Page 32 of Milk & Malice: Vadik (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #6)

Lena

The unsatisfying corners of pillows and the edge of my hooves had nothing on my Owner’s dick. I frowned when I glanced at my stomach, feeling wet. His grey eyes stared at me, and a hint of amusement tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Well,”

he said, pressing my udders together.

“It looks like you squirted all over me while I fucked your ass raw.”

I gasped and raised my head to see, but his mouth was already latched onto my nipple. With a groan, my head flopped back.

As if he needed any more ammunition to be smug.

***

“Come on, my sweet, I don’t want to be late for work,”

he said, waiting beside the milking station.

I glanced at his tented shorts as I trotted to the bench and waited for him to strap me in. He still hadn’t used my pussy, and I knew it was my punishment, but it didn’t stop me from coming last night. He stayed with me, and I slept well.

I hissed when the suction cups went on.

“Mmm. Are you going to give me your sweet ass again this morning?”

I mooed, staring into the mirror, seeing the cow-horned girl before me, ready to be milked and mounted.

This time, I didn’t flinch.

***

The food tasted better, the music sounded more soulful, and my gloomy, turbulent thoughts were gone—even my cherry drink tasted sweeter.

As soon as my Owner returned from work, he would visit me. He was a strange and complex man. Some days, he would share a meal with me. Other days, we would watch a movie. But most nights, he slept with his dick inside some part of me—so often that it became a comfort. The nights he didn’t spend with me left me restless and tired the following morning.

It was on the weekend that I woke up with his hardening cock inside my mouth. I was desperate for him inside my pussy. I ignored my leaking udders and began to lick him, gently suckling the tip as I did at night. It twitched against my tongue, and he threw the blanket aside with a growl.

He pulled me off his cock by my horns.

“Did I give you permission to suck my cock?”

he drawled.

Oh, dear.

He was not in a playful mood this morning.

“Moo?”

A sinister smile appeared.

“Let’s get you fed. I have a surprise for you.”

That didn't sound promising.

***

I trotted beside him on aching hooves, my udders full, my cunt throbbing, and not in a good way since he was still denying me. My mouth tingling from the loss of him. He said nothing. Just strapped me in at the milking station, flipped the suction cups on, and watched my milk squirt out in steady, rhythmic pulses. I kept my eyes down. The mood was clinical. Not cruel. But cold.

When I finished, he fed me. Water first. Then my cherry drink. Then the thick, protein-rich mush I’d grown used to. Only once I was fed did he kneel and wipe between my legs. I flinched.

“Sensitive?”

I nodded.

He didn’t care.

Instead, he motioned for me to follow him toward the operating room—the same one where I’d healed, wept, bled. The table had been adjusted. Padded leather sling, stirrups, restraints. A covered tray glinted under the harsh overhead lights.

He lifted me onto the table then snapped on his gloves.

“I want you marked permanently,”

he said, voice devoid of warmth.

“We’ve discussed this.”

Had we?

He must’ve seen the panic in my eyes.

“Shh. No cutting. No tattoos. Just a brand. A small one. For symmetry.”

He pressed a gloved hand to my belly and tapped his fingers where my hipbone jutted.

“Hmm. No, I want to see it when I mount you.”

He turned me over and his hand wandered above my ass cheek.

“Yes, here.”

“You’ll thank me later,”

he said as he began to strap me into place.

I trembled as he picked up a cold metal rod, not yet heated, and traced it against my skin. He clipped the speculum back onto the tray, satisfied with the inspection, and peeled off the gloves, reaching for the new pair.

“Do you know what tissue does when exposed to 1100 degrees Fahrenheit?”

he asked, like it was a lecture.

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The restraints on the sling pulled my legs wide, belly and udders pressed against the table.

“It chars. Bubbles. Collapses in on itself. But just enough, and it cauterises cleanly. No blood. Minimal scarring. If done correctly.”

He wheeled a cart beside me. Surgical steel. Fireproof gloves. Gauze. Saline. An antiseptic scrub. Petroleum jelly. A sterile pack of absorbent pads. A preheated branding iron rested in a metal cradle beside a small torch. It was shaped like a letter.

V.

For Vadik? I wondered.

“I created you, my sweet. It should be my branding on you,”

he said, checking the tip with a thermometer.

“A touch of iodine first.”

He didn’t smile.

He disinfected my hip with a cold swipe of iodine. Dried it. Did it again. Then he used a ruler moving it from one side of my ass to the other before marking it with a pen. Symmetrical. Precise.

“Once it’s done, the nerves will stay angry for a week. We’ll manage with lidocaine gel and antiseptic dressing. You’ll milk through it, and take it like a good cow.”

I shivered.

He picked up the gloves. Pulled them on tight.

“I’ll count down,”

he murmured.

He didn’t.

The brand hissed when it touched my skin. A brutal sizzle, then a puff of white smoke. I screamed so loud the lights seemed to flicker. My whole body seized.

He didn’t pull away immediately.

Just long enough to make sure it took.

Then he lifted it. Blew gently. Examined the flesh.

I breathed through the pain. It felt red, raw and burnt. I could see it in my head. His flawless V between my hip and my ass.

“Perfect. You did well,”

he said, swabbing the wound with saline.

“There will be no infection. I’m here to look after you.”

I relaxed on the table with a sigh. He always did.

He applied a thin layer of jelly, padded gauze, and taped it down with surgical precision.

“Now you’re mine,”

he whispered.

“It’s official.”

His soft words made the pain bearable.