It was true that Eliot was contributing in his own way, but it wasn't intentional. Sam didn't hate him for it, would have trouble doing so, and besides it was slowly getting to him. With every bump and thrust, Eliot's cock snagged his prostate, and eventually it was enough to tip him from pain across into pleasure.

It began to really get to him, and soon enough Sam's little whimpers had become shaky grunts of pleasure. Even stretched wide, there was something good--there was something really good about it. That was the problem, really. Sam couldn't help himself, even if Eliot would have been disgusted by it. With all the years he'd been getting screwed by Lucifer, it had led into him not really caring. The pleasure and shame and pain all rolled into one in the end, and he began to like it just because it meant it would be over sooner that way.

But Lucifer really did get him up. One thrust led into another, and soon enough he was sweating and panting, finally rocking his own hips down to meet those thrusts. It might almost seem like he was getting into it, because it would be over soon, rising into a crescendo. He might almost feel as though he were really here because he wanted to be, almost feel like this was consensual, and the way he rocked back so eagerly, could almost sell it on him enjoying this because of what it was, with who it was.

If you squinted.