Look. What I do with Gregory is none of your business. Seriously. None. Of. Your. Business.
Fine. Yes. It's obscene. It's depraved. It's technically convening with a demon of lust in direct violation of seventeen temple ordinances, three different city charters, and one very specific contract clause that said I would never again summon anything with horns during harvest season. But have you ever had sex with a literal sex demon? No? Then maybe sit this one out, darling.
I'm just a poor mortal girl. Weak willpower. Weak thighs. Even weaker decision-making. And he is… well, he's Gregory. He's what happens when you take a goat, a gigolo, and a war crime, and put them in a blender. Also he still owes me a goat. Two, actually. With bells.
But gods. The things he can do with his tongue. And his tail. And whatever that other thing is. I mean, yes, I know it's wrong. I know it's addictive. I know it's definitely marked my aura, probably scorched my karmic spreadsheet, and absolutely wrecked my hip alignment for three days. But you know what? It's also fulfilling. Deeply. Profoundly. Spiritually. Pelvically.
So yes. Yes. It's demon dick. And yes, I go back for seconds. And thirds. And sevens. You would too. Don't lie.
Something still itched behind my ribs when I said that, like a word I'd swallowed wrong.
I cross my arms and glares at the hypothetical jury.
And for the record? No. I did not sell my soul for orgasms. Thank you very much.
Why? Because the bastard never asked for it. Not once. Not even a nibble. No dark contract. No blood quill. No creepy whisper of "your soul for a taste of bliss."
Nothing.
He didn't even offer money for it. Which, frankly, is kind of insulting. I mean, if you're gonna defile me across seventeen planes of existence, at least pretend my eternal essence is worth something. But no. All he wanted was… well. You know. The usual. Bent over a rock, dripping with infernal sweat, screaming the name of some forgotten underlord while seeing stars and regretting nothing.
So make of that what you will. Maybe he thinks I have no soul. Maybe he just prefers other kinds of payment. Or maybe—and this is the part that really keeps me up at night—maybe Gregory thinks he already has it.
Anyway. Pass me the sage. I feel possessed again.
The Dragon lifts his scaly eyebrow ridge and goes, "Remind me again, who owes whom a goat?"
I don't even blink. "Gregory owes me a goat."
He snorts. "Funny. He says exactly the opposite."
I throw my hands up. "Oh, of course he does. He's a demon. They lie. That's what they do. It's literally in the job description. 'Hi, I'm Gregory, local fornication demon and pathological bullshit artist.' The fact he even admits to owning goats is already suspicious."
The Dragon tilts his big pompous snout, all smug. "He said you took the goat."
I roll my eyes so hard I nearly sprain something. "I borrowed the goat. Temporarily. Under duress. For professional reasons."
"…You tied ribbons on it and rode it through the market square shouting 'behold my dowry,'" he says, deadpan.
"Yes. Because he owed me a goat. That was an interest payment. And honestly, that goat was not even that impressive. One lazy eye. Kept trying to eat my hem. Couldn't even bleat on key. I had to yell for it."
I fold my arms. "So yeah. Gregory owes me. At least one goat. With bells. Maybe two. Depending on how you calculate emotional damages."