Sam couldn't find anger in himself. He'd grown past anger, had no energy left for it. He sighed, and licked the precome from his palm, leaving a wet stripe behind, so that when he wrapped his hand around him again, it was cool and slippery.

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."