Draco doesn't dare respond verbally, not with the way that Snape is spanking him, afraid he might cry out loud, that someone in the hall might hear. Would Snape save him, or let him shame himself like this to prove a point? He likes to think not. But bent over, pressed into the desk, right now, he just doesn't know. He tries to obey, to do what Snape wants, doesn't even realize he's being set up to fail. Without the breaths inbetween each strike, with the way the strikes color both cheeks in rapid succession, layering so his ass is burning red.

Draco's lost all control, his body shaking, pressing into the strikes even as he tries to pull away in the fraction after. His voice is shaking, rising, louder, sharper, unable to keep his voice down, to quiet the sobs that slip from his lips as Snape keeps spanking him. He's in so many pieces he doesn't know where to turn, and there's a certain solace in the heat, in the pain like this. Feeling; something that holds him in place, anchors him, and it's that feeling that has him leaning in as his blond eyelashes flutter damp over his glassy eyes.