The Orchid Operation
Copyright© 2025 by Rose Garden
Chapter 18: Clip On
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 18: Clip On - 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
After the drugs Lucy gave me wore off, I wasn’t able to fall back asleep. I spent my time watching the sun creep up the sky through a gap in the curtains. Eventually, I stopped wriggling against my cuffs. I stopped hoping for freedom.
My jaw hurts so much. My throat burns like fire. I can’t get anyone’s attention. I can groan and scream, but no one ever comes. I know they’re watching me. Studying me. Jotting down every time I blink or hold my breath too long. Maybe my confinement wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have to go to the bathroom as badly as I do. I keep trying to rub my legs together to hint to my owners that I’m about to wet my sheets, but my ankle and hip restraints keep me pinned.
Carts pass by outside. Subjects wail in the distance. If I focus, I can almost hear the push and pull of the waves to calm me down, but then I turn and realize what I’m hearing instead is rain. It fills up the gutters and splashes over the edge of the roof. My bladder constricts. It’s taking all of my focus to keep myself together. A tear trickles down my cheek, but it only makes the temptation of letting go that much more potent.
My doorknob clicks, putting a kick in my heart. I’d swallow my tongue if it wasn’t being compressed down by a big red ball. Brockhoist steps in, medical cart in-tow and clipboard at the ready. My chest deflates, and I glare at him. He glares back.
“Good morning, Emma,” he mumbles, inviting himself inside. He unhooks my IV and cleans the wound the needle leaves behind. “I see we didn’t sleep well last night. Are you still in pain?”
He throws me a glance. I tighten my glare. He smirks.
“Good.”
He replaces the old IV with a new one, sticking the needle in my other arm. I groan. I may not know a lot about his job, but it’s pretty obvious when he goes the extra mile just to bring me discomfort.
“Relax,” he scolds. “This is your breakfast. I’d suggest thanking me before acting like a brat.”
Breakfast? In my arm?
I grunt, trying to voice my questions. Brockhoist rolls his eyes and huffs.
“Your throat is still healing,” he says. While he speaks, he unlatches the leather belt pinning my chest down. I know not to be relieved. He’s not freeing me, only readjusting.
“Today’s session will be easy,” he continues. “No screaming. We’ve been very clear about that. Your mother has been thoroughly warned to be careful with you.”
Mom? I feverishly shake my head, thrashing with what little freedom Brockhoist just gave me. He steps back, scowling, and waits for me to run myself empty and collapse.
With a huff, he asks, “Did you get that out of your system?”
I shoot him another glare.
Brockhoist ignores it. His revenge comes swiftly, anyhow. He stuffs a couple of extra pillows behind my back to sit me upright, then straps me down again to keep me pinned. I wonder if this is what butterflies feel like when they’re being taxidermied and framed. Of course, they’re already dead when that happens. I envy that.
“I’ll be in the room the entire time, so you will not be completely helpless,” Brockhoist explains.
His attention shifts to my ankle restraints next. He moves the straps to my bedposts, then attaches my ankles to a metal bar to keep me from closing my legs even a little. A draft flies up my paper dress. I shudder and clench my girlhood. Brockhoist must have seen me tremble because he twists his lips, then retrieves a small pair of scissors from his medical cart. When he makes the first snip at my paper hem, I squeal and buck against my cuffs.
“It’s just going to get in the way,” he says, continuing to slice my dress in two. “Besides, the button is in the back, and I’m not about to loosen your restraints again just to reach it. Hold still, or I might cut you.”
I swallow my pride as the metal spine of the scissors traces a line up my belly. Its freezing surface sends out ripples of goosebumps to vibrate my skin. I shudder, then moan. The chill glides between my breasts. Brockhoist is careful to snip underneath the straps. He moves slowly, crawling further up my body until he’s hovering over the last snip. The collar breaks, and the dress is pulled out from underneath me with ease. I lay bare on my bed. Leather bites my skin, and needle welts from last night’s experiment bubble up across me. Brockhoist notes every single one, ensuring nothing is infected. His eyes dance over me carefully. There’s no arousal behind his gaze when he examines my breasts or grazes his fingers over my hardened, bubblegum nipples. Even when he holds my petals open and flashes a light between my legs, there isn’t a single sign of lust in his expression. It chills me. And yet ... maybe I like it. I’m still meat to him, I know that. But our relationship is different. With Raven, I’m meat to be abused. But Brockhoist wants to learn from me. Everything from my toes to my scalp is his landscape to study.
He scrapes his finger up the arch of my foot. I giggle and kick at him without meaning to. He jots the reaction down, then checks for the same reaction by tickling the back of my knee. He continues this practice along my sides, then underneath my arms. But when he gets to my neck, his touch stops being gentle. He presses into my throat. I gag, and the ball in my mouth bobs, slick with saliva. Brockhoist’s mouth twists. He moves slowly, like he’s hesitant, as he reaches for the gag’s buckle. I hold my breath, trying to not get too excited when he unlatches the strap and instructs me to open wide.
A trail of spit connects my tongue to the gag while he pulls it away. It falls, coating my chin and neck. Brockhoist puts the gag in a plastic bag, then wipes my face dry and replaces his gloves.
“Stretch out your jaw,” he instructs. He holds two fingers to my chin as I ease my mouth back to its natural position. I wince when my teeth touch. “Does it hurt?”
I nod, then remember I can actually speak again. “Yes...”
My throat is dry. I hack and wheeze like I’m choking on dust. Brockhoist writes that down.
“Good,” he repeats. He flashes his light in my mouth while he speaks, checking beneath my tongue and down my throat.
I groan, burying my head into my pillows. “I really need to pee.”
Brockhoist eases back, frowning. He flicks off his light and pockets it. “You’ll have to hold it. Your mother will be here any second. Once she leaves, I’ll hook you up to a catheter for the night.”
“How long am I going to be stuck here?” I wheeze out.
The doctor shrugs. “That all depends. You’ll be replicated following your decem assessment. After that, the restraints won’t be needed. Assuming you behave, that is.”
“I will,” I whisper. But Brockhoist’s disgusted expression tells me he doesn’t believe me.
My bedroom door clicks again. Mom lets herself in with a huff. Her hair is slightly disheveled, like she had to walk here. Yet she’s still in stilettos, tights, and a pencil skirt, so I guess not. Her shirt is mostly untucked, and with half of the buttons undone, it sits crookedly on her flat frame. She turns to me, her jaw tightened like she’s ready to snap, but then Brockhoist catches her eye instead. Anger turns to fury. She chucks a black wooden box onto the bed, narrowly missing my knee.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Mom snaps, slamming the door behind her.
Brockhoist throws her a half-hearted glance as he sets himself up at my desk. “Take it up with Wentzler if you don’t like it.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
Brockhoist sucks in a long, sharp breath. His eyes squeeze shut, and he holds them like that for a beat. Finally, he exhales a huff and says, “My being here is no different from the cameras’ presence. Doesn’t matter if you’re Raven or yourself. I will be here in the flesh to protect the subject. We must maintain her anatomical integrity over these next few days. Honestly, Cat, you should know this.”
Mom huffs. She situates her bra back into place and tightens the straps. Her eyes rake over me. Her brow is furrowed into a tight knit.
“You know I wasn’t the only one who screwed up the other day,” she mutters. “Winters should be taking some of the blame.”
Brockhoist throws her a glare. “You know exactly why Winters isn’t receiving half the punishment you are. Be grateful Wentzler still wants you here.”
Mom’s lips, painted in a luscious velvety brown, twitch into a sort of halfway smirk. She studies me, eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t have a choice. After all, I am the girl’s mother.”
Brockhoist rolls his eyes and turns away.
Mom’s smirk falls into a scowl as she steps closer to the bed. My joints lock up and wriggle, but there’s nothing I can do. Whatever she has planned for me, I have no choice but to suffer through.
“You’re quiet,” Mom says to me. To Brockhoist, she asks, “Can she speak?”
“She’s allowed,” Brockhoist answers with another huff. “But her throat is badly damaged. I can’t imagine it feels very pleasant.”
“Huh.” Mom’s grin returns twice as wicked as before. “I like you better this way. No whining. No begging or pleading. Just screaming.”
“Careful,” Brockhoist warns.
Mom shoots him another glare, but doesn’t bite. She’s too excited now. Not even the doctor can sully her mood.
“We’re not allowed to play very rough today,” Mom says with a moan in her throat. My body buckles beneath the odd warmth her voice brings me. It melts me, easing my muscles until I’m putty in my restraints.
With graceful fingers, Mom traces the edges of the black wooden box she threw onto my bed. She eases herself onto the edge of the mattress, lightly humming a tune. She scrapes her ankles against each other to kick off her shoes before crawling into bed with me. Her tight skirt hikes up until it barely hides her panties.
“I brought these from home,” she begins, crawling closer. My petals snap shut on instinct. Mom notices. It’s a challenge. Her fingers inch between my thighs. Her manicured nails, painted the same brown as her lips, graze across my flesh. I’m already dewy.
“Open up for Mommy, will you?” Mom asks. She presses her thumb to my clit and begins humming again when my muscles twitch in response.
I shudder. I’m too weak to keep her out. I’m not sure I want to, anyway. Her palm drags along my slit—up, then down, so gracefully that I don’t even realize she’s slipped two fingers inside me until her nails hook into my flesh. My back buckles, but the straps pin me to my pillows.
Mom’s moan melts into a glorious, deep chuckle. She pulls her fingers out and wipes the mess across my belly. “Oh, you’re ready to play, aren’t you?”
I groan, opening my mouth to speak, but Mom spanks my pussy before I can get anything out. I yelp, catching the doctor’s eye, but only for a moment.
“No, I like you better when you’re quiet,” Mom snaps, her tone sharp and cruel. She curls up between my legs and snaps open the box to examine inside. “Let’s see if I have something to keep you that way.”
“No gags,” Brockhoist mumbles. “At least none too big. Her jaw needs a break.”
Mom pulls out a strange metal device and shows it to the doc. He tosses it a half-hearted glance, then gives Mom his nod of approval. I want to ask what it is, but my girlhood is still tingling, so I keep quiet. My confusion must be painted as clear as day across my face, though, because Mom answers anyway.
“This is a vice,” Mom says, inching toward my face. “It’ll be perfect for what I have in store today.”