I once almost sold my soul to a devil.
Not the Devil, mind you. Not the Grand Prince of Darkness, not the Horned One of the Ninth Pit, not Old Nick or Belphegor the Goat-Widdler. No. Just so minor bureaucratic imp from the Lower Departnt of Sulphuric Deeds and Petty Acquisitions. A middle-manager with horns.
Figures, right? Of course I wouldn’t attract the attention of a real hellspawn. So girls get courted by incubi or tempted by shadow princes with silk gloves and contracts that shimr in blood. ? I get Gerald. With a chipped hoof and bad breath. Wearing a vest.
He popped up while I was bathing in a hot spring. Which sounds more romantic than it was. I was naked, yes, but also covered in mud, nursing three bruises and a hangover, and screaming at a leech on my thigh. And poof—there he was. Standing on a rock, clipboard in hand, looking over like a fishmonger examining bad crab.
He cleared his throat, then said, in the driest voice imaginable:
“Would you be interested in exchanging your soul for power, riches, fa, or… let’s say marginally improved luck?”
I blinked at him. “That’s the pitch?”
He shrugged. “It’s Tuesday.”
I asked what I’d get in return. He flipped a page. “One enchanted mirror with limited scrying ability. A cursed coin that attracts thieves. And… a slightly increased chance of orgasms during solo activity.”
I gaped. “That’s it?!”
He sniffed. “What did you expect? You’re not exactly a maiden of light. Not a virgin—check. Petty thief—check. Swears like a navyman—check. History of sybaritic excess, multiple unrepentant blasphemies, and at least three instances of public lewdness.”
I splashed water at him. “I am a product of my environnt!”
He raised an eyebrow. “You broke into a temple and tried to charge pilgrims for ‘blessings.’”
“That was a business opportunity!”
He gave a flat look. “You stabbed a priest with a hairpin because he looked at you funny.”
“He winked at during confession.”
He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered sothing infernal.
So I asked—half joking—if instead of the whole soul business, we could just do… sothing else.
He blinked. Then slowly flipped to a different section in his little black book.
“Are you suggesting a barter of flesh?”
“I’m suggesting I’ve had worse.”
To his credit, he hesitated.
Then he gave an apologetic shrug. “Technically against regulations. Unless you’re offering as a symbolic act of submission to the will of the Sulphuric Principality.”
I batted my eyes. “Would it count if I call you ‘daddy’ while I do it?”
He paused.
Then checked a footnote.
“…Yes.”
So we agreed.
No soul exchanged. Just a quick, awkward blowjob behind a mossy rock while he kept his clipboard balanced on my shoulder.
He tipped one enchanted match that lights on command and slls faintly of cinnamon. Said he’d put in a good word for .
I never saw him again.
But sotis, when things go weirdly my way—like when I find coin under a floorboard or the guard turns left instead of right—I wonder if Gerald’s still out there. Rooting for .
My own personal minor demon.
Probably got demoted for misconduct.
But hey.
At least soone got sothing out of the deal.
And I still have my soul.
Probably.
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