Page 41 of Milk & Malice: Vadik
“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, healmostlooked 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.
