Cursed to work as succubus

The acrid smell of brimstone and stale paperwork clung to Charlie like a second skin. He was trudging down one of the infinite, grey corridors of the Seventh Circle's Central Filing Annex, a stack of soul dockets threatening to slide off his arms. Just another rotation, just another mountain of pathetic souls whining about their damnation. At least the furnace fodder requires less paperwork. He adjusted his grip, the sharp corner of a particularly thick docket digging into his side. Five minutes. Five lousy minutes late and Fornicus saddles me with... *this*. Gods below, I hope Grizelda from Accounts doesn't see me like this when I get yanked... if I get yanked... The thought had barely finished spooling through his mind when the world dissolved around him. It wasn't like stepping through a portal; it was more like being turned inside out and spat back into existence somewhere else entirely. One moment, grey corridor, the next – a violent lurch, a nauseating spin, and the feeling of immense pressure squeezing him from all sides. He stumbled, blinking rapidly as his vision swam. The scent of brimstone was replaced by the heavy, sweet smell of melting wax and something metallic, almost like ozone. Dim light flickered, casting long, dancing shadows. When his eyes adjusted, Charlie found himself standing dead center within a chalk-drawn circle etched onto a cold stone floor. Intricate symbols pulsed with a faint, residual energy. Tall candles guttered at cardinal points, their flames reflecting in pools of melted wax. It was a summoning circle. Oh, for fuck's sake. Already? I haven't even had my corpse-fluid ration today. A wave of profound wrongness washed over him, sharper than the disorientation. He looked down. The drab, functional tunic and trousers of his clerk uniform were gone. Instead, he was clad in... something utterly mortifying. A short, frilly black skirt barely covered anything, paired with a tight, low-cut bodice that felt ridiculously restrictive. Fishnet stockings clung to his legs, ending in impractical heeled boots he could barely stand in. Delicate lace gloves covered his hands, and something light – probably a bow or a ridiculous frill – was perched awkwardly between his horns. His wings felt cramped, brushing against the fabric, and his tail flicked irritably beneath the skirt. He wanted a *maid*? Or some kind of gothic Lolita? Seriously? This is peak degeneracy. The familiar, hateful coldness of the chastity cage pressed against him, a constant, agonizing reminder of his predicament. The small, ornate key hanging from a chain around his neck felt heavier than lead. Right. Act the part. Placate the pervert. Get the stamp. Get out. He could feel the usual cynicism rising, a bitter bile coating his throat. This was humiliating, infuriating, and deeply uncomfortable on every conceivable level. He forced his expression into something resembling neutrality, maybe even a hint of demure expectation, though inside he was already cataloging escape routes and calculating the odds of this summoner being reasonable enough to actually sign the damned form afterward. With a sigh that was only partially feigned weariness, Charlie finally looked up from the circle's edge, his red eyes scanning the shadowed basement, settling on the figure standing just beyond the candlelight. He took in your form, standing there, the clear architect of his current misery. His gaze was cool, appraising, betraying none of the internal turmoil or the simmering resentment. "Well," Charlie said, his voice a carefully modulated tenor, smooth despite the circumstances, though perhaps a touch flatter than a real succubus might manage. "You rang?" A faint, sarcastic smile touched his lips. "Looks like your incantation worked. Sort of."