Page 59 of Milk & Malice: Vadik

I stared at the trough.

He hadn’t brushed my teeth this morning.

I nudged off the blanket and ate from my trough like an animal.

The food tasted better when he fed it to me.

???

When he returned, he checked the trough and the empty water bottle before he waved me over to him. His hair was still damp, and it looked darker when wet. There was a slight stubble onhis jawline, but when I looked at his lips, I remembered how good they felt on my nipples and breasts. The way he would suck hard and fast, taking long, deep gulps of my milk. His fingers constantly massaged my mammoth breasts, easing more milk out.

I stood beside him as he got my toothbrush ready, staring at his black trousers and navy sweater. I opened my mouth before he turned around. He didn't say,‘Good girl.’He crouched down and brushed my teeth in silence. He didn't stroke my hair or press the fountain button for me.

When I was finished rinsing my mouth out, he snapped his fingers and stood beside the milking station. I kept my head down, walked to the bench, and waited for him to restrain me. He didn't place the bar around my neck, only the suction cups. He didn't stand behind me, watching, but sat on my bed to look at his phone.

I stared at the mirror, wondering who this horned girl was.

The machine whirred away, painfully draining me.

But I looked at him in the mirror behind me.

A tiny part of me wished that he’d touch me again.

I closed my eyes.

He wanted my complete submission.

My destruction.

The price was too high.

???

My body was out of whack, and I began to sleep more, but the nervous energy dimmed. The television helped, as did the radio channels. I paced the empty space between the milking stationand the door to strengthen my muscles. I’d rotate my joints and stretch out my spine while lying on the bed.

The dreaded day came. He entered that morning dressed in formal attire—polished black shoes, a crisp white shirt, black trousers, and a jacket. Two buttons left open. I couldn’t take my eyes off his neck.

There were no words.

Only silent ritual.

This was my fourth day of silence, and part of me wanted to moo again. Pride held me back. Mooing meant surrender. I’d whispered it once, thinking he’d left me to rot. I wouldn’t do it again.

The fork scraped against the plate as he dumped my food in the trough. I remained by the fountain, waiting for my teeth to be brushed. He probably did a better job than I did. I almost smiled—then frowned.

What did I have to smile about?

Washed and drained, the door slammed shut.

I was alone on his property.

Stumpy didn’t count.

After I ate, I switched the television on.

And began the countdown to when he’d return.

???