The sound of the jet still echoed, like a viscous whisper:
shhhhlup... splatch... drip... drip...
I was still kneeling, staring at the goblin in horror.
The strange fluid dripped down my face, but what truly paralyzed me was the sound — that broken moan, as if coming from a place deeper than physical pain.
"Aaaaargh!" I screamed, horrified, as the sticky liquid slid down my face and apron.
The acrid stench invaded my nostrils with brutality, like an invisible blade slicing from within.
I tried to suppress the reflex, but my body reacted before my mind: my eyes squeezed shut, my stomach clenched, and a sound escaped my throat —
"Khrrghh!" — a dry, desperate cough, as if trying to expel the contaminated air.
The warm, oily touch on my skin was worse.
It clung.
As if the liquid had a will of its own, gripping me with invisible, viscous fingers.
"God... this is disgusting," I thought, my face contorted.
I stepped back, my feet stumbling slightly on the wet floor, and began to breathe rapidly, like someone trying to escape from inside their own body.
"No... I can't stay with this on me," I murmured, nearly crying.
With both trembling hands, I grabbed a clean cloth, my fingers clutching it tightly as if the fabric were my only salvation.
I began scrubbing my arms, my neck, even my face — every trace of the viscous liquid had to disappear.
The sound of the cloth against my skin was harsh, rhythmic, almost violent:
shrrk... shrrk... shrrk...
Even with my muscles aching, I didn't stop.
My obsession with cleanliness was stronger than the nausea, stronger than the fear.
I had to clean.
Every last remnant.
"If I leave even a little... just a little... it'll never come off," I thought, eyes wide.
And then I stopped.
Panting.
The soaked cloth in my hands.
The goblin still there, unmoving.
And me — clean, but not completely. Never again would I be.
I tore off my apron and tunic with a sharp gesture, my eyes brimming with disgust. Every fiber of fabric seemed to cling to my filthy body, and I shook my shoulders as if trying to rid myself of a repulsive insect. Within seconds, I was down to my undergarments, panting, my hands trembling.
I ran to the barrel of fresh water in the corner of the room, yanking the iron bucket with force. The sound of metal against lonely wood echoed as I leaned forward, ready to plunge my hands in. The anticipation of relief made my heart race.
"For all the gods... this shouldn't exist..." I gasped, nearly crying, as I plunged my hands into the icy water.
"I'm going to vomit. I swear I'm going to vomit."
The water struck my skin like a slap, but I didn't care.
I scrubbed my fingers furiously, as if I could erase the touch of the pus, the smell, the sound — as if I could erase the moment itself.
"Never again. I'll never touch a goblin again."
Just before the skin met the water, I raised my right hand, lit by the pale glow of the magical lamp. The clump of cold, filthy gelatinous liquid stuck between my fingers seemed to pulse, and I froze. The bucket fell to the floor with a metallic thud, my heart stopping as the reflection of my own impurity stared back at me.
I lifted my right hand, and the stench of the yellow slime clawed at my nostrils. It reeked of rotting Gruk and something fouler still — an odor so vile it felt like it could peel the lining from my lungs. The putrid fumes scraped at my soul, dredging up memories I'd buried deep. My heart pounded, hammering against my ribs as if trying to escape my chest.
"AAAAAH! GROSS, NO! HELP!"
I flailed my arm frantically, trying to fling off the filth without even seeing the target of my revulsion. Every fiber of my being pulsed in agony, and my screams tore through the silence:
"OH GOD, OH GOD, I CAN'T TAKE THIS! CLEA – CLEANLINESS!"
Desperate, I dropped to my knees, my face twisted, my blackened nails digging into my own flesh as I fought the urge to rip my hand off. The sound of my despair echoed through the cold walls, proving that, for a moment, the filth had conquered even my will to go on.
I grabbed the bucket of fresh water and plunged both hands in, feeling the cold spread a tingling sensation that pushed the disgust away. I scrubbed my fingers firmly, twisting my wrist to loosen every hardened thread of pus. The murky liquid ran down my fingers, carrying that yellow crust away until the drops hit the stone floor with a wet sigh.
When I finally felt my skin clean, I raised my hands to my face, carefully rinsing my wrist and nails. Each movement brought relief, draining the nauseating tightness in my chest. When I finished, I lowered the bucket, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath, letting the sound of air flowing in and out fill the silence — a moment of truce before resuming my care.
I blinked, returning to the present. My body no longer trembled as much, and the cold water still trickled down my clean arms. When I lifted my gaze, I found Gruk staring at me, his eyes wet with pain, but carrying something unexpected: gratitude.
Gruk let out a sound — low, guttural, almost emotional:
"Guuuuu..."
I stopped.
Gruk slowly turned his face, his large, bulging eyes fixed on me.
Another sound, this time deeper:
"Gobu... bogu..."
I let a small smile form on my lips, forgetting the horror for a moment, touched by a small and unprecedented spark of warmth.
"You're thanking me, aren't you?"
Gruk blinked slowly.
Then, with an almost moving effort, he raised one hand and touched his own chest.
"Gobu."
A thread of relief and complicity was born there, between caregiver and foul-smelling patient. And for the first time, I felt we weren't so far apart.
Is this what it feels like to share a moment with someone?
I held the light fabric of the white dress and slid it over my body with care. The contrast between the purity of the cloth and the dense chill of the room felt almost symbolic. I pulled the dress up to my hips, adjusted the simple neckline, and tied my hair into a quick bun, ready to resume my care.
Lifting my chin, I met Gruk's hesitant gaze. With a firm voice, I said, "I'm not done cleaning you. Come back here, please."
A soft sigh escaped my lips, and I murmured with compassion:
"Poor thing..."
My hands hovered in the air, trembling. I reached for the apron once again, but this time I lingered. The memory of that hot, obscene weight in my grip returned — not soft like a slug, but thick, rigid, fitting snugly in the hollow of my palm. Slime-slick, irregular, and grotesque. It pulsed like something alive, something demanding.
I shuddered, then swallowed hard. The disgust was still there, but beneath it a strange compulsion. I wrapped the cloth in my hands and leaned closer.
The limb was still there, stretched out obscenely — an extra appendage, a "third leg," covered in hardened crusts and reeking jelly. The rough knobs and lumps beneath my grip gave it a grotesque charm, like a thing not meant for eyes. The tip, swollen and spongy from which threads of fetid yellow fluid still seeped, sticking to my cloth, my wrists. The closer I brought my face, the thicker the stench grew, metallic and acrid, curling in my throat.
Gruk groaned — a sound between agony and hunger — and the limb twitched in my grasp, spasming. His whole body responded, jerking in time with my touch, as if my cleaning were also awakening something else in him.
My stomach tightened, bile rising, but I forced myself forward. I rubbed along the rigid shaft, peeling off hardened crusts, wringing out the foul pus with slow, deliberate strokes. The sounds filled the chamber:
splursh... shlick... squelch...
Each one clawed at my nerves.
You're going to be clean," I whispered hoarsely, my voice cracking as I scrubbed the grime from his skin. "Even if I gag my way through every inch of filth.
With every press, more of the thick yellow discharge oozed out, coiling down my fingers like rotten honey. I kept my jaw clenched, my breath shallow, refusing to give the nausea power.
Gruk's eyes rolled, his guttural cries spilling out in raw, broken notes:
"Gruuuhhh... boguuhhh..."
He didn't know my words, but he knew my touch, the steady rhythm that drew poison from his body.
And for one dizzy, terrifying instant, I realized: I wasn't just healing him. I was feeding something inside him.
Something that liked it.
My hand hovered again, trembling. The memory rushed back with brutal clarity — the weight filling my palm, thick and unyielding. Not just flesh. Something obscene. Something alive. Pulsing. Demanding.
I wrapped my fingers around it again, telling myself it was just cleaning. Just pushing the filth away, wringing out the pus, peeling off the crust. But the grip was too natural. My hand fit almost perfectly around the length, snug, obscene.
Slowly, I began to move. My hand slid upward, dragging against the lumps, squeezing against the rigid heat, until I reached the tip — swollen, sticky, glistening with yellow jelly. Then back down, all the way to the root, where the rough skin thickened and the stench seemed strongest.
Up… and down.
Up… and down.
At first awkward, hesitant. But then the rhythm came. My arm betrayed me, keeping steady. Faster. Tighter. The cloth and my skin against his made the wettest noises:
shlick… shlurpp… splutch…
Each stroke drew more of that fetid jelly out, coating my palm, stringing between my fingers. The more I cleaned, the wetter it became, as if I were spreading the slime instead of removing it.
Seven minutes. At least.
It felt endless, a ritual stretching beyond time. My arm ached, my shoulder trembled, but I couldn't stop. Not until it was clean. Not until the discharge was gone. Not until he was safe.
The mantra beat in my head, pulsing with every movement:
I need to clean.
Poor thing.
It's not so bad…
How filthy…
The room filled with the rhythm. Wet, constant, hypnotic. My hand climbing, squeezing, twisting lightly at the top. Then dragging back down, scraping along the thickness, pressing the jelly out. The goblin groaned with each motion, guttural and raw, his hips twitching in sync with my strokes.
And I watched. I couldn't look away. I saw the slime bubble up, yellow and thick, clinging to the head, only for my hand to smear it down the length. Again and again. I saw the shaft glisten, wet and ugly, but cleaner after each pass.
And all the while, the sounds marked the passage of time:
schlup… schlick… squelch… shhhlick…
I lost myself in it. My breath shallow, my body swaying unconsciously to the rhythm. The cleaning became something else — endless, ritualistic, almost holy in its repetition.
Until—
Ploc — a crack beneath the skin.
A jet of yellow fluid erupted, spraying across the room. Again.
Splatch!