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The shirt's off easily and with his arms now free, he brings them to cross under his head, propping it up just slightly and nestling his forehead into the warmth of his own skin. The lips have him huffing out a throaty laugh, soft and far too ticklish of a touch to be legal, but he definitely wasn't going to complain. Especially not as she travels lower, pulls his pants over his hips and has her hands and lips follow the fabric. God, he didn't even care about that ridiculously expensive suit of his right now. That could get dry cleaned. It'd be entirely worth it.]
Mm. [A small content hum at all this attention, all this worship. Because that's what this is, right? A woman's hands against his body like this is just worship of his form. This isn't him obeying but her idolising him, surely.] I feel like I already need to ask you to marry me. Where have you been all my life?
She wasn't too rough, because for the moment it helped if Jeff was a little more obedient, a little more blinded by his own desire. She gave the pants one last rough pull, then stepped back, moving across the room. As she walked, she called out: ]
The window of opportunity for you to touch my breasts is closing in five, four, three--
[ Time to see whether Jeff would try and fail to get out of his pants in time, or try and throw himself across the room in them anyway. Either way it would keep him on his toes, and either way make a point about obeying her commands in the first place. "Everything but the tie" had been very explicit, and now he was going to pay for his flaunting the rules. In the meantime, as she strutted, she took off the bra, unclipping it at the front and pushing it back off her shoulders, before turning to see what option Jeff had chosen: ]
Two, one...
This? This was the highest form of praise, soft lips at his thighs, even the teeth approved, hissing out a breath as she sucked against the delicate skin there. She was good, better than most already and they'd barely even begun. So how could he be blamed for wanting to grab a little more?
As the count down begins, he makes his move, pushing himself up straight with an easy push-up, spinning on the spot and making a dash for her-- except he'd already forgotten about the suit pants pooled at his ankles, the ultimate shackles in halting his progress. He falls to the floor with no grace, thumping hard onto an arm and quickly scrabbling to wrestle out of his tailored bindings. There's no way he can make it in time, but he's not going to stop his attempt just for a simple timer, one leg free and already up on one knee by the time she gets to 'one' and... by God, those breasts are distracting as hell...]
Sam had been here a year, he was told, but it felt more like thirty. The days stretched into months, and even a day - one day - felt like longer. Too long. The torture was unending, unbearable, or at least that was what he thought. He endured it, as he'd endured so much in his life. He rose above it. Whatever Lucifer did to him only made him stronger, but as the years passed, as he began to be offered options in order to release the impact on himself, diminish the torture he was exposed to, Sam found himself bending toward them. He was grateful for any let up, no matter what it was.
Torture, it turned out, was easy. It wasn't just something he could do, he was actively good at it. He engaged with his victims, and while at first he cared what they'd done to earn their place in Hell, that quickly dissolved. For the first time, in far too long, Sam wasn't in pain, and he could feel himself beginning to slip, as his empathy was dissolved. He knew what lay at the end of this path, the fact that he would become a demon, but the more people he hurt, the more he almost longed for it. It would be peaceful, wouldn't it, to be so corrupted that he no longer cared?
But he was trying to resist, because--well, because Dean was still alive, but also because he as just that kind of man. He had to resist it. He had to fight it. As peaceful as it would be, it wouldn't be the end. Lucifer would have him murder the people he loved. So he'd obey, he'd do as he was told, because it earned him freedom, and removed him from all but Lucifer's torture chamber, and Lucifer's bed; he'd obey because it meant a kind of acceptance from Lucifer that he was a working intern, pulling his weight, and not something that required extra measures to break.
But this one was different. This one wasn't just a soul to torture; he was intended to be a demon, like Sam, and this was his first real posting. He had to do well, for to fail would only earn him a session at Lucifer's behest. Nothing was off limits.
And Eliot would earn his freedom too, like Sam, but first he had to break. Or at least surrender to it. He'd had other torturers already, all physical, but this--this was meant to be more personal. More intimate. Sam stepped in through the door, and closed it and bolted it behind him. He took off his tie, slowly; black on red.
"Hello, Eliot," he called. "I'm Sam."
And then there was the torture, which he resisted both physically and mentally. If he broke free, rare as that was, he would fight. Give his torturers as good as he got, or tried, although it was considerably less successful than his first day. Hell was a whole new level of evil, but pain was pain and he managed it the same way as he always had in life. Meditation, breathing exercises -not that he actually needed air anymore, and definitely not the poisonous sulfur they passed for air here-, things to draw his mental focus. He didn't know how often people resisted hell's torture, but there weren't too many people in the world who had honest to god been tortured before in life, and not once, but on 4 different occasions. Or dished it out themselves too, many more times than he could count. As ugly as the world was, he hoped not too many people had that sort of experience.
What he was in right now was a reprieve, a moment between sessions where the demonic grunts has dumped him back in his home in the wall of a cell. Time for his broken skin to knit back together, bones to set again so they could be rebroken by the next blunt force trauma. His arm was mostly healed though, he thought he could move his fingers already and it had been broken in three places earlier.
Eliot was seated propped against the stone wall when a suited demon -they all wore suits- came in. It seemed too early for them to drag him off again, and, really, by now they usually came in twos to collect him. So that didn't seem to be it. Not to mention, this one bolted himself in. With him. Eliot glanced up to see what this one wanted just as the man removed his tie.
Well, that was different. This one wore jewelry, Eliot caught a flash of silver beneath the collar reflecting in the dim flickering light. The demon introduced himself as Sam.
"Huh. What would the king's favorite wan' with me?"
Lucifer steps forward, slowly, "dressed" only from the waist down, her pert breasts, abs catching the light. She stood over him, amused, then took another step forward, sliding her fingers right into Jeff's hair, holding him tight as she stepped across him. She pressed her crotch to his face, holding him tight as she ground against him. The scent of her arousal was unmistakeable. ]
Do you like that? You want to be used for my pleasure, don't you, Jeff?
[ She tipped his face up toward her, tugging roughly on his hair. ]
I'm going to ride you. I think it's only fair you do a little something for me first, don't you? [ She released her grip on his hair, slowly. ] No hands.
As the demon blood in his own veins had corrupted him, long before he'd found himself down here. Sam stepped forward, wrapping the tie around and around his fist as he came.
"I know you're violent, and that you've been trained, but you should know that so am I. I've spent my entire life fighting, and I can kill a demon with a look, if I want to." And he had, but he knew that it corrupted him, made his soul blacker than anything else he could possibly do--that and magic. Lucifer kept him high on demon blood, kept the demons around him jealous and bitter, in the hopes that Sam would be forced to defend himself, but only one had ever risked Lucifer's ire to act against him, and since then, none had again.
As Sam approached, the nameplate engraved in his silver collar would be more obvious. It was a tightfitting thing, more elegant than practical, but it wasn't the only jewelery that Sam had been adorned with, since arriving in Hell. Eliot would discover it all, in time.
"I'm just here to make sure you keep rotting. Any old demon can break bones and make you eat your own innards, but I learned what I know from Lucifer himself--and look at me now. The perfect second act; obedient, inventive, and my stamina... Well, don't take my word for it."
That didn't sound too far off from the truth, that Eliot would've been marked by hell long ago. Ever since he raised his gun and shot down the thirteen year old holding a knife, he had gone down this path. It didn't matter that it had been war and that child soldiers were there in abundance, thirteen was barely a teen and he had taken the boy down with one perfect head shot.
"Tha' sounds about right," he answered, not too surprised by the news. He had accepted that too, that he was damned from the start and there was no going back. He didn't need a high class demon in a suit to confirm what he already knew.
Again the silver caught his eye, catching and winking in the torchlight, this time letting Eliot see more clearly. It said 'Sam', like a dog collar, and made Eliot blink a bit. Either Sam was narcissistic or had a sick sense of jewelry, otherwise something was going on. He filed that away for now.
"So, what, you're here to keep corruptin' me? You don't look like you're here for me t'kill." Eliot looked Sam up and down then leaned his head back against the wall, almost lazily. He would believe the man could hold his own in a fight, Sam had the appearance and the build for it, unlike Eliot who looked compact and was often underestimated both in ability and intelligence.
"You're right, anyone can break bones." He tilted his head and nodded slightly in agreement, then glanced back up at Sam. "So I'm guessin' you're not 'ere to do that. Whatever you're gonna do though, don't think it's gonna work."
"Everything works. Everything is torture. The smile of a child, the sun rising, a glass of water." Sam slowly tilted his head to one side. He stepped forward again, unbuttoning his sleeves now and rolling them up toward his elbows. "It's all in the presentation. The way a smile dies, when the child watches his hero crumble. A cell window that never quite sees the sun, only its shadow. A glass of water just out of reach of a man buried in desert sand. Everyone is different, but most people break one of two ways: emotionally, or physically.
"You were tortured in life, and you're stronger because of it. Like me." His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor. "Right now you think you can fight it, but once, so did I, and look at me now. That's why it has to be like this. That's why it has to be me. You see, this is what happens to you, Eliot." He gestured toward himself as he spoke. "--And the sooner you surrender to it, accept that this is now your life, your existence, the less you'll have to suffer."
He lowered his hands, and asked, matter of factly: "Have you ever been fucked by a man, Eliot?"
Eliot watched Sam's approach, his whole form seemingly relaxed, without a bit of tension in his muscles, just a guy recovering after newly being tortured. But behind his hooded eyes Eliot were alert, calculating the shrinking distance between them, his own strength, how quickly could he close that distance.
Sam was right, anything could be torture. It didn't have to be physical, not even psychological torment. The simplest things were all that was required, and Sam knew what he was doing if he could list such simple things. And Eliot knew, knew intimately, the pain from those things far exceeded any broken bone and open skin that could be dealt to him. This wasn't an average grunt he was dealing with, but someone who had finesse.
"Yeah? So I see, has to be you. Lead by example." Eliot nodded again to Sam's explanation. Sam was still too far, he needed at least to be two steps closer before Eliot could reach him in one move. He could flex his fingers now, which meant although his arm might not be full strength, it was usable.
But Sam dropped the ball and Eliot's eyes went a little flat. So that was how it was going to be. "Yeah," he answered tonelessly, a voice that suggested it wasn't the fun sort nor did his behavior indicated he was in any way gay. He had been in his share of third world, forsaken lightless, concrete boxes, and Eliot couldn't always fight his way out of things. "I have. That's your plan?"
It was spoken so matter of factly. Sam didn't have any reason to hide it; he wanted Eliot to bend to the will of Hell, after all, start working for it rather than fighting it. There was freedom outside these walls, but it wouldn't be reached as long as Eliot fought; as long as he resisted.
"I don't want to do this. I have to. It's really that simple--and you should be grateful. It could be worse, and the better your behavior, Eliot, the more conscientious a lover I can be. But I will be your lover..." He crouched lower, eyes narrowing. "--And you will be my pet."
This was when Eliot was due to attack him. He would. He absolutely had to. At least, that was what Sam would do. While he was off balance, crouched low, and Eliot was positioned to spring out toward him. He was already confident that he could overpower him.
Eliot hated to be predictable but there was no better position. Sam was crouched, it would take him a second if orientation to rearrange his balance from forward to back, away instead of towards. People often underestimated how Eliot could go from looking perfectly relaxed to full attack in less than a second, and even with healing internal injuries and mending bones, he could still launch one with barely a second warning.
So he listened to Sam's spiel, nodded like the demon said the most reasonable things, and when Sam closed the distance, Eliot was grinned up at Sam. "You know what I think? It's a great plan, wear me down, reward for good behavior. But you see, that whole silver collar thing? It ain't me."
Suddenly Eliot was moving forward. His feet dug into the hard rocky ground and pushed up, using the bend of his knees and the back of the wall to give him the spring needed to tackle Sam. With his arm still only healing, he decided not to use it for more than leverage, instead of hitting with it he tried to press it sideways across Sam's windpipe to pin the demon down.
Sam let the whole weight and power of the man slam into him, and as he was thrown onto his back, winded, all he did was place both of his hands against Eliot's arm and wrist, holding tight, applying as much pressure as humanly possible to try and push him off.
But Sam wasn't human; not any more. He wasn't even just as powerful as the weakest demon; Sam was favored, and he was strong.
He needed to breathe, so he wouldn't play possum for long. Just long enough to let Eliot wonder what he was going to do next, and implicate his escape plan.
There was no escape, Eliot knew, there was little point in actually fighting altogether, not when there was nowhere to go, no escape from hell, no escape from this room. Sam had locked the door when he came in, Eliot remembered seeing that very clearly, and whatever mechanism it was, he wasn't getting it open. But he couldn't just let Sam do whatever he wanted either, he just couldn't.
So now he had the suited demon pinned, his own arm hurting like a sonuvabitch because clearly it wasn't completely healed, and there was nothing to follow up. Still, he brought his face close to Sam's and growled. "Lea'me alone. Torture me, fine, but lea'me outta your sick games."
He applied more pressure, a move that, if it had been on a human, would possibly risk crushing the larynx. But they were in hell and Eliot knew he didn't have to hold back on his more lethal instincts. If 'killing' the demon would knock it out, then Eliot may have earned himself a few more hours of rest. That wasn't a bad deal.
Telekinetic force, powerful psionic powers, beyond any demon. Sam threw him physically away from his body, with enough force to knock him back into the wall, to be jarring, perhaps even knock the wind out of him too.
And when he'd achieved that, Sam rubbed at his injured throat, and slowly pulled himself up to his feet, tilting his head snakeishly toward Eliot, and lifting his hand again. He crushed it, like he was tightening his hand around an invisible throat just in front of him, but it was Eliot whose throat was crushed, who was lifted physically by the force of it.
"I don't think you understand. It isn't a choice. You're not meant to enjoy it, but you are meant to prefer it."
The invisible force that suddenly whipped Eliot off the demon was akin to being thrown by a hurricane, and hitting the solid wall couldn't have been less than being blindsided by a truck. It knocked the wind out of him alright, and may have jarred a few bones too. Yet trying to inhale air didn't do much when his throat closed up and Eliot could feel the same invisible force lifting him higher against the wall. Although Sam was still halfway across the room, the pressure around his clenched throat certainly made it feel as if the demon stood right before him.
What Sam was saying made marginal sense to Eliot; choosing the lesser of two evils, preferring one type of torture over another because it brought less torment. What Sam was proposing, rape, may cause less physical pain than, say, being forced to eat his own liver, but Sam couldn't know him that well if he thought it was the one Eliot would prefer.
But Eliot couldn't tell him that, couldn't tell Sam to fuck himself and shove his preferences up a hellhound's ass because he couldn't get a word past the iron grip Sam's powers had created. Eliot was struggling for air, hands scratching at the emptiness around his throat, trying to get a non corporeal thing to loosen up so he could just breathe.
"You can't stop me. You don't even know what you'd do with yourself if you could. The door's locked. But it can unlock to you. It will. Maybe it won't be today, or even next week, but you'll earn your freedom, Eliot."
He reached out, laying his hand gently against Eliot's cheek, and bending in to brush his mouth against the other man's. It wasn't a kiss, just a gesture, and a moment later Sam released his power completely, so that Eliot could either slump or come right at him. He had the opening to attack again, so he probably would, but this time Sam was going to fight him.
Eliot tried to turn from Sam's approach but there wasn't much space for him to retreat to. The rocky wall behind him offered little leeway, and even when he tried, whatever power held him in place also prevented him from escaping. The demon's caress across his cheek raised the hairs at the back of his neck, and he felt bile rising up when Sam leaned in.
To his relief, the demon didn't kiss him. It was just a brush, a feeling of warm skin over his and then it was gone, with Sam stepping back and Eliot stumbling away from the wall.
The second Eliot realized he was free, he tried to attack. It didn't matter that Sam was right, that he had no nowhere to go even if he won, that winning was as futile as his struggles, he just knew he had to keep fighting. It wasn't so much a moral right or wrong than Eliot simply couldn't stand giving up. The end game wasn't the issue, or whether it would be much worse than this to surrender, he wasn't surrendering to it without fighting.
He sprung again like a released spring, aiming to throw several solid quick jabs to Sam's abdomen. If he could catch him in his solar plexus, that should wind and knock the larger man back to give Eliot a slight advantage. Even in terms of size, Sam read larger, taller than him by nearly a full head, but Eliot had taken down bigger people... in life.
He wasn't going gentle. He pressed in, wicked fast and devilishly strong, moving to jam his hand into Eliot's throat to continue the effort to throw him down with a pin. By physically pinning him, he'd have opportunity to move the rest of his body into position, the whole weight and length of him.
To be fair, nothing about this was even footing. Eliot may be desperate, but Sam was strong, well fed, and he hadn't been physically tortured in...he didn't know. Years now. He did what he was told. He held Eliot in place and struck him across the face with the fist of his other hand.
And then he growled, low, intensely: "I see we have to start right from the beginning, huh?"
Eliot had fought many opponents in life before, but never at such unbalanced odds that had him completely outmatched. His blow was swiped aside like it was a child's punch and he found himself falling before he even caught the counterattack that hit him. He was normally fast, relied on his speed and compact attacks to gain advantage over larger, stronger opponents. But what could he do when met up against someone who was larger and stronger and faster than him?
His back hit the solid ground with a whistle of air as his breath was knocked right out of his lungs. Before he could recover, roll out of the way, Sam was on him, hand to his throat -a real one this time- and keeping him down with a strength that Eliot couldn't hope to match. He couldn't even budge as he pushed up with all his might, but the demon who laid lengthwise along him was too strong and Eliot stayed where he was.
"You can go fuck yourself," he growled back, voice low and rumbling from the depths of his chest.
He returned the statement in just the same tone of voice as Eliot's, and Sam reached his free hand down, pressing it up underneath Eliot's shirt, riding it higher as he shoved upward.
"Not only that, but you're going to like it. That's the difference, Eliot. Torture is one thing, you can resist torture; it's horrible, it hurts, but you can be defiant in the face of it. Pleasure will break you. You can't change the way your body responds. Friction, and orgasm--"
He pressed in closer, kissing Eliot's throat between his thumb and fingers, against the center of his chest.
"I'm going to make you come for me, even though you hate me."
He reached down, tugging at Eliot's nipple as he went. Down, down, sliding into the slack pants that he'd been left in after his last session. It was easy to wrap his hand around Eliot's cock.
"But you'll hate to love me, in time."
Eliot tried to buck up, anything that could help dislodge the demon that was getting handsy all over him. His own hands went up, or tried to, when he realized the power that kept him pinned to the wall was back again, this time holding his arms down. They wouldn't let him lift more than half an inch off the ground, and completely useless at stopping what was happening. He felt Sam's hand reach under the loose shirt he was given, more like hell's version of a hospital gown, that was as easy to shove up as an oversized cloak. The hand was dry and warm, and, Sam was right, had it been any other situation, it would be pleasant. Had it been any other situation.
"Just because my body's respondin'--" Eliot's words stalled when Sam twisted his nipple, and gritting his teeth, the hitter tensed his abdominal muscles to bring his concentration back. "--doesn't mean a fuckin' thing."
It was harder to do the same when the demon found his way to Eliot's cock though, the hand wrapping around him being firm but gentle, not at all painful or demanding except for Eliot's inability to twist free. He tried to kick as well, or free one leg so he could knee Sam where the light won't shine, but the demon was smart and the way he knelt over his legs kept even those limbs pinned down.
For now, there was nothing he could do. "Doesn't mean a fuckin' thing," he repeated, closing his eyes.
"I tried my hardest to resist. I thought of all the worst, most horrible things in the world, and Lucifer stroked me, just like this. He was gentle. He spoke filthy words in my ear as he did it. He told me that if I was as pure as I wished I was, then his semen would burn me, like holy water burns demons. But I wasn't pure. I'll never be pure again."
Sam paused, squeezing the tip deliberately between thumb and forefinger, and then he began to stroke once again, firmly, steadily.
"I told myself it didn't matter, but I got hard, and he fucked me, and I came. I came harder than I've ever come before, and I was so ashamed."
He pulled his hand away, and showed it to Eliot, showed him the glistening precome between his fingers. "See what I mean?"
Eliot turned his head away as Sam stroked, his large, warm hand wrapped around Eliot's cock and raising it to hardness under his careful, gentle ministrations. There was no way to prevent himself from getting hard, not when Sam played him so expertly, twisting slightly with each pull just the way Eliot liked it when he stroked himself, the pad of Sam's thumb brushing the sensitive tip to send pleasurable shocks through his groin to pool hotly in his abdomen.
He was getting hard, and as Sam continued explaining his rape to him, Eliot's breath started to pant slightly with his arousal. His head remained turned though and eyes remained closed, at least until Sam released him and brought his hand up for Eliot to see the first signs of his body's betrayal.
Eliot had opened his eyes to stare stonily up at it, then to Sam's smug expression behind it. "I haven't been pure for a very long time, I'm in hell. Ya think bendin' my body'll break me?" Eliot's eyes fell shut again, like looking at Sam disgusted him. "I ain't that weak." Like you, hung heavy in the silence that followed.
He stroked, perhaps a half dozen more times, being just rough enough to make an impact, and then, when he was done, Sam withdrew his hand completely.
Now, Sam began the process of stripping Eliot down. He ripped everything, using his bare hands, tearing the thin, useless fabric into several strips, and bundling them up, tossed them aside. He'd remove them later.
"You're done with clothes," he told him. "From now on, all you wear is what I put on you."
Sam stood, slowly, and leaving Eliot where he was, pinned as he was, he stepped across him, moving back to the door, which he unlocked. A demon on the other side handed him a briefcase, and Sam locked the door again before returning to Eliot's side.
"I have as long as I want. Years. We can do this over and over again, for years. It took me almost...four. Four years, I managed to insist to myself it was rape. I wasn't involved. The fifth year, I gave in. Instead of three times a day, I cooperated, and we only fucked once a day. Sometimes I blew him. It was the first reprieve I'd had in years.
"It could take years for us, too. I have the time, and so do you."
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