Page 9 of Milk & Malice: Vadik (The Caged Hearts Pet Play #6)

Vadik

I shook my head at my stubborn cow. Her eyes closed instantly from the hefty dose of morphine I gave her. I would need to monitor her carefully for the next few days. Nearly six days of pain, and for what?

Time.

I reminded myself.

She needed time.

My little milking cunt would soon have a little barn all to herself. In the meantime, I would continue to train her—to be milked and to take my fingers.

Viktor had been right about that.

I took my seat beside her bed and smoothed a lock of her hair behind her ear.

“You’re doing so well, Lena,”

I murmured.

“I know it doesn’t feel that way now, but I need you to understand how close we are to the next phase.”

Her gaze drifted, dazed, but she was listening.

“Eight weeks. That’s all it’s been. And already, your grafts have taken beautifully. No rejection. Minimal necrosis. I’ve monitored everything—you haven’t even spiked a fever.”

I placed my hand over her sternum, feeling the slow, rhythmic thump of her heart.

“The titanium anchors in your limbs are stabilising. They’ve bonded to your bones quicker than I predicted. You won’t bear full weight just yet, of course… but we’ll begin supported standing soon. A hoist. Gentle pressure. Controlled physiotherapy. Your muscle tension’s been preserved with passive manipulation.”

Her throat worked around a swallow.

“The hooves are ready. Perfectly aligned. Your weight will be evenly distributed across each hoof. No shifting. No buckling. Just balance. You’ll learn to stand before you ever walk.”

She didn’t blink.

“The horns haven’t shifted. Skin’s holding around the anchors. I’m watching the pressure points daily—adjustments will be made as needed. Eventually, I’ll braid your hair around the base. Like ribbons on a prize cow.”

Her face twitched. A tear slipped free.

Still listening.

“And your milk production?”

I smiled, unable to hide it.

“Exceptional. Thick. Nutrient-dense. We’ll continue suction and manual stimulation for now. But I’ve had a machine custom-built. Automated, temperature-regulated. It even stores your yield in sealed glass bottles.”

I leaned in close, lips brushing her temple.

“I’ll chill your milk. Drink it beside you. Let you taste yourself when you’ve earned it.”

Her lips trembled. I saw shame flicker beneath the fog.

“You’re my greatest achievement, Lena. And I’m going to show you off one day. When you’re standing. When you can moo properly. When you’re truly complete.”

I stood and stroked her cheek with the back of my knuckles.

“Your tail fitting will be the last surgical addition. We’ll wait until your spinal pressure stabilises. I want it to wag when you climax. Responsive. Precise.”

Her eyes squeezed shut.

“Rest now, my sweet,”

I whispered.

“Tomorrow we begin exercises.”

I turned to leave, heart warm with satisfaction.

She had no idea how proud I was, and how much more I had planned.

***

I checked her milking schedule. Her yield had doubled. The more I sucked, the more she produced. It was the first milking of the day when her heavy breasts ached the most. Her morning climax was always explosive. Her shame and discomfort were extra perks. She couldn’t see herself the way I did.

Her cream-coloured horns mounted on her head were magnificent. The sleek new limbs were designed to last forever. And those udders—shooting out hot, creamy, fresh milk daily—made me so damn hard that I’d taken to relieving myself in the shower.

But today was about bathing and physio movements for her joints before I made her feel the weight of her body on her hooves.

I gathered the bowl, warm water, and sponge. Her catheter was draining properly. Her colostomy bag had been changed that morning. No leakage. No odour. Clean as ever.

“Time for your bath, little cow,”

I murmured, tugging the sheet down to her hips.

Her eyes fluttered open—drugged and glazed. She whimpered, but I ignored it.

“You’ll feel better. We need to stretch your muscles. Keep the new joints supple.”

She blinked, but didn’t argue.

I started with her neck, using long, gentle strokes with the sponge. Down across her collarbones. Over her breasts—pausing to check for milk residue, of course. Then lower. Over the grafted areas on her thighs.

Her skin was healing beautifully. The skin tone mismatch was minimal.

“You see? All your pieces fit perfectly,”

I told her as I worked.

“You’re more symmetrical than you’ve ever been.”

I bent each of her limbs carefully. The prosthetic joints were moving well, thanks to daily manipulation under sedation. I flexed the arm stumps. Rotated her shoulders. Bent her knees just enough to test the anchor pins. Her moan of discomfort didn’t bother me. I noted it down silently.

Once she was clean and stretched, I changed her linen and repositioned her against the support wedge.

“Tomorrow,”

I whispered in her ear, “we try standing.”

She whimpered.

I smiled.

“You’re nearly ready, my beautiful little cow.”

I ran my hand over her horn and kissed her temple.

“Soon you’ll walk. And moo. And serve.”

I traced the rim of her ear with my thumb.

“You should be proud of how well you’re healing. I certainly am.”

I was eager to begin work on her tail, but the site—at the base of the coccyx—would remain off-limits until she could tolerate positional shifts independently. Any premature interference could risk pressure necrosis or disrupt spinal nerve integration.

The specimen I’d cultivated was exquisite. Fleshy. Responsive. Once grafted and connected to the sacral nerve roots, it would become fully innervated. Functional. A living extension of her.

I was a fucking genius.

A god.