The Last Oregon Spanking

Arizona morning, from my new backyard

My last spanking was over a pair of jean shorts I’d cut to such a risqué degree that they were more like denim panties. The bottom curve of each cheek was visible in a normal standing position and half of my backside was exposed if I bent over or reached forward. Panties were not an option; even a thong would have been visible in certain positions.

They were my moving shorts, for indoor packing only, and only worn on the last day before loading the sixteen-foot truck that Mr. W would haul from our tree-shaded apartment just outside Portland, Oregon to our new desert abode southeast of Phoenix, Arizona. We were moving to a guesthouse attached to a main house that would house five other members of our extended family. Instead of a thousand miles, there would now be about five yards between our back door and that of our relatives. The move was at first an exciting prospect, a chance to change our pace and start anew. But as the long drive and new living situation loomed closer, the short shorts weren’t just an amusing way to dispatch of a pair of worn-out jeans, they were a necessary distraction on a day when our future suddenly felt like a fearsome thing.

I had to change each time I needed to run anything out to the trash or load my car for a final trip to the Goodwill donation center. We’d left too much to do last minute and my continued need to strip my lower half to put on something outdoor appropriate did not make the process any easier. This earned my bottom swats and smacks at each turn – but that was my intention. I made sure to empty the high shelves in the laundry closet when Mr. W was nearby. He came up behind me, pressed his hand against my back, and gently forced my torso to rest atop the washer so he could give me a quick but firm spanking for teasing him with the view. I put a box in the middle of the kitchen floor so that anything I packed inside it required my bending over completely. Both my backside and thighs received the reward for that particular position. In each room, I sought to find a way to bring him to me. He knew the game and was happy to oblige.

That evening, boxes ready and all but two dishes and two forks packed away, he led me to the bedroom for the final Oregon spanking. Emotions were high; I was, in my nervousness, suddenly doubting the move and whether we’d made the right decision. I wanted to cry. I wanted to escape the situation.  Fortunately, there is no better medicine for wanting to cry and mentally escape than a firm, loving spanking. He let me keep my shorts on – they weren’t doing much to protect my backside anyway. He told me to kneel on the bed, lean forward, and bite my pillow. I followed the instructions, tears already in the corners of my eyes, as he gathered a few implements – we had decided all our toys would travel in my car, not in the rental truck, so they were still with my suitcase in my otherwise empty closet.

My cheeks were already warm, but he spanked me with his hand first, his touch comforting me even as I tried to prepare for whatever pain was to come. I hadn’t looked to see what he’d selected, but I figured a cane was somewhere in the mix. I tried to follow the rhythm of his hand, to be a good girl and take my final Oregon spanking bravely, but I was squirming like an unrepentant brat. Maybe it was the denim shorts that made me act so naughtily, maybe it was just the stress of the move, but I could not stay still for him. It was no wonder that the loving hand that was spanking me was soon holding a leather strap.

The strap was biting but not brutal; the quick crimson stripes it left upon me quickly faded back to the overall pink my skin had turned over the course of the day. After a short strapping session, however, my wiggle-worming around the bed was no longer acceptable. I thought I was about to receive a caning, a solid twenty-four or thirty-six strokes before I’d be allowed to call in our traditional post-caning Chinese food – the reason we’d kept out the plates and forks, our dinner was a planned post-final-spanking event, especially considering we were moving to a land of indeterminate-quality Asian cuisine.

Instead of the cane, the birch landed firmly across both of my cheeks. Its nubs and twigs and bitter branches all in one stroke made me cry out in shocked agony. In retrospect, I remember it pricking and welting and shocking my flesh, but I can’t recall the degree of pain or if I just let myself fall into it, howling for the sake of howling, releasing not so much the pain of a birch whipping, but instead letting go of all the fear and anxiety of the move, the regrets of what we would be leaving behind, and the misgivings of what our new living situation would bring.

I can’t say how many strokes I took or at what point Mr. W pushed aside the flimsy strip of denim between my legs and took me fully over the edge of emotion and sensation. I remember lying exhausted afterwards, closing my eyes and drifting, then waking and running my hand over my backside and discovering little swollen bumps where the birch had raised my flesh. I cried out for Mr. W, fearful that I had splinters. He inspected me, then stroked and soothed me, and rubbed lotion into my punished but not broken skin. No splinters were to be found. He held me, then we called in Chinese, and after dinner we slept a final night in the bedroom that had been the scene for our spanking challenges, our playtimes, our loving times, our safety and our place of rest. The following morning, I threw away my moving shorts before we left for Arizona, knowing there would be other shorts and other spankings to come.