Martin shivers, a desperate little moan escaping him as John places his hands against the wall, pinning them there with a firm command. Martin presses his palms hard against the wall, easily filling in the sensation of being restrained, and he whines softly as the grip on his hair tightens just so.

"Y-yes," he answers, breathless but intent upon replying when prompted. Another tremor passes through him; he couldn't keep still even if he wanted to, so desperate to be touched, to be allowed to touch himself, and knowing that permission is a ways off yet. He swallows thickly, his eyes darting between John's, unable and unwilling to look anywhere else. Again, he whispers, "Yes."

It isn't just a promise of obedience, this time; it's assurance, confirmation, a plea. It's yes, I want this, I want you, please, compressed into a single fluttering syllable because he doesn't trust himself to offer more than that. The answer is all over him, in his shallow breath, his transfixed gaze, his flushed face, his wild heartbeat. It's the way he twitches and whimpers at the gradually tightening fist in his hair. It's all of him, an all-consuming surrender, an all-consuming trust. Whatever John means to do with him, and he has some guesses on that front, he is ready and eager to receive.