The air seemed to fail in her lungs. Lysandra swallowed hard, her hands trembling.
"What... what the hell is that?"
Lysandra tilted her head, eyes wide — not with fear, but curiosity.
"Huh... why does he have three legs?"
The third leg extended to the side, firm, as if it had always been there but had only now allowed itself to be seen.
"Could he run faster? Or... is the third one just decorative?"
And for a moment, her face lost all color, overtaken by a horror so deep that not even the spoiled princess could hide it.
Crippled, he has a disability!
Lysandra pushed the towel aside with the tip of her fingers and took a step back, her chest tightening in a stifled sob.
There, beside the left leg, hung an atrophied limb: less than half the thickness, covered in twisted nerves that seemed to pulse beneath translucent skin.
Each red line stood out like exposed veins, forming a bizarre tangle that betrayed a halted development. Horror flooded her, a chill running down her spine as her heart raced with both revulsion and curiosity.
Lysandra held her breath, her gaze fixed on the atrophied limb. Revulsion gave way to a soft pang of compassion — as if, behind the twisted flesh, there was a being as lonely as she was.
Her heart tightened. She imagined the creature surviving in that imperfect body, never having known affection or care. For a brief moment, she felt pity: it wasn't just a monster, but someone trapped in their own deformed skin.
"You are disgustingly filthy, but... I pity you, poor thing."
Lysandra picked up the bowl of warm water, her hands trembling. She stopped in front of the atrophied limb, her chest tight with a mix of disgust and pity. For a moment, she stood there, her hands hovering in the air, fingers shaking.
"Damn... I didn't mean that," she murmured, almost to herself.
Carefully, she dipped the tips of her fingers into the water and touched the wrinkled surface of the thin skin.
The goblin shuddered.
"Goou! Gobu..." it grunted, the voice bubbling like hot mud.
Its eyes opened half a centimeter, revealing a moist, yellowish gleam, as if pain and relief had merged into a single sound.
She leaned in a little closer, her eyes locked onto his.
There was something there — not just a gaze, but weight.
A moist, trembling glow that seemed to pulse with every breath.
A shiver ran down her arm: the rough texture reminded her of rotting tree bark. She clenched her teeth, answered the call of compassion, and slid the bowl, pouring a thin stream of scented water.
Each drop that trickled over that sickly skin seemed to soothe and repulse at once.
It was like washing a living wound — the warmth of the water brought comfort, but the smell, the texture, the sound... everything screamed revulsion.
Lysandra steadied her hands, fingers trembling but resolute.
With delicate care, she spread the foam over the protruding ridges, which writhed beneath the translucent skin like veins of dirty light.
The surface was warm, pulsating, almost too wet — as if the goblin's body were sweating from within, trying to expel something.
He stirred.
His shoulders trembled, his feet scraped against the floor, his eyes rolled in short spasms.
But he didn't move from his spot — held not by physical force, but by her command.
"Stay," she had said earlier, and he obeyed.
Lysandra carefully slid her hand over the twisted limb, her fingers wrapped in warm foam.
There was something maternal in the gesture — not out of affection, but instinct.
Like someone feeding a fragile creature, without knowing whether it was child or threat.
She massaged slowly, feeling every bump, every pulse beneath the thin skin.
The touch was firm, yet gentle — as if the very act of care was a form of nourishment, a silent offering.
The goblin grunted.
"Grrh... Gobuuh..." The sound came out hoarse and wet, as if rising from a moss-filled well.
He didn't speak, but his body responded.
Muscles contracted under her touch, eyes closed in brief spasms, and his breathing quickened — not from pain, but something close to relief.
Lysandra didn't pull away.
She continued, as one who understands that the gesture, however strange, is necessary.
A soft breeze drifted in through the window, stirring the steam and carrying away some of the acrid stench of rotten sweat. As she rinsed, she realized that despite the horror, this deformed being depended entirely on her care.
And, though reluctant, Lysandra kept cleaning every fold, as if, in that simple touch, it were possible to extend a gesture of humanity to something so grotesque.
Lysandra approached slowly, examining every detail of the atrophied limb. It was thinner than the left leg, yet still robust — difficult to grasp with one hand, but fragile nonetheless. The dark skin, tinged with a deeper green than the rest of the body, displayed bulging veins that seemed to pulse in agony.
'The worst thing about this limb,' she thought, swallowing hard, '...is the smell.'
It wasn't just bad.
It was worse. Much worse.
As if that specific part of the body had accumulated years of concentrated rot, an essence of everything forgotten and fermented.
The stench rose in waves, dense and aggressive, as if trying to invade her eyes and mind.
It was different from the rest — deeper, more personal.
It seemed to stink more than everything else.
She turned her face instinctively, trying to escape the invisible cloud forming around her.
But she didn't stop.
Her fingers kept working, even as her stomach churned and her eyes burned.
"How is it possible that just one part... smells like an entire world in decay?"
And still, she cleaned.
Because something inside her told her that this was the spot that most needed to be touched.
Carefully, she wrapped her left hand around it to stabilize, while the right held the shell of scented water. As she pressed the foam onto the greasy surface, it let out a low grunt.
The sound screamed pain: the poor thing couldn't bear even that gentle touch, and Lysandra froze for a second, her chest tight with guilt for causing suffering even while trying to help.
Gruk… grrkk…
"I'm sorry, I know it hurts… but hold on, please. I just want to help you feel cleaner and more comfortable."
Lysandra kept her left hand steady to support the limb, which pulsed agonizingly with pain, while her right hand scrubbed the scented foam.
She positioned her hand carefully at the base of the extra limb, where the skin was thicker and oil had gathered in dark grooves. She wrapped her entire hand around it, closing her fingers with controlled firmness, like someone holding something fragile yet resilient. The grip wasn't aggressive, but necessary — so the foam could reach into the grooves, so the cleansing could be more than superficial.
With a slow and steady gesture, she began to slide her grip along the entire length — from the root to the tip — as if tracing a sacred path, giving equal attention to every centimeter. The warm foam spread beneath her palm, creating a milky trail that trickled down the sides, while the heat of the flesh pulsed against her skin.
Schhh... schhh...
Her hand slid carefully over the extra limb, and the sensation of skin against skin was an absolute novelty — like touching something forbidden, yet strangely good. The texture was warm, moist, with grooves that molded beneath her fingers, pulsating veins of living flesh.
Each movement produced an almost imperceptible sound:
schhh... schhh... — the glide of foam over skin, like wet silk on heated stone.
ploc... tchrr... — tiny bubbles bursting between the creases, like muffled sighs.
Her grip massaged with a tender intensity, in a steady rhythm of back and forth — from the base to the tip, and back again. Each pass was like a cycle of care, pressing just enough to remove the embedded grime, but also to caress that poor creature, as if apologizing through touch.
The movements were careful and painfully slow, as if every centimeter demanded permission. The skin beneath her fingers trembled, reacting with subtle spasms, and the sound escaping the goblin was a muffled grunt, almost a moan:
Grrh... hnnng...
The limb was excessively oily, coated in a thick, viscous layer that made Lysandra's grip slide with an almost welcome ease. The texture resembled aged grease — warm, sticky, yet strangely useful for touch. Her hand glided smoothly, as if the flesh itself wanted to be touched, as if it begged for cleansing.
And though she could not know, though nothing had been revealed, the way it pulsed beneath her hand hinted at something more primal — as if this "third leg" was not just a limb, but something else entirely, waiting, straining, demanding.
Lysandra couldn't tell whether what she felt was revulsion or compassion. Perhaps both. That thing — filthy, warm, alive — seemed to carry more than just sweat and grease.
It seemed to carry memory.
Each glide of her hand was a silent conversation. She didn't want to admit it, but there was something comforting in the viscosity, in the involuntary surrender of flesh beneath her palm.
She kept moving — slowly, deliberately — from base to tip and back again, each stroke carving a rhythm that felt older than her own thoughts.
The grime yielded beneath her touch, but not without resistance, as if it had grown attached to the flesh it clung to.
And she wondered: Had anyone touched it like this before? Had anyone cared enough to clean the filth?
The foam mixed with the oil, forming a milky film that spread easily, covering every bump, every crease.
Schhh... schhh... — the sound of sliding was constant, almost hypnotic, like silk brushing against wet glass.
But the smell... the smell was torment.
It was acidic, rancid, penetrating — as if years of forgotten secretions had fermented there, creating a scent of its own, aggressive and alive. Each breath was a battle: the stench seemed to invade her nostrils, cling to her throat, and spread into her eyes like toxic vapor.
Her stomach churned, her eyes burned, but she didn't stop.
Because despite the disgust, there was something strangely satisfying in the way her hand slid — as if the very act of touching was a bridge between worlds, between the grotesque and the human.
Lysandra pressed gently, massaging with slow, circular motions, feeling the warmth of the flesh beneath the oily layer.
"Nnnngh-aaahhh!" the goblin moaned, his voice torn between pain and relief, as if something inside him had been emptied out.
Without warning, a muffled crack vibrated beneath the skin —
ploc — like something breaking from within.
Right after, the filthy liquid burst out in a violent spray, shooting across the room.
A thick, yellowish, glistening jet erupted from the deformed tip, as if spat out by an invisible force.
The liquid traced a grotesque arc through the air, spinning in viscous slow motion,
glub-glub-glub, until it struck her squarely.
Splatch!
The impact was warm, sticky, wet.
The filthy liquid spread across her face like thick paint, dripping between strands of hair, sliding over her eyebrows, seeping into the collar of her tunic.
The stench followed — acidic, rancid, with a metallic undertone that burned her nostrils.
She recoiled instinctively, eyes wide, her body seized by an involuntary shiver.
And though she could not know — though her mind refused to name it — the heat and thickness of that outburst was not just filth. It was something else, something secret, something meant to be hidden yet revealed in this grotesque moment.