The Orchid Operation
Copyright© 2025 by Rose Garden
Chapter 3: Insemination
BDSM Sex Story: Chapter 3: Insemination - 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 girl 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 is a collection of short stories, each containing new and erotic delights. These stories can be read in any particular order
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 sleep for a while. Doctor Wentzler gave me a strong enough drug that I don’t remember being taken out of the surgery suite. I remember nothing except for waking up in a crisp white room bathed in a tint of turquoise light. I’m splayed out across a plush, albeit itchy cot, with metal railings surrounding me. Leather straps are strewn beneath me, but my wrists and ankles are free. I’m too groggy to be much of a threat, anyway. A heart rate monitor is clamped onto my finger, and an IV tube runs through the back of my hand. I groan and stretch my arm up above me. My skin looks a little pinker than before. My fingers shake, reminding me I haven’t eaten.
A shuffle in the room catches my eye. I turn to see a desk opposite me. Its lamp is on, cutting through the room’s colored hue with golden light. Doctor Brockhoist sits there, his fingers flipping through pages. But his eyes are on me. He stares at me through knitted brows. His eyeliner has lessened in severity, and takes on a smudgier look. His hair is tousled and his shirt is wrinkled, but his lab coat is perfect and pristine.
“Good morning,” he drones, returning to his papers.
I groan back, too weary to speak. I look down to find that I’ve been dressed in a short paper gown. I peel up its hem to look at my belly, but what I find is nothing more than a sea of milky white skin. Not only is the bandage gone, but so is my surgery wound. I try to ask why, but my throat is too hoarse. The dry, scratchy noise that bubbles out of me makes Doctor Brockhoist cringe. He lets out a half-hearted sigh and stands. He pours me a cup of water and drags a chair to my bedside to help me sit up and drink. The cooling liquid chills my throat and brings vibrancy to my body once more. I’m still exhausted, but I have the strength to sit upright on my own after three more cups.
“How are you feeling?” Doctor Brockhoist asks. He retrieves his favorite clipboard and pen, waiting for my response.
I shrug. “I’m hungry.”
“Mm-hm.” Brockhoist jots my response down. He writes more than I say, leaving me to wonder what he’s putting down. When I strain my neck to read his paper, he scoots his chair back. “As for pain?”
I shrug again. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Mm-hm...”
It’s strange. All that agony exists only as a figment of my splintered memories. Was it all real? Did it truly happen? I shake my head to still my spiraling thoughts.
“How long was I sleeping?”
Brockhoist sucks in a long breath, as if already fed up with me. “Thirty-one hours. Nearly thirty-two. You overslept, child.”
“Sorry.” I rub my belly. My insides feel weird, but I think it’s caused by stress, not the surgery. “How are my guts all healed up? You cut a hole in me.”
“Reconstruction. It’s the same process you underwent on the boat, don’t you remember?”
“You fixed me up?”
He nods. “It’s an invasive process, and a long one, too. It is by no means a permanent solution.”
“What do you mean? Am I gonna get hurt a lot?”
A sliver of humor cracks on his face. Brockhoist turns and sets his clipboard aside. Instead of answering, he approaches me with his pen light. His hand, gloved in black latex, cups the back of my head. He whispers gently for me to hold still. The light flashes on in my eyes. He carefully instructs me to look in different directions—up, down, left, right, follow his finger, watch his nose—until I’ve run myself dizzy.
“I’m hungry,” I repeat, watching Brockhoist jot down the results of my exam.
“Yes, I know. But you overslept. We’re behind schedule.”
“Doctor Wentzler said I might die though.”
Doctor Brockhoist’s hand twitches. If he was holding a pencil and not a pen, I think it would have snapped. He glares at me through narrowed eyes. “Doctor Wentzler is a worrier and a dramatic. You won’t die during this procedure on an empty stomach. If anything, you might simply pass out. I do not have time to sit around and wait for you to digest a meal, and I’d rather get through this test without risking you defecating yourself. Don’t you want that too?”
I nod solemnly. “I guess.”
“Good.”
Doctor Brockhoist tosses his clipboard onto his desk. It clatters against metal pen cups, and I flinch. Brockhoist rises and stretches out his legs before turning to lower my bedside railings and free me. With gentle hands, he helps me to my feet. I follow his lead and stretch my weary muscles, too.
Doctor Brockhoist takes my hand and guides me to the other side of the room. Hidden behind a curtain is a white leather-covered gynecology table. Tough restraints sit waiting for me alongside a plethora of daunting equipment. Among the medical tools are scattered sex toys. Vibrators, gags, tubes, and anal plugs sit in anticipation.
“What are you going to do?” I ask. I try to shuffle away, but Brockhoist places his hand on the small of my back and eases me still. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he ties my long hair up into a loose bun and hides it beneath a flimsy hair net. He then drags his finger softly down the nape of my neck until my muscles buckle and I giggle. He hooks the ties of my paper gown one by one until it flitters away, leaving me nude in the middle of the room. My pussy lips quiver and my nipples harden in the cold.
“Sit,” Brockhoist orders, patting a rolling chair I assume is meant to be his.
His eyes scan over the metal tray beside him. When he holds a ring gag up, I shudder. Color drains from my face, leaving me faint.
“So you remember this,” he says. He nods approvingly. “Good. Would you say you’re scared?”
I nod. It’s the same kind of gag I was forced to wear for what felt like years. I’m still not used to the sensation of closing my jaw. I keep grinding my teeth just because I can.
“I suspect you’d have the same reaction to enemas, force feeding tubes, and catheters, yes?”
I only recognize one of the things he says. Still, I nod again.
“Please don’t send me back,” I whimper.
Doctor Brockhoist tuts his tongue. “Of course not, child. You’re here now. No one ever goes back to the cages. The mind can’t be wiped clean twice. Though Wentzler is trying to find a way.”
That last part is mumbled. Doctor Brockhoist’s jaw tightens as he says it. He pauses, then catches me staring. He’s quick to regain his composure as he draws nearer. His other hand grabs the gag’s opposite strap, and he hovers it in front of my face.
“Open,” he orders.
My lips tighten, and I whimper again. “Please. I don’t want to.”
“Would you like me to get a bigger one? Or perhaps I could bring a guard in here to pry your jaws apart.”
“Please...” I whisper.
“You’re being very naughty, child. Do you need to go in time-out?”
His eyes travel across the room, and I follow. Behind the table sits a tiny black dog crate. Its door is open and invites me inside. A dry sob bursts from my chest, and I swallow a scream. When I turn back to Brockhoist, he’s frowning.
“I won’t ask again,” he says.
I suck in a deep breath and face my terror with pride. Sitting up straight, I lift my mouth wide open and let the doctor nestle the metal ring between my teeth. He straps it on tight around my head and tugs on it to ensure it’s snug. The ring is slightly larger than the one I wore before. My gaping mouth turns up to face the doctor. He smiles as my tongue waggles nervously.
“Your master and mistress might make use of gags in the future,” Brockhoist explains. He guides me up to my feet, then brings me to the gynecology table. “You need to get used to the way they feel. If I were Raven, and you just back-talked me like that, then you would have been beaten black and blue. Raven and Minerva don’t handle disobedience well. You’d be smart to remember that.”
“Ahh-huhh,” I reply, my words coming out more like distant animal cries.
“Lay on the table.”
I do as told, pressing my back against the icy surface. Brockhoist helps guide my arms outward to sit evenly on their rests. He straps leather bindings over my forearms to pin them in place. He makes sure the bindings aren’t too tight, but not too loose either. A strap sits like a seatbelt across my hips, and another goes beneath my breasts. Brockhoist helps nestle my legs into the tall stirrups, forcing them to stretch high into the air. My toes curl when he ties down my calves and thighs. I’m positioned like a starfish and lit up beneath the glow of several surgical lamps. Brockhoist drags the chair between my legs and runs his hand along my pussy.
“Already wet?” He asks. “Fucking whore. Do you like being tied up?”
I shake my head. “Uh-uhh.”
Brockhoist cracks a grin. He presses his thumb into my clit until my back buckles. “Your body tells me a different story. I bet it wouldn’t be difficult to get you to start creaming for me. Would you like me to try?”
I pause. I can still feel Raven’s long, skilled tongue inside of my pussy. I remember the way my chest exploded with euphoria. How I buckled beneath the weight of pleasure so profound that I screamed.
I nod, and Brockhoist’s smile widens.
“Clever child.” He stands and rifles through his equipment. I’m hooked up to another heart rate monitor. Stickers and wires cover my chest. Two large pads stick to my ribs. There are more on my temples and the back of my hands. Brockhoist finishes by strapping the final two to the insides of my thighs, then settles himself back down in his chair. He plucks a small vibrating wand from his tools, flips the monitor on, and faces me with anticipating eyes. “Let’s see how this feels. Hold your breath.”
I obey when he flicks the vibrator on. Its loud humming noise startles me, and I jump. The heart rate monitor jumps with me until the sound of its beeps drown out the toy. I watch wide-eyed as Brockhoist peels back the hood of my tiny clit and slowly kisses the skin against the head of the vibrator. My muscles buckle instantly, and I shriek through my open jaws. Brockhoist grins and pushes in harder.
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