Page 18 of Milk & Malice: Vadik (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #6)

Lena

The tears welled up, but I blinked them away. I tried to resist but knew I was at his mercy. I knew Stumpy was living beneath me, so I did what he wanted, and mooed for him. It was the only thing I could do.

He smiled at me. This time, there was a touch of warmth in those eyes. His pupils had grown darker and wider, making the grey disappear.

“There you go. Reach in and find that little whore that wants to be fucked,”

he murmured.

My mind rebelled, but my body was a treacherous weakling.

“Let me feed you my cock, my beautiful cow,”

he said, looking between our bodies.

Then I felt him, easing into me, slowly filling me—too slow.

I mooed louder, but he chuckled and began to suck on my nipple.

In and out.

Not deep enough.

I parted my thighs for him, but he didn't stop.

His mouth made a loud smacking noise as he released my nipple, only to move onto the other one.

“Look at this. We are feeding one another,”

he said, closing his mouth over my nipple.

He thrust a little deeper, and I clenched around him.

“My sweet little whore. So wet and soft for me, hmm?”

He moved until I panted, pushing my head back, uncaring of the horns.

“Oh, yeah. It’s like fucking a silk glove, only better. Give me this cunt, my sweet,”

he rasped, driving harder, deeper.

His hands moved to my pillows, and I was suddenly staring at his face.

The grey eyes looked wild and ferocious.

He slammed his hips down, giving me what I needed. I screamed as I felt him hit something deep inside of me.

“Yeah, just like that. Take it, my filthy cow. This is what it means to be owned,”

he growled.

I nodded at him, watching the sweat build into beads. My eyes were locked on his as he started to pump his hips back and forth. The long, deep strokes gave me what I needed. I could hear how wet I was.

It was vile. It was sick—and I wanted more.

I began to sob, broken sounds, but he didn't stop—didn't pause and never broke his rhythm. I held myself open for him and he took.

When I began to clench around him, I knew I was close.

He dropped down on me, grinding his body against mine, dragging his cock back and forth, ruining me until his pelvis grazed against my clit.

My body shook as I came. An orgasm like never before, with an explosion of colours as the pleasure burst through me, rocking me, taking my breath away.

“Yesss,”

he hissed, continuing his brutal jabs, carrying me higher.

He grunted in my ear several times as he filled me up, the hot spurts hitting my insides as his cock jerked.

“My sweet cow. That’s how you take your Owner’s come,”

he whispered in my ear.

“Like a good little fucktoy.”

I closed my eyes.

It didn’t help.

With a sigh, he began to suck on my breasts, emptying me out.

He kept his cock inside of me.

But I felt empty inside.

Dead.

***

After that day, he began systematically breaking me down. It always started with kindness, softness, but ended in mayhem. He fucked me three to four times a day—at the milking station, over the bed, or on the bed.

I begged with my mooing each time, and I felt disgusted afterwards, but the cycle never stopped.

He took care of my sponge baths, checked and monitored all my post-op care like a professional. He mounted a television on the wall, with a special remote with oversized buttons that I could use. He would read to me, play music, or just sit with me. In some of these moments, he almost looked human.

It was all so wrong, but he made it feel right.

***

He opened the connecting door without a word. I hadn’t been through it before, only seen it in glimpses. My limbs trembled when I passed the threshold—until I saw three small steps leading into his house. Just three. I stopped cold.

He turned, followed my gaze, and saw the tears gather before I felt them fall. Without hesitation, he scooped me into his arms. I didn’t fight. I couldn’t—not when my body curled instinctively into his, not when he held me like I mattered.

“Ah, I forgot about those pesky stairs. You’re doing so well,”

he murmured as he carried me through.

His bedroom was the first thing I saw. Stark. Bare. A single bed, plain sheets. One nightstand. A closed door I assumed was a closet. No pictures. No clutter. Just the shell of a man’s life. The rest of the house mirrored it—silent, clinical, nearly empty. Like he only existed when he was with me.

He carried me into a tiled room. Sleek, modern, almost too sterile. He stood me up gently in front of the sink, steadying me with one arm while turning on the taps with the other. I heard the bath begin to fill, water sloshing against porcelain.

“The tail’s integrated well,”

he said, checking the temperature.

“Your body’s accepted it. The tissue has bonded. You’re healing beautifully. You’ve earned a proper bath.”

My breath hitched. I didn’t know what made me tremble more—the words or how softly he said them. If he shouted, if he was cruel, I could brace for it. But not this.

He tugged the blanket off me and folded it carefully, setting it aside like it was precious. I didn’t stop him. I just stared at the rising steam curling from the bath.

When he lifted me again and lowered me into the warm water, I gasped. It was the first time in months I’d been submerged. His sponge baths had been diligent, but they didn’t compare to this.

He rolled up his sleeves and knelt beside me. A soft sponge in hand, he dipped it, squeezed it, and began to wash me. Slowly. Carefully. His touch was clinical, but his eyes lingered on my face.

“This is better, isn’t it?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I was too busy wondering why his life looked like that. So empty. So hollow. Like everything had been removed—or never existed. Like I was the only living thing in his world.

I shouldn’t have cared.

Yet something cracked in me as he rinsed me with a jug of clean water, careful not to splash my horns. The way he dried my limbs like I was breakable. The way he sat me on the edge of a towel and began to braid my hair.

I watched his hands move. I didn’t want to feel this. This empathy. Not for him. Not when he’d taken everything from me.

But as he tied off the end of the braid and tucked it behind my shoulder, I realised I was grateful. Grateful that he looked after me—because I couldn’t. Not anymore. Not without him.

I looked at where my hands used to be.

A pang of sorrow bloomed in my chest.

Where would this madness end?