It's dinnertime

You wonder where that incubus has gotten off to now. You figure he has gone off to find another pussy in which to sheathe his mighty incubus cock and...mmh...cock. "Hmm, I am just famished!" You exclaim, idly rubbing your labia.

While traditional food does not interest the new you, it's Friday night; and you know the local grill will be packed. A popular restaurant for social events, you grow wet thinking of the possibilities; however, knowing that you are not yet fully accustomed to your perfection, you realize strategy is needed. Simply barging into the middle of the dining room will get you nowhere or worse. You aren't sure if any humans know how to kill your kind, but the intrinsic knowledge most have that demons despise holy symbols means that anyone with a cross necklace is a threat. This, coupled with the knowledge that you don't have the power to cast glamour, means that you have limited options.

Considering it is a quarter to five, many patrons will just be arriving for dinner within the next two hours. You ponder masturbating into the guests' meals before they receive their plates, your vagina twitching on your fingers at the thought, but this would require avoiding or corrupting the entire kitchen staff: an appealing prospect. Another option is to sabotage the bar and create a hellish cocktail for the house special. This plan is far safer, but the impersonal approach again isn't going to sate your appetite. Your demonic intelligence does grant you a twist on your newest plan, though: corrupt the bartender, and all drinks served will be spiked with the virus while the bartender begins transformation.

"Fuck yes!" you scream, sawing three fingers into your snatch and suffering an explosive orgasm as your plan coalesces in your evil mind.