but he doesn’t pay any attention to me as we take off down the open road. We take a shortcut through the forest, then rush past the Dollhouse. It’s so still and quiet. I wonder if everyone inside is having a peaceful night, but then a silhouette blocks one of the front windows. They hold a heart-shaped paddle high over their head, then bring it down with swift fury. My own ass tingles, recalling Minerva’s brutal lashings from earlier.
The Lab stands next to the medical facility. The two buildings would be completely indistinguishable from each other if not for the large lotus symbol branding the Lab. Its windows are much smaller, too, almost nonexistent. I can’t tell if it was hard to see them because it’s late, or if the glass is extremely tinted. I wonder if the lotuses ever get to see sunlight.
The cart pulls into a spacious garage, which is filled with guards in white scrubs armed with stun guns and syringes. Their collective focus falls on me as I ease my bare feet onto the cold metal ground. I wish Brockhoist was the kind of person I could cling to for comfort, but he’s already three steps ahead of me and moving fast. I struggle to keep up. My tired breaths force the toy closer and closer to my gag reflex. I swallow, but it just makes the ache in my jaw worse.
“Remember what I said,” Brockhoist snaps when I finally catch up to him. “Do not make a fool of me.”
I nod and pretend to mumble a promise through my gag. Brockhoist frowns, but doesn’t voice his concerns. Instead, he grabs me by the arm and drags me behind him.
Unlike the medical facility, the hallways of the Lab are free of gurneys and wheelchairs. Instead, guard posts and computer screens block the way. There are a lot more doors we have to go through this time. Each time we approach one, Brockhoist is forced to show his ID card and state his business before we’re allowed to continue. This routine repeats five times, then everything changes.
We’re really inside now. People rush around frantically, either in lab coats or scrubs. It’s hard to pick out the nurses from the guards in the chaos of it all. I relax my arm to give Brockhoist a better grip so that I don’t lose him.
A lot of the exam rooms either have giant windows, or are completely walled-in by glass. Teams of doctors surround single subjects at a time. I try not to look at the lotuses as we pass by. Many are missing limbs, genitals, or even their entire faces. Some look like plastic dolls with their bits all stitched up and smooth. Others are coated in blood, sweat, and tears, lying naked on metal tables and screaming their lungs out. We pass by a room with dimmed lights, filled to the brim with massive test tubes. Subjects float in the liquid, tethered to breathing masks.
Brockhoist rocks back on his heels, then suddenly pivots down a new hall. He jerks me behind him, quickening his pace. Just then, a loud boom echoes behind us. Someone shrieks like a banshee, but the noise quickly snuffs out. I shudder.
I can’t forget there’s a chance I could one day wind up here. Sure, the Oasis is desperate to throw me in their depths should I fail as an orchid, but I suspect there’s a lotus-shaped brand in my future. Brockhoist and Wentzler have roots here. They’d probably still get to play with me even if I no longer belonged to them.
Brockhoist’s pace slows. He locks in on a large room with glass walls. Several doctors are waiting inside. Half of them carry clipboards, while the other half rush around to cart in equipment and computers. I whimper, which only prompts Brockhoist to dig his fingernails into my skin.
A man stands outside the door, skimming through a folder. He’s old, with snow white hair and tiny glasses on the tip of his nose. A thick, bushy mustache hides most of his mouth. When Brockhoist approaches him, the doctor glances up, then flashes a warm, welcoming smile.
“Rocky,” he greets, shaking Brockhoist’s hand. His eyes look kind, but I know not to be so gullible.
Brockhoist smiles back. “Doctor Reynolds. I’m glad you were able to arrange this on such short notice.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble at all, old friend! After you helped me with that whole outbreak fiasco, I just...” He trails off, chuckling to himself until his cheeks are pink. His gaze snags on me, like he only just noticed I’ve been standing here too. His smile warms again, but his hands reach into his pocket for a pair of gloves. “And who’s this you’ve brought for me, hm?” He grabs me gently by the chin and coaxes me forward so his latex-covered fingers can feel up my throat. “I hear we’re having a little trouble swallowing. That’s no good.”
“It’s not that,” Brockhoist says. “Wentzler and I’ve been over her charts. We’ve ruled out dysphagia and achalasia.”
Reynolds’ gaze jumps back to Brockhoist. “You said she was a cager, yes? It’s not uncommon for cagers to develop esophageal strictures, you know.”
Brockhoist huffs. “It’s not that either. I mean, potentially, but a very minor case. She can swallow food just fine. It’s cock she has a problem with. The fact is: she’s a small girl with a small throat. That I can work with. But her mistress raped her throat for hours, and it still retained the exact same size it was when I examined it beforehand. Her throat has no flexibility to it. I can’t explain it.”
Reynolds takes in Brockhoist’s words slowly. His mustache twists to the side, like he’s pursing his lips tight. He glances back at me, still pressing his fingers to my throat.
“Well...” he pulls away, peeling off his gloves. “Her being a cager is probably the leading cause of this. Was she still experiencing puberty when she was taken?”
“We assume. Her medical records indicate she was a bit of a late bloomer.”
“Well, there’s your problem. She didn’t get to develop properly.” Reynolds arches a bushy brow and gives me a full once-over. Even though my torso is hidden beneath the paper gown, it’s still obvious how little I am.
“But the girl has immaculate breeding, Doctor.”
“Then maybe there’s hope yet.” Reynolds smiles again, but not at Rocky. He stares right back into my eyes as he says, “I have assembled an excellent team for you. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
He doesn’t touch me as he ushers me inside the glass room. Brockhoist disappears in pursuit of a washing station down the hall. I’m all alone now. Thrust into the gloved hands of twelve doctors, all barking orders at each other as they prepare my body.
I’m dragged to a plinth in the center of the room. Blinding fluorescent lights bathe me from all sides until my skin feels like it’s scorching. My dress is ripped off me and thrown away somewhere. I’m taken into a metal frame of sorts. It stands me upright, where cold steel cuffs snap around my ankles, knees, thighs, hips, waist, wrists, elbows, and shoulders. I feel like I’m in an exoskeleton, forced to stand with my hands awkwardly sticking out and my legs spread apart. Needles are threaded through my wrists and up my thighs. Clamps snap to my fingers. Sticky electrodes scatter across my chest, arms, legs, and head. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing out the horrible memory of when I was first replicated. All those needles ... All that pain.
When I open my eyes again, Brockhoist has returned. He stands on the outskirts of the action, watching as the other doctors strap my head to its own special restraint. The toy in my mouth is deflated, and my gag is thankfully removed. But before I can celebrate the relief, a metal device is forced between my teeth, where the doctors pry open its hinges wider and wider until the cold, harsh bars hold my mouth open. The corners of my lips begin to tear and bleed, but all I get to combat the pain is a single swipe of petroleum jelly.
Reynolds reappears in front of me, flicking on a flashlight to stare down my throat. He muses to himself, mumbling incoherently under his breath. His eyes dance around my insides. My tongue struggles not to wriggle like a worm. A doctor standing beside him holds up a clipboard for him to jot down his findings after he’s clicked off the light and stepped back.
“You were right to come to me first,” Reynolds tells Brockhoist. He motions something to the team, sending them spiralling back into action. While they unpack metal crates, Reynolds takes Brockhoist aside to whisper something in his ear. I can’t read their lips, even if I had the ability to. I’m already being swarmed again.
A doctor takes a pair of metal tongs and holds my tongue up to the roof of my mouth while another takes tweezers and feeds in an exceptionally thin wire, tipped with a long needle pointed straight for me. I groan, unable to writhe, but it falls on deaf ears. The needle pierces the base of my tongue, eliciting a sharp gasp from my chest.
Across the room, Brockhoist and Reynolds pause and turn to watch as a second needle joins the first beneath my tongue. I swallow a yelp, but it still comes out as an odd, strangled noise. Brockhoist scowls and narrows his eyes at me.
“Is she always so stressed?” Reynolds asks. He muses over some of the computer screens while he speaks. I assume they’re showing my readings, since all the wires I’m hooked up to lead through the back of the computer’s desk.
Brockhoist sucks in a sharp breath. “Her sponsor has given you full authority to calm her down through any means you see fit. She has no drug intolerances that we know of, and she is averse to torture. I’ve warned her to behave, but I see she chose to ignore me.”
“The girl is a child, Rocky. You can hardly expect her to keep quiet.” Reynolds furrows his brows and wrinkles his mustache. “Say, don’t you prefer boys? Or are those orchid paychecks worth the trouble?”
Brockhoist scoffs, but flashes a subtle sort of smile. “Wentzler would sooner end the operation than lose me as his primary medical lead. But he wants his first real orchid to be a girl. He thinks the board will be more keen to give us proper funding that way.”
“Boys get too emotional, anyhow,” Reynolds says.
Brockhoist’s scowl returns in a snap. “Maybe. But this one cries.”
Usually, I do. But today, it’s taking every ounce of self control not to burst into tears. Three more needles are plunged into my mouth. They’ve started threading them down my throat. Meanwhile, two other doctors work to puncture the outside of my neck with similar needles, only these are taped down before being secured with a compression neck brace that acts as another restraint.
“Not much of a masochist if she’s a crier,” Reynolds mumbles.
Brockhoist rolls his eyes. With an exhausted pitch in his tone, he sighs and says, “I agree. But Wentzler was determined to have this particular one in the program. And you know how he gets when he has his mind set on something.”