In an imp's small office.

You find yourself struggling to stay in the chair of the sparsely furnished, cramped confines of an office. You see the greyish purple splotchy bald head and large pointy ears of an imp, and soon he has ratcheted his chair up so you can see his beady red eyes and tiny, sharp yellow fangs. You see his placard reads "Perlonious Imp Esq. Guidance Counselor."

"Oh great. Mr. Robertson finally graces us with his presence. I hope you know I have more important things to do than look after some snot nosed legacy brat. So why don't you squirm into your uniform and get to the beta dorms with the other bitches?" He hops on the desk, with a dress shirt and navy slacks in a tiny clawed hand, his cock slapping down on it in what looks to be a third of his size. You feel yourself grow warmer and hope he can't tell.

You manage to form the words. "Pleasssse neeeed heeeelp" in a slow gurgling gargle and the imp looks down sneering. He starts stroking his cock and it rises in preposterous disproportion, though he seems to be used to handling it.

"Well, that depends, I'm a busy man, and if I'm gonna go out of my way to help you, you need to do something helpful for me. Like let me fuck you until I make you even slimier?" He winks as if it's a double entendre and you feel like throwing up. Then again, you are messy enough as it is. And you do need help, but is this basement dwelling bureaucrat really going to bully you into being his fucksleeve? He said you were a legacy, maybe you should throw your weight around?