Page 55 of Milk & Malice: Vadik
No. He’d never give me an easy way out.
The only time there was any softness to him was after he came.
I guess sex made us all vulnerable in our own way.
Even monsters like him.
I wished that I wasn't aware. It felt good being on the painkillers before. My mind had been hazy, not this pickled mess. I lifted my arm and looked at the cold polished silver attached to the black and white hooves.
It never occurred to me in all this, but what did he do with my remains?
Toss them? Burn them?
Fuck, I wouldn't put it past him to eat them.
The dull ache in my breasts grew. I knew it wouldn’t be long until he came. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine I was whole again—back in my apartment. That this was just a nightmare I’d wake up from.
My reality was a shitshow, and I needed an escape.
???
I didn’t hear him come in. I never did. One moment, I was alone, and the next, I felt his presence—the low hum in the air that always came before his touch.
My eyes opened, but I didn’t move. My hooves stayed tucked beneath me, limbs folded like some discarded doll. I didn’t have the strength to perform today. Not even for him.
The floor creaked once. Twice. Then silence.
He said nothing.
I kept staring at the milking machine. Cold metal. Tubes. The kind of horror that should’ve belonged in some industrial facility, not a bedroom.
Then he was beside me.
His hands slid beneath my arms—what was left of them—and lifted me as if I weighed nothing. I let him. My body didn’t fight. Not even a flinch.
He carried me across the room, each step steady, practised. He never hesitated. That was the worst part. No hesitation. No question. As if this were routine.
And I guess it was.
The cold leather of the milking bench pressed against my stomach as he laid me down. He adjusted my position with clinical care. My back arched slightly. My udders hung over the edge. The bench straps brushed against my hips, but he didn’t use them. Not today.
Still, no words.
His gloved fingers brushed my side, then wrapped beneath me. He cupped one of my aching breasts—no, my udders—and guided it into the suction tube. Then the next. A hiss of pressure, and the whirring began.
I closed my eyes as the machine took over, tugging rhythmically. Not painful. Not pleasant. Just… mechanical.
His hand lingered at my flank. I felt it hover there, heat radiating. He didn’t speak. There were no teasing touches, no mounting me while the suction cups tugged on my nipples. He simply stood behind me, watching.
The tension stretched between us like a wire drawn tight.
My throat burned. My eyes stung. But I didn’t cry. Not this time.
Milk filled the tubes. I heard it.
He watched it.
We said nothing.
