Quieter is still sound, and there's a soft hum, disapproving and low in his throat. The second blow left a pink print, almost perfectly showing his hand.

"Not quite," he remarks. Ideally, he'd like less squirming (though a part of him certainly also wants more), wants him to be able to withstand this without reaction. This, in the grand scheme of human experience, is nothing. He's not breaking his skin, his bones, his will to live. He's simply bringing his hand down on his ass, again and again, though he knows he's short-changing this, that there's a power and a language in this kind of control, this kind of pain, one that's strong and real and emotional. He can feel it, even if he isn't letting on.

"Try harder," he says, his voice lost in breath, and the blows come hard, at random intervals, too little space between them for Draco to find the time to collect himself, to catch his breath. He's pushing harder than Draco has shown he's able to handle, he knows he's setting him up to fail as he layers hand prints over his cheeks, changes the color from pink to ruddy splotches. He wants him to fail. To be too loud, to cry out in the dark room, to possibly be overheard, to shame himself.

He wants all of that, because he wants to gather up all of the pieces that Draco can't find.