It had been a long time since Clint had been human, but he wasn't sure he'd ever not been accustomed to pain. There had been times when he hadn't been in pain, but those were temporary respites. Maybe it had been then, as a needy, reedy teenager, little older than Samandriel's vessel, that whatever it was that made people normal--made them not like Clint--had been broken. He'd stopped fighting it, stopped enduring it, but instead came to view the rush as an old friend, and no more than he deserved.
If the angel wanted to know, the demon had no reason not to tell him. He wasn't embarrassed by it, and if it did some good...why not?
"Get up," he barked, hiding his discomfort at the angel, prone at his feet, behind boredom. "You know what demons are, boy. We're Hell's bitches. Your deference is unnecessarily. But since you asked so nicely...." he shrugged. "Why not. You want to know what makes someone desire pain? Where should we start? Before or after my years on the rack?"