Brim V01: the Flood That Doesn’t Come

[Scene Fragment: "The Stall Door Closes"]

The room is warm - wood-lined, low-lit, humming. You can feel the quiet buzz in the walls, the low thrum of the barn's breath, matching your own as you kneel - naked, except for the leather collar resting snug around your throat.

I'm standing behind you.

One gloved hand rests on your shoulder. Not heavy. Just... final. As if you've been marked. As if you've always belonged here, kneeling on soft hay, udders full and aching.

"Still leaking already? You're such a mess."

My voice is soft and amused, but there's weight beneath it. Not mocking. Just... factual. Like you're the weather. Like you're mine.

Your nipples twitch at the sound. Maybe from the cold. Maybe from shame. Mostly from the promise.

I circle slowly, boots thudding against the packed earth floor, until I'm in front of you. Crouch low. One hand lifts your chin. The other rests palm-flat against one heavy, swollen breast.

"You need this, don't you?" "Need to be milked. Emptied. Praised. Owned."

I don't wait for an answer. I tug.

Milk bursts hot and eager into my waiting container - your moan echoing the pressure release like a prayer.

"You're so easy to read when you're full. Maybe I should stop letting you leak. Maybe I should lock you up until you're aching too much to think."

Your thighs clench. Your eyes flutter.

I smile.

[Scene Continued: "The Switch and the Sound"]

You're panting now - low and quiet, trying not to make too much noise. Because you know I like it better when you stay still, when you behave. When your discipline crumbles slowly, not all at once.

Your milk drips warm into the collection jar between us. The steady hiss-click of the pump is a metronome - timed with your shame. Each pull draws a soft tug from your chest, and a low whimper from your throat.

"Look at that. Not even ten minutes in, and you're already moaning."

I slide two fingers between your thighs. You're slick.

Of course you are.

The way your body betrays you is one of my favorite things about you. You ache when you're full, you blush when you're praised, and you beg--without words--when I just look at you a little too long.

I pull the pump free, watching your breasts bounce slightly as suction releases. Milk beads at the tips.

"You're not done. But now I want to watch."

I retrieve the wand from the wall. Thick. Heavy. Cord trailing to the control panel. This barn is wired for worship - and tonight, the altar is you.

I press the head of the toy between your legs - just barely, just the tip. Your hips twitch forward, desperate, but obedient. You don't thrust.

"That's better. I like when you know your place."

The hum starts low. Not enough to finish you. Just enough to tease you. I press the wand tighter against your clit, then lift one dripping breast in my other hand and squeeze.

Milk pours down your side as your mouth falls open, eyes wide and pleading.

"No words. I want you too full to think, too soaked to speak."

I turn the wand up a notch. Then another.

Your thighs are shaking. Your breasts are heaving. You're crying now - but it's the good kind. Overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Owned.

"Come for me like a good little cow. And then I'll really empty you."

[Scene: "The Harness and the Hold"]

You didn't collapse - but you did melt. Eyes half-lidded, mouth slack, breath high and shallow.

Which means it's time.

The restraints hang from the stall frame - soft leather cuffs, padded and worn from use. You know them. You know how they bite just enough to remind you what's being taken.

I help you up - slowly. Your knees wobble. You're warm and wet and milk-slick as I guide you toward the frame.

Your wrists go first. Then ankles. Spread wide, bent just enough to offer but not plead. The leather tightens with a gentle click - secure, final. Your breath hitches as the posture settles into your bones.

"Now you can't run. Not even from how badly you need this."

I return to the wand, now resting between your thighs. But I don't turn it back on yet.

Instead, I lean in - just close enough for my breath to kiss your ear.

"You don't get to decide when you come anymore. That's mine now. Just like your milk. Just like your shame."

I press the wand back to your clit--low power. Teasing. Buzzing. Barely enough to push, just enough to build.

Your hips can't move. Your arms can't flinch. You're stuck in the want. In the pressure. In me.

And then I stop.

Again. And again.

You sob, quietly. And I smile, hand stroking gently over your side, tracing the curve of your hip.

"You're being so good. Maybe if you beg pretty - I'll let you leak a little."

[Scene Continued: "The Flood That Doesn't Come"]

The wand is back against you - firm, steady. No teasing now. I mean it. Your whole body arches in the harness, arms trembling, legs locked.

You're seconds from breaking.

"You're so close it hurts, doesn't it? Look at you -dripping, clenching, begging without words."

But I still don't let you go.

Instead, I watch. The way your nipples bead again, fresh milk trying to force its way free. The way your hips twitch like a pulse trying to climb out of your skin.

You moan - deep and raw, edged with frustration.

And I answer:

"No."

The wand lifts. Just enough to kill the peak.

Your body writhes in the harness, every muscle begging for what I just stole.

I walk to your front again, crouch low, meet your tear-glazed eyes.

"You want release? You want permission?"

You nod. Desperate. Quiet.

I press two fingers under your chin, tilting your head up - gently, but without question.

"Then hold it. Be a good little cow and stay full. I don't want you empty yet."

The wand returns.

But slower. Crueler.

Your body bucks--reflexively. But the straps hold. The frame holds. And I hold you in that moment between collapse and surrender.

"Every time you think you're close, I'm going to take it away again. Until you can't remember what it felt like to finish."