The air caught in my throat. I swallowed hard, my hands shaking.
"What… what the hell is that?"
I tilted my head, staring, not terrified but curious.
"Why does he… have three legs? Is that real?"
The third leg stuck out to the side, solid, like it had always been there, just hidden until now.
"Could he run faster? Or… is this one just for show?"
The words fell flat. My face went pale. For the first time, even I, the spoiled princess, couldn't mask my reaction.
Not a third leg. A crippled one.
I nudged the towel away with two fingers and stepped back, chest tightening as if holding back a sob.
There it was — a stunted limb, half the normal thickness, with twisted nerves moving under the skin like worms in glass. Red lines branched across it, raw and exposed, tangled together in a map of failed growth.
I felt sick. Yet under the disgust was something else, thin but sharp — pity.
That thing had grown up like this. Deformed. Alone. Untouched.
I imagined what it meant, dragging that body through life, never knowing comfort. A monster, yes — but also a prisoner in its own flesh.
"You're filthy," I muttered. Then softer, almost guilty: "…but I pity you."
I picked up the bowl of water. My hands shook as I crouched in front of the twisted limb. Foam clung to my fingers.
"Damn it… I didn't mean that," I whispered.
I touched it. The goblin shivered.
"Goou… gobu…" it gurgled, voice thick, bubbling in its throat.
Its eyes opened just a slit, wet and yellow. Pain and relief in the same look.
The skin was rough, damp, like touching bark after rain. My stomach turned, but I poured water anyway. Each drop ran down, carrying a stink worse than sweat, worse than rot — like a private decay stored only in that part of him.
The smell was unbearable. Stronger than the rest of his body. Stronger than anything I'd ever known.
I turned my face, gagging, but my hand kept moving.
"Why does just this… smell like a whole world gone bad?"
Foam spread, greasy, clinging. I massaged carefully, hand sliding up and down the narrow length. Warm, wet, sticky. The sound of it filled the room — schhh, schhh, ploc — foam sliding against greasy skin.
He groaned. Not just pain — something else. His breathing changed, shallow and fast.
I clenched harder. My arm trembled, but I couldn't loosen. The harder I tried to slow down, the more my body betrayed me, keeping the rhythm steady. Faster. Tighter.
My hand moved again. Up. Down. Up. Down. At first it felt clumsy, my grip too tight, then too loose. But as the rhythm fixed itself, it became easier — natural, disturbingly natural. My palm slid from the swollen tip back down to the heavy base, and then rose again, carrying warmth and slime in a smear that clung to my skin.
It went on. Long past what I thought possible. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. The "cleaning" stretched into an endless ritual. My wrist ached, shoulders stiffened, yet still my hand slid, up and down, up and down, as though time itself were bound to the motion.
I could see the difference. The filth clinging to him seemed to loosen, the surface growing smoother with each pass. I told myself he was becoming clean — that all this effort was working. That thought was the only way to endure it.
I need to clean… poor thing… it's not so bad… how filthy… The words circled in my head like a mantra, beating in rhythm with my hand.
The sound became a metronome: Schhhhlop. Schhhhlop. Schhhhlop. Wet, dragging, again and again, never-ending.
The repetition itself was hypnotic. Almost holy. The longer I went, the more I believed I wasn't just washing him, I was undoing something deeper, as though I were smoothing away years of neglect with the rhythm of my hand.
His body trembled. Shudders rippled up his torso with each stroke. His breath quickened into gasps, desperate, almost pleading, as though he needed me to continue.
My own breath matched his. Faster, shallower. My grip parted, then pressed tight, then parted again.
"Wha… what?" I twhispered, but the words broke into a gasp. My arm wouldn't stop. The rhythm had consumed me. Faster. Tighter. Almost trembling.
Splatch!
Another spasm. Another hot gush. More splashing out, dripping down my fingers, running in thick trails onto the floor. My hand, still around him, felt every pulse, every convulsion, as if the limb itself were alive and spilling out years of stored corruption.
Wave after wave. My face turned redder, streaked with sweat and slime, mouth opening and closing as I dragged in air that stank of him. My lip trembled; I bit it again, harder this time, stifling a sob that wasn't all revulsion.
The room filled with the stink. My chest heaved, and yet… I couldn't let go.
By the time it slowed, my hand and face were drenched. My body shook, shoulders quivering from strain. The chamber seemed smaller, suffocating, heavy with the smell and the mess.
I looked at him, then at my hand, then at the floor. My mouth hung slightly open, breath ragged, a thin sheen of sweat and filth clinging to my skin. My eyes wide, hollow, unable to focus.
This wasn't cleaning. It couldn't be. And yet… I had done it.
This wasn't just filth.