Page 45 of Milk & Malice: Vadik
Milk.
Cow.
There was no room left for the past.
My young students’faces blurred.
My mother’s voice faded.
My conservative father’s awkward side hugs and shoulder pats—gone.
I was left in a cycle of despair. Exhausted. Spent. Numb.
The doctor came and went.
I was strapped to the milking machine.
Mounted. Drained.
He whispered sweet filth in my ear.
Sometimes rough, and sometimes gentle.
But he always coaxed me to come.
To milk his cock.
Then left me alone.
Alone to look into the mirrors.
???
I counted five days, and I became silent. Dead inside. But that didn’t stop me from looking—or admiring.
By the eighth day, my eyes lingered on the mirrors now.
I lay on the bed, trying to see myself through his eyes.
My breasts were too large, spilling to the sides. My hips were too wide, with a paunch across my belly.
I hesitated, then spread my thighs—hooves digging into the bed.
My trimmed curls matched the tail by my thigh.
My pussy peeked through the light curls, and I remembered this morning’s mounting.
My breath grew faster. I closed my eyes.
I needed him.
My lips trembled as I thought of the word he kept repeating.
Owner.
???
I was bent over on the bed, rubbing my nose into the pillow. A drawback of not being able to scratch my nose. He brushed my teeth, bathed me, and shaved me, but I got creative when it came to scratching an itch.
