Page 71 of Milk & Malice: Vadik
“Well,” he said, pressing my udders together.“It looks like you squirted all over me while I fucked your ass raw.”
I gasped and raised my head to see, but his mouth was already latched onto my nipple. With a groan, my head flopped back.
As if he needed any more ammunition to be smug.
???
“Come on, my sweet, I don’t want to be late for work,” he said, waiting beside the milking station.
I glanced at his tented shorts as I trotted to the bench and waited for him to strap me in. He still hadn’t used my pussy, and I knew it was my punishment, but it didn’t stop me from coming last night. He stayed with me, and I slept well.
I hissed when the suction cups went on.
“Mmm. Are you going to give me your sweet ass again this morning?”
I mooed, staring into the mirror, seeing the cow-horned girl before me, ready to be milked and mounted.
This time, I didn’t flinch.
???
The food tasted better, the music sounded more soulful, and my gloomy, turbulent thoughts were gone—even my cherry drink tasted sweeter.
As soon as my Owner returned from work, he would visit me. He was a strange and complex man. Some days, he would share a meal with me. Other days, we would watch a movie. But most nights, he slept with his dick inside some part of me—so often that it became a comfort. The nights he didn’t spend with me left me restless and tired the following morning.
It was on the weekend that I woke up with his hardening cock inside my mouth. I was desperate for him inside my pussy. I ignored my leaking udders and began to lick him, gently suckling the tip as I did at night. It twitched against my tongue, and he threw the blanket aside with a growl.
He pulled me off his cock by my horns.
“Did I give you permission to suck my cock?” he drawled.
Oh, dear.
He was not in a playful mood this morning.
“Moo?”
A sinister smile appeared.
“Let’s get you fed. I have a surprise for you.”
That didn't sound promising.
???
I trotted beside him on aching hooves, my udders full, my cunt throbbing, and not in a good way since he was still denying me. My mouth tingling from the loss of him. He said nothing. Just strapped me in at the milking station, flipped the suction cups on, and watched my milk squirt out in steady, rhythmic pulses. I kept my eyes down. The mood was clinical. Not cruel. But cold.
When I finished, he fed me. Water first. Then my cherry drink. Then the thick, protein-rich mush I’d grown used to. Only once I was fed did he kneel and wipe between my legs. I flinched.
“Sensitive?”
I nodded.
He didn’t care.
Instead, he motioned for me to follow him toward the operating room—the same one where I’d healed, wept, bled. The table had been adjusted. Padded leather sling, stirrups, restraints. A covered tray glinted under the harsh overhead lights.
He lifted me onto the table then snapped on his gloves.
