If Owen Was Right
It hurt. It hurt like hell. It hurt like hell on a holiday, and Ianto couldn't stop letting it hurt him. He couldn't stop. He couldn't give it up, because a tiny part of it felt good. To have a miniscule part of the whole was better than the alternative. The alternative was too bleak to contemplate.
Every time, it hurt more, and became more essential; addiction to a situation that would eventually prove as fatal as any class A drug. Cold turkey would be the only way to stop, and he wasn't that brave or that strong-willed. He wanted his drug of choice more than he wanted his sanity, more than he needed his life. So he kept on taking the poison, letting it build up in his head the same way mercury or arsenic builds up in a body.
It was as effective as keeping on stabbing himself in the thigh with a kitchen knife. He kept on haemorrhaging, not blood, but sense of self and self-respect. Each moment was a train wreck brought on by need and absence; need for Jack and absence of his love.
Ianto knew. He'd known for a while, even before Owen had exposed his situation so very eloquently. No matter what he might hope for, wish for, dream about, it wasn't ever going to happen. It was so cruel a joke he couldn't even cry. No relief except for the briefest of moments, at the moment of his orgasm, when Jack bothered to take him there. So he had to keep coming back for more. And it kept on keeping on; ritual abuse facilitated by the victim, for the benefit of the object of his worship and affection. All he'd ever be to Jack was an animated sex toy; no-one memorable, just an easy way for his boss to meet his physical needs, wrapped up in worsted or stripped down to skin.
"Just a part-time shag".