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.
Eliot had died and went to hell. That much was expected. Given the life he led, the wrong turns, the dark roads traveled... the blood he used to wash his path, there really was no other destination for his soul. He knew that, accepted it. It was almost cathartic when he found himself there. And almost funny when Eliot Spencer couldn't stop punching things even in hell and laid out a good three or four demons before they subdued his soul.
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?"
"It's not about what I want," Sam answered. His voice was soft, a little empty, but it didn't lack in any confidence or authority because of that. "It's about what Hell wants. You were contracted down here, that makes you different from the average sinner; it means his influence was on you long before you stepped foot in this cell. It's been corrupting you, like an apple rotting while it's still on the tree."
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."
Sam undid the top three buttons of his shirt, more than he needed to catch a breeze, and less than stripping, but it certainly made him look laid back, like he was settling in for a seduction rather than a torture session.
"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's not my plan. It's Lucifer's--you remember Lucifer, don't you? The Devil himself? It's how I was broken. It's how he wants me to break you."
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.
There was no warning - none - but Sam had been born ready. That said, it was easier to let it come, and once he was down, it was easier to let him think he'd won.
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.
Sam wasn't going to just lie there and take more pressure. It would crush his throat as surely as it would any humans, and he'd have to draw away in order to deal with the injury. So when Eliot went in to crush him, Sam responded, threw up his arm in a wide, defiant swipe.
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.
Sam stepped forward slowly, lifting his left hand up to brush his hair back out of his eyes, then rubbing consciously at his throat. He would probably bruise, given the vicious killer strength that Eliot had applied with such ease.
"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.
Sam knew he was going to attack, and he knew he was fighting someone with a great deal of fighting experience, and so he didn't hold back. When the attack came he was ready for it, and he fought back just as fiercely as he would if they were scrapping for their lives. He knocked aside the attempted blow to his solar plexus, and drove his forearm up into Eliot's jaw instead, a crunching straight up attack that he followed through with. His right leg crossed behind him, to knock the other man off balance, and then Sam slammed his right elbow down, moving for Eliot's belly, so that the blow would literally flip him down across his knee.
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.
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.
"It means something. I know it does, because it did for me too. I wanted anything - anything - but to get hard." He stroked gently, steadily, smoothing upward, circling the tip with just the pad of his thumb, and then dropping down again, letting his knuckles thump lightly against Eliot's balls before he pulled back up again.
"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.
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."
Eliot was a man who was very comfortable in his own skin. He wasn't ashamed
of nakedness, he had a body of balanced strength and good assets that
pleased a lot of women. So even being stripped of the joke that was his
clothing, baring to the world the full dripping erection that Sam had all
but forced on him, he wasn't ashamed.
More importantly, he wouldn't allow himself to be because that would be
exactly what Sam wanted.
He was dispassionate to the announcement he would be naked from now on, not
to be given even that tiny bit of dignity that even the lowliest tortured
souls were given after their sessions. He didn't even have to tell himself
it didn't matter, because it didn't. It was just one layer of fabric that
held no protection and being taken away could be used as a form of
humiliation.
He did open his eyes though when he felt Sam moving away, but soon he
discovered he was still pinned and couldn't move even his legs to get them
up. He tried a few times before giving up, choosing to conserve his energy
for any trials ahead. Sam's return had glancing to the briefcase and back
at Sam.
"Sure," he said, trying to show how little he cared. "If you get yer rocks
off that way. So you'll come 'fore an' after yer pals string out my guts?"
"No, Eliot. You're mine now. Mine completely to finish. When we're done here, you'll come to live with me, in the Master's chamber. I'm allowed to sleep on the bed now, so you'll have my crate. It'll be more roomy for you than it ever was for me."
He said it calmly, as he set the briefcase down beside the bed, opening it wide so that Eliot could see. There were brutal looking rubberized sex toys, as well as slender silver instruments, some with ratchet gears, others more phallic in shape. There was - unusually, considering it was Hell - a tube of lubricant, but it was a cockring, a short length of chain and a pair of shackles that Sam took out first.
The cock ring he attached, tightening it matter of factly as though he'd done it a thousand times before, before Sam attached the clip at the end of the chain to the base of it. Then, with the aid of his telekinesis, he flipped Eliot over, shackling his wrists before attaching the other end of the chain to them.
The pressure came off. With augmented strength and a grip at the back of his neck, Sam pulled Eliot up to his knees, his arms behind his back, wrists chained to his cock under his body. He'd have to splay his legs to even stay comfortable, and getting up wasn't an option. The position Sam had put him in, Eliot could look straight down into the items in the briefcase.
"Nobody's going to torture you except for me. Nobody's going to have you except for me...maybe Lucifer. But if I succeed? If I succeed, I can make it stop. That's all I want. You're my ticket out, Eliot."
There was nothing Eliot could do while Sam trussed him up like some kinky
sex slave, cock in a tight steel ring and linked back to the cuffs that
tied his hands together. Once again Eliot got the breath knocked out of him
when Sam flipped him to get the cuffs on. He cursed, cussing out in general
low growls as everything got locked into place.
Then up he went, just a force that lifted Eliot to his knees like he
weighed nothing at all, which was just as well since in his current
position there was no way he could've done that himself. Even knelt he had
to keep his knees parted, almost to shoulder width, and arms down,
shoulders pulled back so his wrists stayed low past his waist. The chain
was so damn short that in any other position, he would be pulling
incredibly uncomfortably on his privates.
If Sam's intention was to instill fear in Eliot by showing him the
instruments of his torture, Eliot made sure it didn't happen. He glanced
down, briefly, but only long enough that it would seem he was merely
curious and was now satisfied.
And suddenly, everything made sense. Sam was still on hell's probation and
Eliot would be his final test. When Eliot grinned up at the demon, it was
cruel and without a shred of sympathy. "Then too bad for you, you ain't
goin' anywhere." Eliot wasn't breaking anytime soon.
Sam crouched in front of Eliot again, just in front of the kneeling man, and raised his hand back to his cheek. This time, even though he had room to twist his face away, they could be no response, and no escape. Sam followed any resistance, and after a moment raised the second hand to force him still, looking back into his eyes cooly.
"If you think you're going to last longer than I did, then you misunderstand my strength. Before I came to Hell, I hunted demons. I killed angels. I fought these creatures for my entire life, and I knew their ways intimately. It was a demon that murdered my mother. A demon that killed my father.
"I fought with every shred of my being. I lost my pride and I fought. I lost my dignity and I fought. I lost my family, and I fought. You're strong too, but you have to be strong and smart. You have to know when folding is better, and I promise you, this is one of those occasions. You can be warm, and comfortable, and fed. Sex with me can be on your terms. And best of all no torture. No more bleeding, no more broken bones. Don't take so long coming to understand what took me years, Eliot. It isn't worth it.
"Fighting is pointless if you lose all of yourself doing it. The layers get flayed away. You forget who you are. I know you don't want that to happen to you."
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Eliot and Sam
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."
Re: Eliot and 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?"
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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."
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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."
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"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?"
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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?"
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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."
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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.
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"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.
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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.
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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?"
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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.
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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."
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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.
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"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?"
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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.
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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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Eliot was a man who was very comfortable in his own skin. He wasn't ashamed of nakedness, he had a body of balanced strength and good assets that pleased a lot of women. So even being stripped of the joke that was his clothing, baring to the world the full dripping erection that Sam had all but forced on him, he wasn't ashamed.
More importantly, he wouldn't allow himself to be because that would be exactly what Sam wanted.
He was dispassionate to the announcement he would be naked from now on, not to be given even that tiny bit of dignity that even the lowliest tortured souls were given after their sessions. He didn't even have to tell himself it didn't matter, because it didn't. It was just one layer of fabric that held no protection and being taken away could be used as a form of humiliation.
He did open his eyes though when he felt Sam moving away, but soon he discovered he was still pinned and couldn't move even his legs to get them up. He tried a few times before giving up, choosing to conserve his energy for any trials ahead. Sam's return had glancing to the briefcase and back at Sam.
"Sure," he said, trying to show how little he cared. "If you get yer rocks off that way. So you'll come 'fore an' after yer pals string out my guts?"
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He said it calmly, as he set the briefcase down beside the bed, opening it wide so that Eliot could see. There were brutal looking rubberized sex toys, as well as slender silver instruments, some with ratchet gears, others more phallic in shape. There was - unusually, considering it was Hell - a tube of lubricant, but it was a cockring, a short length of chain and a pair of shackles that Sam took out first.
The cock ring he attached, tightening it matter of factly as though he'd done it a thousand times before, before Sam attached the clip at the end of the chain to the base of it. Then, with the aid of his telekinesis, he flipped Eliot over, shackling his wrists before attaching the other end of the chain to them.
The pressure came off. With augmented strength and a grip at the back of his neck, Sam pulled Eliot up to his knees, his arms behind his back, wrists chained to his cock under his body. He'd have to splay his legs to even stay comfortable, and getting up wasn't an option. The position Sam had put him in, Eliot could look straight down into the items in the briefcase.
"Nobody's going to torture you except for me. Nobody's going to have you except for me...maybe Lucifer. But if I succeed? If I succeed, I can make it stop. That's all I want. You're my ticket out, Eliot."
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There was nothing Eliot could do while Sam trussed him up like some kinky sex slave, cock in a tight steel ring and linked back to the cuffs that tied his hands together. Once again Eliot got the breath knocked out of him when Sam flipped him to get the cuffs on. He cursed, cussing out in general low growls as everything got locked into place.
Then up he went, just a force that lifted Eliot to his knees like he weighed nothing at all, which was just as well since in his current position there was no way he could've done that himself. Even knelt he had to keep his knees parted, almost to shoulder width, and arms down, shoulders pulled back so his wrists stayed low past his waist. The chain was so damn short that in any other position, he would be pulling incredibly uncomfortably on his privates.
If Sam's intention was to instill fear in Eliot by showing him the instruments of his torture, Eliot made sure it didn't happen. He glanced down, briefly, but only long enough that it would seem he was merely curious and was now satisfied.
And suddenly, everything made sense. Sam was still on hell's probation and Eliot would be his final test. When Eliot grinned up at the demon, it was cruel and without a shred of sympathy. "Then too bad for you, you ain't goin' anywhere." Eliot wasn't breaking anytime soon.
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Sam crouched in front of Eliot again, just in front of the kneeling man, and raised his hand back to his cheek. This time, even though he had room to twist his face away, they could be no response, and no escape. Sam followed any resistance, and after a moment raised the second hand to force him still, looking back into his eyes cooly.
"If you think you're going to last longer than I did, then you misunderstand my strength. Before I came to Hell, I hunted demons. I killed angels. I fought these creatures for my entire life, and I knew their ways intimately. It was a demon that murdered my mother. A demon that killed my father.
"I fought with every shred of my being. I lost my pride and I fought. I lost my dignity and I fought. I lost my family, and I fought. You're strong too, but you have to be strong and smart. You have to know when folding is better, and I promise you, this is one of those occasions. You can be warm, and comfortable, and fed. Sex with me can be on your terms. And best of all no torture. No more bleeding, no more broken bones. Don't take so long coming to understand what took me years, Eliot. It isn't worth it.
"Fighting is pointless if you lose all of yourself doing it. The layers get flayed away. You forget who you are. I know you don't want that to happen to you."
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