No

She does not stop.

The second wipe is already a slide, palm flat in the white-slick on your stomach, and the bottle’s heat takes her the rest of the way while she is still trying to convince herself she is merely washing. Her breath goes ragged. She stands up too fast, hits the stool with the basin, and starts on the wool as if the robe is what is burning her.

"Don’t look at me like that," she says, and then she keeps talking moving her fingers to strip more frantically. "This house files us with Pell so the wall cannot have us. We do not take men. We wear the lock instead. That is Kalypise, and I am about to make a mess of it."

The undyed robe comes off her shoulders and the lock is under it, a promise to a God. A chastity bra in pale steel, cups sealed, a seam of vibration already churning because her pulse has told the gods and they don't hold back. The belt is heavier, a plate over her sex, a hinge she cannot work, and you can hear the small motor in it change pitch when the spend on her fingers reaches her own skin. Inside the cups something is moving. Inside the belt something is thrusting.

She looks down at herself as if she has not seen the kit in daylight.

"They call it purity," she says. "A solemn promise to Kalypise to not receive a man"

She puts it on you anyway.

It is not graceful. Awkwardly lustful is in two words for how she climbs onto the blanket and kneels over your hips with the wool still around one ankle, and the first contact is cold plate on a cock that is already up again from the bottle. She flattens her belly to yours and drags the steel down your chest, cups first, so the humming metal rides your nipples and then your sternum and then the mess still glowing there, and the vibration comes through the cups into you like a second pulse. Her locked breasts mash against you, heavy in the bra, and she uses her whole weight the way a bath-house girl would use oil, except the oil is your own spend and the tool is her prison.

You make a sound. She shushes you and does not mean it.

She works the belt over your cock next, a slow grind along the plate, the hidden dildo knocking the inside of the lock on every pass so you feel the thud through the steel. It is a massage only in the sense that she is using her body as the cloth. She slides up and down, steel and skin and the wet from the bottle, and the first climax takes you faster than you want, a hard spill across the pale metal that makes her swear and keep moving through it because stopping would mean she has to think.

"Again," she says, not to you.

She does not put the robe on. She turns, still on you, and sits the locked plate lower so your cock is trapped between the belt and your own stomach, and she rolls her hips like the window-frames on Needle Row, except this is an abbey blanket and her face is furious. The toys inside her climb. You can hear them. You can feel them when she presses down, a deep vibration that goes through the hinge into your shaft. Her thighs shake. She gets close enough that her mouth opens and nothing comes out, and the belt does what it was built to do: it takes her to the edge and holds her there, thrusting, humming, not letting the finish through the lock.

"I can’t—" She starts the sentence twice. "I can’t and you can, which is the fff--ing joke, which is ahhhh—"

She loses the rest of it on a grind that pulls the second climax out of you against the plate, mess striping the steel and her stomach where the belt leaves a gap of skin. She laughs once, ugly, and drops her chest onto yours so the cups sandwich you, motors in the bra working your chest while the belt works the rest. You feel every denied pulse of hers as a tremor in the metal. She tries to chase her own finish by pressing harder, by putting a steel cup over your mouth, by dragging her locked cunt along you until the hidden toy knocks your cock in time, and none of it opens the hinge.

You last a little longer the third time because it hurts, and then it hits. The bottle still in the spend makes the third one another full emptying, cum pumping between the belt and your belly while she rides the outside of her own lock and sobs at the ceiling of the cell. The toys keep going in her. She does not come. She slams a palm on the stone beside your head and stays there, vibrating, denied, your spend cooling on Kalypise steel.

Someone passes in the passage and does not stop. Brin’s voice is wrecked and exhausted when she finds it.

"If Hallin sent that bottle knowing it would do this, I will put the drain-wish on him instead of you." She does not get off you yet. The motors have not been given permission to stop. "You should put the unused fold on before I do something worse than this. I cannot take the belt off or there will be hell to pay."

Your cock twitches under the plate, used up and not done if she stays. Her hips give one more helpless grind and stop short of the thing she wants. The collar is still hanging wrong on your throat. The contract is still on the blanket, signed.