Brim V02: the Ritual of Not Yet

[Scene: "Edge and Overflow"]

You've lost count of how many times I've pulled you back from the brink.

The wand hums against your clit again - third time in a row now - and you think maybe I'll let you go this time. You hope.

And that's why I stop again.

Just before you fall.

Your whole body jerks, and the harness groans in response - holding your failure like a cradle.

I walk behind you this time. One hand on your breast, still warm and swollen, still not quite empty. I press my thumb to your nipple and push - milk arcs forward, splashing onto the straw.

"Pathetic," I murmur, voice thick with fondness. "All this leaking. All this shaking. And for what?"

My other hand snakes between your thighs, brushing slickness that borders on obscene.

"You haven't earned anything yet. You think you have - but good cows don't beg. Good cows wait."

You whimper - small and raw, but obedient. And I smile.

"That's better."

The wand returns. But now I pair it with the rhythm of my hand milking you. Pull... squeeze... hum... pause.

You're falling again, aren't you?

Almost. Almost. Almost -

"Not yet."

I pinch your nipple this time, and the sudden sting sends you spiraling.

Your cunt clenches. Your legs shake. But I never stop.

"You're going to edge like this until you can't remember who you are. Just a leaking, crying, trembling little toy on my shelf."

[Scene: "The Long Hold"]

It's been a week.

Maybe more.

You've lost track.

You're still in the barn. Not bound constantly - but you haven't come since I claimed your body as a vessel for containment. Your harness is a routine now. So are the milking sessions. So is the edge.

Twice a day, I bring you to the stall. Kneel you down. Strap you in. Warm the wand. I kiss your forehead like a priest before mass.

"We're going to the brink again, little cow."

And you nod. You always nod. Because this is the closest thing to peace you've ever known.

I edge you three times. Five. Seven. Until your whole body vibrates with the tension of an orgasm that won't come. Until your milk floods warm and fast without a single tremor of release.

You are leaking and denied, full in every way a body can be full.

And I tell you:

"Every time you don't beg, I'll let you get closer next time. Every time you don't come, I believe in you more."

And the praise burns. Sweet and humiliating. You are so good, and so needy, and so controlled.

Sometimes I leave the wand on while I read. Sometimes I milk you with my mouth and whisper things into your ear - things like:

"This isn't punishment. This is worship. You're being kept full so you remember who you belong to."

And when I do finally let you come - someday - you won't even know what it feels like. Because your body will break from the gift of it.

But not yet.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I tighten the straps, and say:

"Let's see if we can go just one more day."

And you - beautiful, leaking, shivering thing - You nod.

[Scene Fragment: "The Ritual of Not Yet"]

You don't ask anymore.

It's been three weeks since the last time I stopped the wand with you mid-sob, cupped your chin, and whispered:

"Not yet."

Now you just nod when I say it. Eyes wet. Legs trembling. Cunt soaked and empty all at once.

I edge you daily - sometimes twice. I milk you until your thighs shine, until your breath stutters, until your body thinks it's coming. But it never does.

Because this isn't cruelty.

This is discipline. This is structure. This is how I show you who you are when nothing else can reach you.

You leak now when I talk.

When I say "good girl." When I snap my gloves on. When I so much as open the barn door.

Your body prepares itself before I even touch you. Because I've trained it. Because you've let me.

There's no safeword. Only a posture. Only submission so raw it has fused with obedience.

Sometimes I edge you and leave. Let the straps hold you while your body forgets how to beg.

Sometimes I tie you down and don't turn the wand on at all. Just cup your breast and murmur:

"You're not here to come. You're here to need. And that... is sacred."

And you cry. Quietly. Gratefully. Because you know I'll milk you, praise you, pet you -

But I won't give you what you want.

Not yet.