Page 26 of Milk & Malice: Vadik (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #6)

Lena

The longer I waited, the more nervous I became. My breasts ached for relief, and my belly growled, but he didn’t come. I left the television on—the voices kept me company—but I kept one eye on the dark wooden door.

When he finally arrived, I sat up but watched him warily. He brought food along with a silver water bottle.

“From next week, I’ll be returning to work. You’ll be milked and fed in the mornings. Most days I finish in the afternoon,”

he said, placing the food on the bed.

“Your meals will be served in the trough.”

I glanced at the raised rubber trough and felt sick. He’d always fed me by hand until now.

“You’ll get one cherry drink per day. It contains vitamins, and I expect you to finish it,”

he added, lifting the lid to show me the straw.

“Moo,”

I whispered, moving closer to the food.

He remained cold and distant for the rest of his time in the room. Clinical when he placed the suction cups on my breasts—but even then, I was grateful. Grateful for a full belly and my favourite dark cherry drink.

It wasn’t until he left, closing the door behind him, that the tears fell.

I needed someone. Anyone. But I couldn’t bring myself to become an animal—a half-human experiment for an insane butcher.

As broken as I felt that night I slept better.

***

The door creaked open, and I blinked, waking slowly. My mind felt sluggish. My mouth was dry, and I eyed the cherry drink in his hand. He wore shorts and a T-shirt. The grey fabric soaked with sweat around the neck.

When I sat up, the blanket slipped down. Milk had leaked from me. My cheeks burned. I couldn’t control my body.

His gaze didn’t linger the way it used to. He crossed the room, emptied the food into the trough, and left the water bottle open on the small table.

“I’ll be back to milk you after I’ve had a shower,” he said.

Then he was gone—before I could even nod.

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 on his 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 station and 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.

***

My breasts were so full, heavy, and a leaking mess. Nothing took my mind off the ache, and as it grew, the pangs between my legs throbbed in unison. I rubbed my thighs together and cursed my useless hooves. It had to be at least two weeks since my birthday. My belly rumbled, adding to my dismay.

I rolled off the bed, landing on my hooves—a tried-and-tested move by now. The trough had been filled with breakfast and a bowl of fresh-cut fruit for my snack. I was nibbling on a piece of chopped apple when the floorboards creaked.

The apple was forgotten. I rushed to the milking station and climbed onto the bench.

Back by the afternoon, my ass.

The click of his shoes on the wooden floor made my heart stutter. I held my breath.

Click. Click. Click.

They stopped behind me.

The scent of his cologne settled around my face like a fog I didn’t want to breathe. Clean, sharp, controlled.

His hands came into view—no words, no greetings. Just his fingers on my swollen udders. He massaged them briefly, efficiently, but it wasn’t enough. Not like before. His touch wasn’t lingering, wasn’t worshipful. Just a job to be done.

The suction cups came next. Cold. Automatic. Clinical.

I closed my eyes as the machine whirred to life. My body jerked from the force of the first pull, then slumped as the ache began to ease. Relief bled through me, robbing the tension from my limbs. I sagged forward, sinking onto the bench like a tired animal.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t stroke my hair or rub my flank.

I glanced at the mirror. He wasn’t looking at me. Not even a glance. Not even a flicker of interest.

He used to admire me. Used to watch every twitch, every drip.

Now he stared at his phone.

I looked away and lowered my head, ashamed of how much that stung.

The machine groaned and pulsed. I listened to it like it was my lullaby.

My punishment for not being a good cow.