WARNING!

Characters Age:

Hinata Hyuuga 17 years old

Sabaku no Gaara 28 years old

Sarutobi 60 years old retired

Now, on with the story.

She sat fidgeting nervously, staring at his chin in an effort to avoid meeting his knowing eyes. The silence in the room grew deafening.

"I asked you a question." The voice, a deep, sensual rumbling, slid silkily over her skin and heightened her senses.

Clearing her throat, she faintly voiced a reply. "I think so, yes."

He rocked back in his chair and tented long, tapering fingers in front of his nose. "Do you, really?" The question, posed softly, sounded rhetorical.

Her gaze flew up to meet the startling aquamarine of his eyes, currently leveled at her with caged intensity. She repressed a strong urge to squirm.

Dropping her eyes, she lifted a stubborn chin and spoke softly. "The agreement was between me and your predecessor. Frankly, I don't see how this concerns you."

Raising his brows, he studied her pale features, the flawless bone structure with a light speckling of freckles. The pale-lavender eyes he'd seen flash at him piqued his interest, but he was more curious about the fresh scars he'd seen covering her wrists. Dozens of them.

"My predecessor's part in your agreement ended on the day of his retirement. My part began when I opened his letter of instruction."

Opening a drawer, he lifted out a flat envelope and pulled out the letter it contained. "Shall I read it to you?"

Taking her pained silence for consent, he began to read.

"Dear Gaara,

In and among the many duties of which I'm sure by now you've been inundated, I bequeath one more. And it is because of my deep trust and respect for your discretion that I pass this task on to you,

Six months ago, Hinata Hyuuga, a quiet, young junior, attempted to take her life. No combination of counselors, therapists, or teachers were able to encourage her to speak openly on the subject. She remained an enigma.

Until the day she stepped into my office several months ago and, with guilt-ridden eyes, made a proposal. She said she realized her action was rash, emotional, and irreversible. She thought at the time she truly wanted to die. Upon the realization that it wasn't going to be so easy to accomplish, she immediately truly wanted to erase the proof of her efforts. By this time the slashes in her arms had either stopped bleeding or barely bled. She showed me the scars with a derisive snort and the comment, "Sign of a persistent coward." Her desperate act separated her true friends from her acquaintances – "always good to know" I believe was her comment – and merely bemused or horrified everyone close to her. The problem, as she sees it, is that no one truly became angry with her. "Why doesn't someone grab and shake me, scold me? How can I get over this guilt if it just lays there, ignored?" When I asked her at this point how I could help, she blushed and, staring a hole in the ground, awkwardly replied, "I wish just one person would put me over their knee, spank me until I cry, and make me promise never to consider such an idea again." Raising welled eyes, she whispered, "I was hoping you would do that for me."

Gaara, in my many years as principal of this high school, I've warmed many tender young bottoms, not one of which asked for the privilege. Her request stunned me. I asked to see the scars racing across her wrists. The more I studied them and her guilt-ridden features, the easier my decision became. Only I suggested that one trip to my office would hardly balance the scales. I suggested one trip for each scar she created. After some hesitation, she agreed. And she has visited this office one day a week for the past four months. Eighteen visits. Eighteen trips over my knee. And with each week, I see her self-loathing fade and her confidence increase.

I'm retiring now, as you know, mid-term, and our agreement is far from completed. For her sake, I hope you will consider taking on this delicate task. The number of remaining visits I will let you count on her wrists yourself. I would bet a large sum of money that this task alone gains your enthusiastic participation. But I leave the decision up to you.

I've always had the highest respect for you as a friend and as a colleague. Be well.

Sarutobi, Third Hokage."

Gaara carefully refolded the letter and placed it back into its envelope, keeping his direct gaze on her. Sitting back and folding his arms, he waited for her response.

Her thoughts played clearly across her features and watching her, he held his amusement in check. Finally, her voice broke forth.

"But I knew Sandaime-sama. He was kind and understanding." Her eyes held faint panic. "I don't know you … or what you'd do to me."

He remained silent, but his eyes narrowed slightly.

Sputtering, she continued. "I trusted him. He didn't frighten me like you … " Stopping mid-sentence, her mouth fell open. She hadn't meant to admit that. "Well …. I don't know you, do I? You're hardly a father figure to me." The reference to his age nearly made him smile. He was a good 30 years younger than his predecessor.

"May I point out that I am at least twice your age?" His droll voice cut through her scattered thoughts.

"But … but …" how did she say his dark-rimmed eyes made squirm shamelessly in bed at night? That his voice alone made her want to touch herself intimately. That the mere sight of him standing silently in a crowded hallway made her legs weaken and her breath catch?

Lifting and slapping the envelope against an open palm, he stated flatly, "I consider this letter alone my authorization to continue your request. My only issue is the frequency of your 'sessions.' So I'll ask you once again, do you believe once a week is adequate punishment for your actions?"

Caught once more in his direct gaze, she felt her limbs weaken, and swallowed hard. "What do you think would be adequate?" The petulance in her tone did nothing to help her situation.

Reaching forward, he snagged one slender wrist and pulled her forward over his desk. Taking hold of her other wrist, he lay them both facing up and studied the scars closely.

She felt the blood rush to her face in aching embarrassment and tried in vain to tug her hands free.

Raising lethal eyes to her, he took in her accelerated breathing and heightened color. Speaking slowly, in a voice tinged with dark velvet, he replied, "Your current arrangement is a –what – 15 minute visit each Friday afternoon before you head home for the weekend? My suggestion would be to move that to before your first class in the morning. I think a full day of sitting on hard chairs with a tender bottom is the least you should experience. My next suggestion is that once a week is wholly inadequate as a reminder of your infraction. You should be spanked, daily, for this atrocity. Perhaps not as soundly as your weekly visit, but enough to make you uncomfortably aware of your bottom for the first few hours of the day. That would be fair and just."

She sputtered and nearly choked on her reply. "Daily! Are you insane?"

"Was this sane?" With 'this' he held her wrists up to her eyes and watched her flinch. Releasing her wrists he watched her stumble back and stare, wide-eyed, at him. The room remained silent, with the exception of her harsh breathing, for three long minutes. He saw the moment her mind was made up. Saw the resignation mingled with dread flit across her face, and the bloom of her cheeks as, with eyes down, she whispered a response.

"How many?" She waited endlessly for his reply, finally raising her eyes to catch and freeze in his direct look.

"How many, what?" He watched her annoyed frown with a small smile.

Sighing heavily, she responded, "Each morning, how many times will you … " she rolled her hand in the air searching for word, "hit me?"

"I don't think we need a specific count." He tapped fingers in front of his face, watching her closely. "Perhaps a certain amount of time? Say, sixty seconds?"

Watching him narrowly, she spat out, "15 seconds."

"Thirty, then. Thirty seconds each morning in which you agree to lay obediently across my lap and submit to a quick, but thorough, spanking."

They held each others eyes for a long minute, his look firm and compelling, hers; guilty and frightened.

Swallowing hard, she murmured, "Okay." Leaning down, she snatched up her books and bolted for the door. His hand slapped the mahogany, preventing her retreat. Raising damp eyes to his, he saw a hint of anger and smiled softly.

"We'll start today." Stepping back from the door, he started to remove his jacket. "Put down your books, please."