He can't breathe, there's no air, there's just the hard impact of Snape's hand against his already burning ass. It feels like a brand, like something more, deeper than just being spanked, and the lack of air, the way it makes him lightheaded, pushes him further as he fights vainly to lean into it has his hands clawing against the surface of his desk. He's shaking, wide-eyed, that panic that's not terror, biological without actually dipping into fear, because there's something about this that's intoxicating, has him hard against the desk. He's dizzy, darkening tunnel-vision, and then he's gasping for breath, but after one breath there's a way he moves, shifting, leaning, like he's trying to find that touch again, seeking some twisted sort of stability.

Then Snape's hand touches his ass, and that's better, even as it's worse. He gasps, chokes, his shoulders shaking on a sob he tries to muffle as fingers rub circles into tortured skin. He leans into it, his body twisting, moving toward the touch and it comes out mostly as a whimper, but it's hopeful pleasure as Snape saying he's doing better. He's embarrassed, ashamed, afraid that Snape sees through him, sees what this is, what this is doing to him. He almost wants to beg for him to stop before Draco makes it worse, but he owes Snape too much for that.