The Orchid Operation
Copyright© 2025 by Rose Garden
Chapter 20: Suckers
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 20: Suckers - 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
Every day it’s the same thing. I get up in a heap of misery and pain; I tell myself I’m going to be the perfect little orchid for my owners, and then I fuck it all up and go back to sleep in even more agony than before.
Every damn day.
The same thing.
How long have I been here again? A month? A week? Do I even remember how long a week is? Which one is longer? What if it’s been a year? I know that’s a lot of time. I forget how much, exactly. It doesn’t matter. I should probably give up trying to remember how time works.
My cell door creaks as the key is plunged into its hole. Light from the hall pours inside, bathing my awkwardly limp body. I glance up, my eyes glazed over and scorching beneath the florescent glow. The last visitor I had was Brockhoist. He came to take out the wooden block in my mouth and feed me a single, lukewarm cup of water, drugged to help me sleep. His mercies didn’t last. The drugs wore off quickly, and my mouth is bone dry again. I hope he’s returned with something stronger, but the figure in the doorway giggles. It’s Lucy.
“Mornin’, sugar!” There’s a squeak in her voice like a chew toy. She’s always so bubbly. It’s a breath of fresh air. I’d like to see more of her. But she never goes anywhere without the doctor by her side.
“Where’s Doctor Brockhoist?” I ask as Lucy helps me sit. My head lulls, dragged down by the weight of my pounding brain. I’m so thirsty...
“He’s in a meetin’, hun,” Lucy replies. She unlocks my wrists, then drags me to my feet. She takes my tank top off and pockets it in her apron. “I’m here to take a look at you real quick. You wanna shimmy on down the hall with me?”
I nod and stumble forward. I make it about two steps before Lucy takes the hint that I can’t walk on my own. She extends her arm for me to hold on to, since we’re practically the same height, and helps me hobble down the basement hall.
The room closest to the stairs sits with its door open and its lights on. I remember from my brief walk with Raven that it has medical equipment inside. Must be an exam room. There’s someone in there already; I can hear them shuffling around. My heart jerks, terrified it’s either Raven or Wentzler. But as we turn the corner, a third, equally worrying option greets me.
“Hey sweet girl,” Dad says with a smile. He pats the leather examination table. “Come, take a seat. The sooner Lucy finishes up, the sooner we can get started.”
I bite my lip. Both Lucy and Dad have to help me onto the table. I’m too weak to do it on my own. It’s hard to pretend I don’t see the restraints already prepped and ready for me, but no one reaches for them. Instead, I’m allowed to lean against Dad’s shoulder, watching Lucy wash up and change her gloves. I guess they know I’m too exhausted to try to escape. It’s not like I can get up the stairs without an ID card anyway.
Every now and then I doze, using Dad as my pillow. He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he holds my head close, keeping me from toppling over. Lucy takes advantage of my distraction to clean the cuts on my wrists without me flinching. She checks the bruises Raven left behind on my neck, then dabs my cracked, bleeding lips with petroleum jelly before I’m forced to stay awake long enough for her to see down my throat. There isn’t much she can do to stop my pain besides jot it down in my file and tells dad the same thing Brockhoist told Mom.
“Careful with th’ screamin’, now,” Lucy scolds, tossing her gloves in the trash.
Dad runs his fingers through my hair. He lets out a soft breath that tickles my scalp. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed. He probably is.
“Today’s session shouldn’t be too hard. Nothing agonizing, I hope.”
He hopes? Does he not know, or is he just trying to freak me out?
“As long as you don’t piss Rocky off,” Lucy says. She turns, giving Dad a once-over from the corners of her eyes. “I was watchin’ her mother’s session the other day and she brought up a good point, you know.”
Dad’s chest tightens. I don’t have to look up to know he’s glaring.
“I’ve already paid my dues by being here, Lucy,” Dad snaps.
Lucy’s brow twitches. She purses her lips to keep from frowning. “Better watch yourself, Professor.”
Dad scoffs. He turns to the camera above me. Something stalls his breath, like he’s ready to speak. But nothing comes out. Instead, he concedes with another long huff. His hand falls from my hair and onto my shoulder, a subtle command for me to sit upright.
“You’ve been quiet,” he points out. He gives me a little nudge, ensnaring my gaze.
I groan, rubbing my eyes. “I’m sleepy.”
True, but I’m also just plain scared. I don’t know what I’m allowed to say anymore that won’t earn me a scolding or a punishment. I think it’s better for me to be seen and not heard. I’m not a person after all. Why should I be expected to act like one?
“That’s no good,” Dad says. “I like hearing that cute little voice of yours.”
He snaps his fingers around my nipple, giving the bud a sudden, sharp yank. I squeal, lurching forward. Both he and Lucy chuckle to themselves, watching my face redden.
“You’ll be expected to speak today, you know,” Dad continues. He gives the other nipple a squeeze just because. “Today is your decem assessment. Your very first real one.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
Dad motions for me to hop off. He helps steady me once my feet hit the grimy floor. I wrap my arms around his elbow as he leads the two of us into the hall, saying, “We’ll do this at the end of every decem, you and I. Unless your therapy or schooling gets in the way. Essentially, it’s sort of like a review-slash-quiz discussing your behavior over the decem and where you need to improve.”
“What’s a decem?” I ask.
Dad beeps us through the ID door, but pauses with his hand on the knob. “We haven’t told you?”
I shake my head. If they had, I don’t remember.
“A decem is what we call a period of ten days. It’s a specific time-measuring method used to keep subjects like yourself disoriented. Of course, you’re a cager; you don’t even know what year it is, do you?”
I whimper and hold myself closer to him. He’s right. I can’t even remember what year it was when I was first kidnapped. I wonder why he won’t tell me. I guess I know why Raven and Wentzler won’t say, but he’s my dad. Why does he want me disoriented, as he put it?
“Do you know when my birthday is?” I ask. I remember the doctors mentioning it after I was first pulled out of the storage unit. It happened recently, didn’t it?
Dad pauses. He pats my hand, but avoids my gaze. “You don’t need to worry about that right now. I just want you thinking about today. We have a lot to discuss.”
“What are you going to do to me?”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled by the idea of going a day without agony. But there’s always a catch. And with Dad, I highly doubt the day is going to be anything but easy.
“I’m going to punish you, of course. Naughty behavior needs to be corrected. We’ll go through every single day of this past decem, discussing your missteps, and you will be forced to reconcile with their consequences.”
“I thought I already have been punished!” I snap. I don’t mean to, but the words fall out of me like a baby’s tantrum. I try to pull away from Dad, but he pins his arm flat against his side, locking me in place.
“Watch your tone, young lady.”
“But if I need to be punished, why did I spend all night in that horrible cell?”
Dad clicks his tongue. He pauses, hovering just past the second ID-locked door and in the heart of the main entryway. I turn to the front door, remembering how Minerva put those clamps on my nipples when I first arrived as punishment for my behavior in the Oasis. Then I turn to the chair she sat me in, where I was restrained and forcibly gagged as punishment for vomiting when she raped my throat. What was all of it for?
“Do you believe in God, Emma?”
Dad’s question rips me from my musings and throws me back. I swallow, unable to decipher whether or not this is some kind of trick.
“I don’t really know who he is, I guess.” I’ve forgotten the rules of Christianity. That’s not entirely my fault; I don’t think I was ever raised religious. Mom and Dad don’t seem to care about any kind of higher power, anyway.
“See, some people believe in the power of karma. Every negative action will come back around to hurt you. Meanwhile, positive actions will come back around to bless you. That sort of thing. But Christians believe that every negative action—sins, as they call them—will be judged during the end times. God will list every sin a person committed and will punish them accordingly. It’s the same concept as karma, only on a much longer time line.
“We, however, believe in both. Both systems, that is. It’s the most effective way to curb negative behavior. You can’t expect us to allow you to run rampant without correcting unacceptable behavior on the spot, do you? But if all of your infractions are corrected immediately, there’s nothing for you to dread.”
“Like ... report cards?” I ask.
Dad pauses. A surprised yet amused grin lights up his face. He stares down at me with a smirk and a furrowed brow. “You know what report cards are, but you forgot about God?”
I shrug.
“You’re a funny little thing. I like that.”
We start walking again. He’s leading me to the backyard, I can tell. I should be excited. I haven’t felt the grass beneath my toes in days. But I can’t stop dreading what awaits. Not agonizing, I remind myself. But still painful.
“Chin up, kiddo,” Dad says. He takes us onto the back porch, as I suspected, where sunlight pours over my filthy naked body. My eyes fall shut. I drink in every droplet of warmth I can gather.
“Are you just going to hurt me?” I ask. I zero-in on a bright blue plastic pool sitting across the yard. It’s new. So is the foldable table standing next to it, which is covered in strange boxes and bottles.
Dad huffs. “Think of it this way: after our session is over, you’ll be escorted back to your dorm to rest up. You’ll be given some downtime before dinner, where your doctor will have to put you to sleep for replication. That’s your reward for suffering through today. These assessment sessions aren’t mindless torture, Emma. They’re ‘slate-cleaners.’ You can’t be punished for past sins after today is finished. Your record will be wiped clean and reset for tomorrow’s session. Doesn’t that sound better?”
I inhale a deep breath. I know not to get excited, but that deal does sound a lot more appealing. Really appealing, actually.
Dad nudges me again. “I see that smile. Don’t be afraid, Emma. Today is going to be one of the easiest sessions you’ve ever had.”
“Really?” I ask.
Dad meets my widened gaze. He chuckles, but doesn’t answer. Instead, he motions to the pool and says, “Go lie down. Get yourself nice and wet for me, but nothing above your shoulders. Understand?”
I nod, biting my tongue and forcing out the words, “Yes, Daddy.”
I take in every long, drawn-out step through the grass, making sure to enjoy every second of it. I don’t know the next time I’ll be allowed outside. Once I hit the edge of the pool, though, I still. The water looks weird. There’s an iridescent shine on top, sort of like oil. But I feel Dad’s shadow looming behind me, so I ease my toes in before I’m scolded.
The water is freezing and sends a violent shiver up my bones. But besides that, I don’t feel anything strange. So I slowly sink deeper down until the water level rises to the very top and I’ve soaked everything below my neck, as instructed. Dad watches by the table. His gaze is stern, like he was expecting something else to happen. Did he think I was going to disobey already? Or is he waiting for something?
Then suddenly, I feel it. An odd tingling sensation wrapping my body. My muscles tighten, and I suppress the urge to scratch all over. I grind my teeth to keep from groaning. My back bows, and water splashes out.
“What’s happening?” I ask with a whimper in my voice.
“It’s alright,” Dad says, humming. “Let the serum do its job. It’ll amplify your nerves for a little while. I want to make sure you can really feel what I’m going to do to your body today. That’s why you can’t get any on your neck or face, okay?”
“Make it stop...”
“I can’t do that, even if I wanted to. It’ll wear off on its own. So I suggest focusing on the task at hand. I’d hate to have to give you a second dose.”
“Please!” I blurt out. “Please, no...”
“Then be a good girl and stay in the pool. Trust me, without the serum, you wouldn’t be able to feel what I have planned at all. And there’s no discipline to be found in that. I’m doing you a favor, Emma. I won’t cheat you out of good torture. You should be thanking me.”
Dad stares at me, waiting. I wriggle, my hands balled in tight fists. I force out the words, “Thank you, Daddy,” but it sounds all wrong through my clenched teeth. Dad accepts the gratitude regardless and begins rifling through his table of tricks.