Draco presses his lips together at that reminder, tries to force himself quiet, to convince himself to not react to the suddenness of the impact this time. The touch, the contact, the way it burns across his skin. He hadn't expected it to be so hard, so hot, to hurt this much. But it's a different sort of pain, not sharp, it's harder to fight against. He doesn't even know how many he's been sentenced to- ten, twenty?- and Snape is declaring it doesn't start until Draco can control himself. He's not sure that he can, not like this, not with Snape's hand touching against his ass, but he doesn't say that.

The cry is quieter this time, more properly muffled into his arm as his body jerks under the impact. There's that flicker of desire to crawl on the desk as if he can crawl away, but there's that same desire to lean back into it. Into the pain, the heat, the punishment that flares all the confused, twisted things he feels for Snape. His ass is settling into a soft burn, that first strike still hot where it landed, his body shaking.

Again, there's that moment after where he tries to catch his breath, to piece his defiance and his arrogance back together.