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 some minor bureaucratic imp from the Lower Department 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. Some girls get courted by incubi or tempted by shadow princes with silk gloves and contracts that shimmer in blood. Me? 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 me 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, fame, 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 environment!"
He raised an eyebrow. "You broke into a temple and tried to charge pilgrims for 'blessings.'"
"That was a business opportunity!"
He gave me a flat look. "You stabbed a priest with a hairpin because he looked at you funny."
"He winked at me during confession."
He sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered something infernal.
So I asked—half joking—if instead of the whole soul business, we could just do… something 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 me 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 me one enchanted match that lights on command and smells faintly of cinnamon. Said he'd put in a good word for me.
I never saw him again.
But sometimes, 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 me.
My own personal minor demon.
Probably got demoted for misconduct.
But hey.
At least someone got something out of the deal.
And I still have my soul.
Probably.