Page 22 of Milk & Malice: Vadik
“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.
