Stanky Leg の小説・ストーリー

"You've disrespected him, you've argued with him, you've directly gone against his orders, but for some unknown reason, you're still alive." "You have a personal vendetta against me, don't you?" "I have a scar on my leg because of you. What do you think?" He asked whirling around. I watched his steps. I didn't think his left leg was fully healed because he applied more pressure on his right. He had a weak point. "So you went against Alessandro because of your need for revenge against me?" "If he was as good of a boss as he claimed to be, he wouldn't let some poor slut come in between him and his men. He wasn't worth it."

I could see his muscles underneath, swarming with oozing black liquid. I tried not to breathe in the putrid smell, but it filled my lungs and festered the sides of my stomach. I gagged, trying not to bring up my stomach lining. “Sorry, Boss” Trauma grimaced “I’m trying to cover up the stink, but it just keeps getting worse.” Trauma pulled his leg back towards him. As he grabbed a handful of the skin, it came off in his hands. The people around him cried out on disgust. Neeb looked at it hungrily, his mouth now dribbling blood.

My hands… my legs… Heavy, cold chains are wrapped tightly around my wrists and ankles, locking me to the ground like an animal. For a second, my brain refuses to process what I’m seeing. It feels unreal, like my mind is protecting me from it. Then it hits me all at once, crashing through whatever denial I had left. The smell slams into me so hard my stomach twists violently…dirt, urine, blood, and rust. It clings to the air like it lives here. I gag, turning my head sharply to the side as my nose wrinkles in disgust.

The scent of madness, of death. Felicia’s cries grow distant, then fade entirely. Suddenly, everything becomes silent. Then—breathing. Deep, ragged, unhinged. Nana stiffens. She’s not alone. The stench in the dungeon is unbearable—sweat, rot, blood. The scent of madness, *this smell only comes from rogues* Lana whispers in her head. Her fingers press weakly against the ground as she tries to push herself up, but her limbs feel like dead weight. She had barely been standing before they threw her in here. Her body had already been giving out from exhaustion.

I don't smell anything, whatever it is doesn't have any scent to it and I don't understand how this is supposed to help me. "There's no smell , how is it supposed to help me hide your stink on me?" I'm not happy at this moment and I don't care if he knows it. This is useless and I don't see the point in him doing this. This liquid is sticky too and I can feel it on my bare skin. Great, not only do I stink like sex funk but I'm sticky too.

Jesus Christ. The ragged piece of shredded skin on his leg told me why he probably allegedly committed that to himself. The scent assaulted us as soon as we opened the front door as if we had walked into a dump in the period between July in Houston. It's all-encompassing and oppressive, smothering and strangling us. I could almost taste it in the back of my throat, and it made me choke violently.

As we inch closer to the ends, the stifling atmosphere becomes painfully icy; it grows denser with a familiar rotten odour. It's a stench I've encountered in my years far too many times: the fetor of decay. The pungent malodor clings to the walls of our nose, lingering thick and caustic. Fast to Jerald's testimony, the reek is incongruously rampant further away from the heart of the land. Metres before bursting out of the estate, we uncover the scene.

"I've heard of yellow soil, black soil, even green soil, white soil. What is this stinky soil?" The old man smiled gently and said, "The so-called stinky soil is nothing more than dirt. I wrapped the filthy thing in mud, and it will be stuffy for three days and three nights. When it completely rots, it will be mixed together and stir up again, and can be made with some special secret methods." "It's hard. Not only can it attract the blood worm's attention, but also I'll put it in the vent to block the cold." "Wow!" The pangolin spat out, and his face was full of questions. "Did I run into a pile of shit?"

“Thank you! Finally, I can put a name to this affliction that I have!” He snatched my arm and continued to dab ointment on it. I recoiled at his touch. Felix sneered. “What? Afraid that you’ll catch it? You dumb wolf.” “Felix,” Prince Legiere said in a soft, but warning tone. He closed his eyes. “It’s not her fault that all of Lycaneum has tired and superstitious ideas about the Stigma.”

Milena~ My knees buckle beneath, screaming for me to give in. But I am adamant. I stay still, letting the ache crush my soul—my punishment for letting a man use my body. My punishment for being dirty and worthless. Since the monster left me on my knees, I have been in this position. Dried semen coats my features. My running fluid stains my krpa, breaking through my thighs and onto the ornamental rug. I welcome no food or water, depriving my body of proper bath. I stink of blood, sweat, and the filthy smell of a man’s sperm. I’m in the dark how long I’ve been in this state.