Page 7 of Milk & Malice: Vadik (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #6)

Vadik

When my morning alarm beeped, I smiled and reached for my phone. The first thing I did was check on how Lena’s missing case was going.

No new leads.

The police were asking anyone to come forward with further information.

They would find nothing. I ran a tight ship, and my home was too well secured. I ran a hand over my cheek. There was a little stubble. I would need to shave this morning.

It was time to test the quality of the milk production.

I didn’t want my little cow to get stubble rash.

***

“Good morning, little cow,”

I said, moving her sheet away to check her breasts.

They did look ripe and full this morning.

I frowned.

My dick began to harden.

I usually ignored it, but—

I glanced at her.

Her blue eyes were dull, and she stared to the side. There was nothing there except the operating bed and equipment.

This was a problem that I didn’t think I’d encounter. I hadn’t been with a woman since my wife. The only thing I cared about was suffering.

The suffering of others.

Their pain.

Blood.

Screams.

I shook my head, blinking a few times.

What was I doing?

Ah, yes. I needed to check her bags.

I checked her catheter and colostomy bags. She needed to drink fluids today, and I’d put some bone broth on for her before I came here. It was loaded with nutrients, and the additional dress herbs would help her recover.

She lay there like a dead thing.

I didn’t like it.

When I glanced at her nipples, they were darker and the areolas wider. I gripped her breasts and pushed them together, pinching her nipples.

My mouth fell open when small streams of milk shot in air, crossing over each other like a fountain display.

No.

My cock thickened.

What the hell was I thinking?

I fucking owned her.

I climbed on the metal frame of the hospital bed and straddled her belly.

“W-What are you doing?”

she stuttered, coming to life.

“It is my duty to care for you. I can’t have your milk ducts blocking and you getting mastitis. It can be painful if it ends up becoming an infection,”

I said massaging her breasts.

“In short. You need to be milked several times a day.”

I bent down and licked a droplet from her left nipple. Salt. Skin. The faintest sour note that would sweeten with time. I latched my mouth around it and sucked slowly. Testing the yield. Measuring the response. Her chest rose under mine—barely a reaction, a twitch. She was frightened, frozen. Good. That meant she was present.

I suckled again, deeper this time, drawing the milk from her like a siphon. It was warm and creamy, not yet rich, but promising. I tongued the tip, traced the shape of her engorged areola, and then switched sides. The right nipple was tighter. I gripped the base of her breast and squeezed gently, watching the milk bead and spurt onto my tongue.

Her breathing hitched.

“Very good,”

I murmured against her skin.

“No blockages. No pain?”

She didn’t answer. I didn’t expect her to. She was shaking.

“You’ll get used to this,”

I said, lifting both her breasts and pressing them together.

“The stimulation is essential. Hormones respond better to regular expression.”

My tongue circled each nipple in turn before I began suckling again. Slower now. Deeper pulls. I groaned softly as the warmth filled my mouth. My cock pressed hard against the seam of my trousers, but I ignored it. This was about maintenance. Care. Her body needed this. She needed this.

The flow increased.

It streamed freely now, and I swallowed mouthfuls of milk between breaths. Her scent was different. New. It mixed with the sterile notes of disinfectant and steel, but it was hers. Animal. Submissive. My cow.

I slowed when the streams began to lessen, my lips gliding over her flushed, milk-slick skin.

“Almost empty,”

I whispered, stroking her chest.

“You’re producing beautifully.”

She whimpered—a small, broken sound.

I looked at her.

Eyes glassy. Face blank.

She lay there like a dead thing again.

I still didn’t like it.

“You’ll feel better once the schedule is in place,”

I said calmly, brushing her hair from her face.

“Regular milking. Proper fluids. Warm bone broth for dinner. Then physiotherapy.”

I kissed her forehead. Soft. Affectionate. Honest.

“You’ll be strong enough to stand soon. You’ll make me so proud.”

I licked the last droplet from her nipple and smiled.

She just needed a little encouragement.

As her Owner, I must factor this new discovery into my plan.

I wouldn’t get her pregnant with the IUD I planted in her, but she could serve as a breeding cow while being milked.

Not in the biological sense.

No, this was psychological.

Ritualised.

Performance-based.

A milking routine with verbal reinforcement. She’d respond better when her role was spoken aloud. When I told her what she was.

My breeding cow.

My dairy girl.

My soft, milk-swollen little heifer.

It wasn’t arousal—not entirely. It was completion. Seeing the function work.

A machine operates perfectly when each part is installed with care.

She moaned softly as I massaged the last of the milk from her aching tits. Not a protest.

A reaction.

Progress.

My cock pulsed again, but I made no move. I would not fuck her today.

Today was for trust.

Touch.

Establishing a routine.

Tomorrow, perhaps, I would test how she tasted when frightened and full.

For now, she was dry.

Empty.

Compliant.

Good girl.