Ianto is anything but bored. He's utterly hypnotized by the sight, eyes trained on each slow slip of the plug as it disappears further into Jack's body.
"Language," He chides, although the gleam in his eyes says how much he loves it, and ordering Jack around like that. Its all just so perfect, the way the murmur of voices and clink of dishes from the party taking place just a few feet away from the utterly debauched tableau before him. He doesn't think he could have imagined anything more erotically perfect even if he had tried.