Of course there's no relief that easily. He dug this blasted pit on his own, after all, and Bruce has always been one to make sure that he reaps what he sows. Especially when it comes to his mouth writing cheques his ass can't deliver. Despite how much John arches, chasing that touch, he gets no more than the fleeting brush of a calloused palm over the wet head of his cock and the sound of Bruce breathing to control himself. That the play is having an effect on the other man isn't as much of a reward as he'd think; if anything it's all the more frustrating to know that Bruce wants this just as badly but is pushing through.

Those blasted fingers trail over him again, teasingly light, and John groans as Bruce's hand comes to rest at his throat. He can feel his pulse thumping against Bruce's fingers, the rub against his Adam's apple as he swallows. You'd think with the number of times someone has tried to choke the life out of him in the past, this wouldn't be as much of a turn on as it is. But there's the pressure of Bruce's grip pressing down, long enough that his body tenses to try and fight for what oxygen he needs, muscles straining against the straps, then release and relief as he sucks in a breath. Only for it all to start over again. Once, twice. Enough for their to be a rhythm that he's expecting the third and taken by surprise as the peg is pulled away sharply.

"Jesus, fuck! Christ, Bruce!" It's not a protest exactly, nor any sign that the other man should stop despite how put upon John might sound. The fact he still has words at all is sign there's still ways to go.

This time he's bracing for the same treatment, although suspects that Bruce is going to be anything but predictable.