Chapter 1

Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Romantic, NonConsensual, Reluctant, Coercion, Magic, Fiction, Post Apocalypse, Extra Sensory Perception, Cheating, Slut Wife, Cuckold, Wife Watching, Spanking, Rough, Light Bond, Harem, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Pregnancy, Cream Pie, Exhibitionism, Body Modification, Slow, Caution, Violent, .

Desc: Western Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A hardworking young farmer from a hardscrabble post-apocalyptic town, finds his dreams shattered by a visiting Witchfinder with mysterious abilities and his faithless fiancee. Both of whom are determined to cuckold and humiliate him in every way, until he finds a chance for revenge and escape. An odd sort of story with quite a few codes: mostly used incidentally. The designated genre of Western is arbitrary, and could also have been Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Drama/Action or even Suspense

The sky was getting blacker and more menacing by the moment and the mid-summer afternoon air hung thick with ozone, dank humidity and the stench of fear. A stranger was riding towards our small town — a Witchfinder, apparently, according to old Grampy, who was up in his usual nest high up in the windmill. Even though the stranger was still a good quarter of an hour away, if Grampy said he was a Witchfinder, then I'd take it as gospel truth and prepare accordingly.

Grampy, otherwise given the birth name of Ethan Grant, might be the eldest of us and fond of his home brewed squeezin's, but he was rarely (if ever) wrong about anything of importance and he took his self-appointed job of town watchman seriously. He owned the only good pair of spyglasses and even at his age still had the keen eyes to use them to good advantage. You can see a very long ways away on most days in the Kansas wastes. Nothing to see but hundreds of square miles of pancake flat volcanic rock scattered with patches of ryegrass for as far as the eye can see. On a good clear day right after a rainstorm, Grampy says that he can just make out the ruins of Topeka to the northeast. That's over a two day walk, likely longer if the weather suddenly turned bad, which it often did at the drop of a hat.

I pushed any further thoughts of the arriving stranger to the back of my mind. Witchfinder or not, he'd likely have no business with me, besides I had my orchard of dewmelons to tend. I did spare, however, another moment to check the darkening sky once again to see if those perpetually angry clouds would be releasing their precious rain today. Maybe. It felt like there could be rain, but perhaps not just yet. I could count on the fingers of one hand the days so far this year that we'd had rain, and it was already late summer and nearing harvest. The melons would be small this year and dry, much like last year's crop, but it couldn't be helped. Even a small rain shower would plump up the melons and nearly double the weight of the harvest. Not to mention the benefits to the ryegrass, our only other significant food source.

Grampy says that dewmelons, like witchery (and Witchfinders), are something new to this world since the days of the great eruption that occurred during my grandparents life. A bit like "cactus crossed with cantaloupes", he says ... whatever those other two plants are. I don't much care, without them our village would have starved out years ago. No one much likes the taste and they're a hard and constant struggle to make grow, but they're essential. With care and protection from the harsh winters, most dewmelon plants can survive and grow for ten to fifteen seasons before they need replacing. The older the plant the more melons it will produce and the sweeter the flavor. Yearling plant fruit is small and terribly bitter and a favorite of no one.

Mother Turner, the oldest of the matrons, knows a thousand ways to cook, season and prepare dewmelons, but the end taste result is much the same. Still, they stick to your ribs and sustain you for a long day's labor. Every part of the plant is used in some way. The rinds are boiled into a breakfast mash or dried and powdered to mix with ryegrass flour to bake as a flatbread. The roots, if boiled long enough, are chewable and mild in flavor. The waxy stalks and stems thicken our soups, and the smaller branches and leaves when boiled make a bitter but stimulating hot drink.

The trick to growing a healthy dewmelon is getting them every possible second of sunlight, extra bit of warmth, and every drop of water that can be spared. Not that there is much sunlight to get. Even on the brightest day the sky is an angry orange or red color with only a brighter halo to mark where the sun can be found in the sky. Grampy says this is due to all the massive amounts of dirt and rock that the eruption shot high into the sky over sixty years ago. It blocks out the sun, he says, keeping the earth in darkness and the land cold and hard. Someday, he says, the last of this fine dust will fall back to earth and slowly the sky will clear and the land will warm up again. When? He doesn't know, but he says it gets a little brighter every year. If Pappy says so, then it must be true.

To give the dewmelon plants that extra bit of retained heat, you need to carefully cover the ground with small hard stones that will retain the afternoon heat into the cold evenings, and prevent water evaporation. In the morning, as the stones slowly warm, they will condense dew from the air to moisten the ground. That combined with endless trips with a water bucket from the windmill pump provides a minimum of growth and an acceptable harvest. The bonus of any rainfall from the angry heavens is an unexpected, but thankful bounty.

Finding good soil for the dewmelon plants is the hardest part. The volcanic ash here is thick, at least several feet to over a yard deep in some places, and is compacted and fused into near solid rock at the bottom where it lies on top of the old once good topsoil. It can be the work of a man for an entire day to chip and dig out enough of this new sterile rock to clear room for just a few new seed plantings. The rock fights us for every inch of soil we try to reclaim, and it is hard on our old iron tools and the back muscles of tired men.

The ryegrass, our only other available plant, is equally useful. The head of the plant makes an acceptable grain which the womenfolk hand grind into flour for bread, the leaves if carefully treated can get spun into fibrous thread and woven into a rough homespun cloth. Pre-eruption clothing is now well worn and scarce, and saved for wearing on only special or holiday occasions. The bare stalks get baled into small hay bundles and are stored underground in the shelter for daily cooking or burning in the great stove there during the long hard winter nights. It is a poor fuel, but our only one and every stalk is carefully rationed.

Grampy says that when he was a boy, just before the great eruption of the super volcano of "Yellow Stone", somewhere to the northwest, that this land, Kansas, was so rich and fertile that its farmers could grow enough crop surplus to feed everyone for thousands of miles around. Our grain was even shipped to other countries on the other side of the world, he said. Today we do well just to carry a small surplus of food in storage in case of a famine year. I can remember several years in my childhood when winter lasted all year and summer never arrived, and most of the dewmelon plants died. In a good year, a small surplus can be traded for metal tools and other essential items, or sold for hard silver coins. A rare commodity prized by the few hardbitten traders of the wasteland.

I was fairly content with my life as a dewmelon farmer, but being still a young man barely in my twenties, I sometimes have trouble resisting the call of the unknown lands around us, even after I grew up from being a teenager, and was allowed such curiosities. Our young boys and girls are put to work at an early age, the boys helping the men with the dewmelons or the ryegrass, or pumping and carrying endless buckets of water to the fields. The girls, segregated and constantly supervised, working with their mothers and aunts preparing food or spinning and weaving ryegrass fibers into cloth. A seemingly endless task.

As the boys and girls grow older, the watchful eye of the matrons if anything only increases. With food and survival always precarious, our population is managed carefully, with the elder matrons determining if and when a lad and lass will even be permitted to court, let alone be allowed to marry. Rare are the opportunities for a young couple to find a private moment semi-alone in which to even speak, let alone conspire to indulge in other future more private actions. The eyes of the matrons watch for this like hawks, and at the first signs of any 'unsuitable attachments' inundate the would-be romantic couple with enough extra work to dampen their ardor indefinitely.

At least the young men were permitted adventure and exploration. In the late fall after the harvest and in the very early spring before the ground is warm enough to break apart, the young men break up into small bands and scatter out beyond the horizon. In theory, these trips are to locate new patches of good ryegrass or other hardy but useable vegetation and capture any wandering poultry or livestock (a rare occurrence). In reality these trips were to let the young men blow off steam and 'treasure hunt'. Often there was much treasure to be found. Pre-eruption tools, especially old farming ones, dug up from half buried old farm houses were worth their weight in silver coins. Even a large bag of rusted scrap metal could be put to good use by our resident tinker, Joshua to mend our windmill or water pump. Anything that could be found and put to use was one less item that we would have to trade precious food or coins for later.

As a boy treasure hunter and scrounger, I was without peer. While most of my peers concentrated on group efforts to dig out feet of hard volcanic stone from on top of old farm houses in the local area, I discovered an easier and sometimes more rewarding strategy a bit further away. About two days walk north (when the days were short) there was an old pre-eruption highway. Apparently a fairly large and major one. During the disaster, which Pappy said happened suddenly and with little warning, most people were caught unprepared and grabbed their family and valuables and tried to escape at the very last moment. Soon their cars were overcome by the falling ash and couldn't move, becoming tombs for most of their occupants. Finding these trapped and buried cars was easy if you knew what to look for. Namely, rounded sort of domed bumps a few feet high in the otherwise totally flat terrain of black rock. These were much easier to break into, the work of a few hours rather than a few days.

Over the years I found a great many lost treasures this way, and some I even kept hidden for myself in the event of need. Sometimes, I wished that I were once again searching old ruins instead of endlessly chipping away volcanic rock. Idle thoughts ... I was soon to be a married man and would have other more important duties in the village. The explorations this fall after the harvest would probably have to be done by others ... at least this year.

Life in our village is hard, and I've never heard it said from any traveler, tinker, trader or wasteland wanderer of any other town or place where life was softer or easier.

I had quite forgotten all about the Witchfinder and was hard at work moving rocks when I felt a hand tap my shoulder. It was Joshua, our resident tinker. The man who keeps our tools sharp and the windmill turning to pump clean water out from deep in the ground.

"There's a Witchfinder in town and he's ordered everyone to come out and appear before him in the street. Women folks too. Got everyone in a stir and bothered. Looks like he might be staying a day or two too ... he had me put his things into the Garland's place and stable his horse. You know what that can mean..."

Joshua's tone didn't imply a question. Witchfinder's were as close to being the Law as anyone knew of. We had no regional government outside of our town, and most of the other villages and towns in our area knew nothing about what was happening anywhere out of their eyesight. No one was quite sure what actual authority a Witchfinder really had, but in practice, there wasn't anyone who cared to dispute their right to do pretty much anything they wanted. The alternative was a fast and excessively violent death, or worse, a slower and excruciatingly painful death.

"Oh, and I don't like the way he's already looking Nancy over ... just so you know and are a bit prepared. Don't do nothing foolish boy, he'll be gone soon enough!"

His last observation and cautionary word of advice was unnecessary. The appetites of Witchfinder's were legendary, and Nancy, my fiancée, was without a doubt the prettiest flower of our town. If he hadn't singled her out already for further attention I would have been surprised. It didn't mean I'd have to like it much though.

It had been a few years since our last visit by one, in fact when I was a boy they were a not uncommon visitor, passing through several times a year. Not all of the Witchfinder's had a taste for young women; some liked their fruit a little less ripe and still green on the tree, and at least one preferred the nocturnal company of a teenaged boy instead. Fortunately not me. It was more than a passing rumor that Joshua himself preferred sleeping with a lad, his apprentice, rather than a woman, but I couldn't say this was true one way or the other. Joshua was a very useful and necessary member of our town and since we didn't have many bible-thumpers in our community most folks didn't rightly care one way or the other. Life is difficult enough without worrying much over what other folks are thinking or doing.

When it came to dealing with Witchfinder's our townsfolk just grit their teeth and obeyed ... there wasn't naught else that anyone could do anyway.

No matter how many times I told myself to remain calm on the short walk back into town, it didn't seem to have much, if any, effect. Catching my first glimpse of our lordly guest didn't improve my attitude much either. He was dressed all in black with a big black hat and dark leather duster coat and heavy boots, like a story tale figure from the old wild west. The arrogance on the face of the man was palpable, as he surveyed our dusty and unwashed ranks as if we were but lowly cattle, or sheep to be sheared.

Joshua was quite right, the Witchfinder had already pulled Nancy out from the group of women and she was now standing by his side. Little if anything else he saw seemed to meet with his approval, and he wasted little time barking out his authority to kill any or all of us and burn our town to the ground if we hindered or obstructed his investigation, which concerned the whereabouts of a certain fugitive from a remote village we'd never heard of, and who hadn't, to anyone's memory, passed near or through our town. Nevertheless, the Witchfinder took his time and closely examined everyone in the town, although I couldn't say what he was looking or checking for.

His gaze burned like fire and no one could match eyes with him for longer than a moment. I tried my best but lasted no longer than a few feverish seconds.

Grampy says that there were no Witches or Witchfinders before the great eruption, and that there was no magic in the world. He thinks that when he was a boy that magic was rare and remained hidden deep underground, brought out into the world by the massive explosion. No one in our town has any magic, but others elsewhere do supposedly. Grampy's seen quite a few in his travels when he was younger, before he came to our town. The more powerful ones join the Witchfinder's or else they become dead ... they tolerate no competition to their authority.

Supposedly Witchfinders have many different magical powers and most can read minds according to Grampy, or rather what your current surface thoughts are. This was virtually confirmed to me when he looked into my eyes for a moment while I was thinking murderous thoughts. He laughed and muttered as he moved on to examine Grampy standing next to me, "Not even on your best day, boy!"

His inspection complete and to his minimum satisfaction, he began to direct his attentions towards Nancy, and to use her to humiliate everyone in the town ... especially me.

"Strip whore!" He commanded. "You look like you're overheated standing out here in the bright sun, and looking as pale as you do you can certainly do with a bit of good sunshine all over your body."

Nancy remained petrified and just shook her head. The Witchfinder decided to give her some assistance and with a black leather gloved hand he grabbed and ripped the front of her dress and in a moment she was exposed nude in front of me and everyone in the town.

Grampy had to lay a restraining arm on me and hissed "Don't move boy — you go and try and help her and you're a dead man!" Joshua moved up to my right side and dug his hand so hard into my arm that his fingernails nearly broke skin, also to restrain me. If he hadn't have stopped me I'd have broken free of Grampy's grasp and charged the Witchfinder. I'd probably have been dead also.

The Witchfinder took his time in minutely examining his naked and squirming prize, pointing out each of her attractive attributes in turn, especially her breasts and nipples, which he laughingly and openly caressed. Finally when he had exhausted this source of embarrassment, he ordered her into his room of the guesthouse to await his pleasure on the bed ... unless anyone in the town had any last minute objections ... and I did!

I couldn't break free of Joshua's restraining grasp, the tinker was quite a strong man ... but that didn't stop my tongue and I gave the Witchfinder a full measure of it, declaring him to be an honorless rogue, little better than a common brigand. I never even saw the casual wave of his hand that shot an energy bolt that knocked me silly ten feet backwards on my ass. My eyes hadn't even begun to clear before I blurrily saw the Witchfinder standing over me with the long black barrel of his gun aimed at my face.

"Boy, I don't suppose you have a gun or even know how to hold it to even meet me 'in honor' even if you had the pea mind to do it?"

"No sir." I said struggling to get back on my feet to bravely meet his eyes. "I have neither arms nor the skill and training to use them, but I have the will and the heart to defend the virginity of my fiancée with such means that are my own."

I was still unsteady and wobbly on my feet and pretty much seeing double, so giving the Witchfinder my best punch was a pretty sad effort. I was pretty strong from a life of hard farming and nearly the tallest man in town and thought I'd have a chance of decking him if the blow had struck ... instead of missing him by a mile. His return blow with the butt of his large pistol didn't miss and clean knocked me right out flat for several minutes, until I came to finding myself gagged and well-tied to a sturdy wooden chair in the Garland's guest room with a good view of the large bed.

Apparently, it had been decided that I would be given a good front row seat for the deflowering and raping of my fiancée!

Tied and gagged, unable to move a single muscle, I watched endlessly all afternoon, evening and late into the night as the Witchfinder took his pleasure with Nancy, my fiancée in every possible way. By the time darkness fell outside and the heavy dark clouds outside finally unloaded their precious rain onto our parched land, the woman I loved and planned to marry had transformed from a reluctant victim to a very willing and active participant. Each sound of pleasure from her was like a knife wound into my heart.

The Witchfinder began his seduction by ordering his naked captive to slowly undress him, which she did. He, rather than myself on our upcoming honeymoon night, had become the first man she would ever see naked. He then bade her to roam her hands across his muscular hairy chest and run her fingers down to his cock and balls to begin her lengthy and regular acquaintance with them.

Her fingers were tentative, but curious, and soon she had her fingers wrapped around his cock stroking it, watching with fascination as it began to grow and become engorged, swelling to full rigidness. Anticipating the command, Nancy began to stroke and softly kiss his erect penis even without being instructed to. Looking up into his eyes she opened her mouth and took the head of his cock into her willing mouth, entirely of her own accord.

The Witchfinder laughed, telling her that she was sucking a real man's cock, not that of a wimpy farm boy. His was larger and thicker, he told her repeatedly, like a real cock ought to be, instead of the tiny boy cock she would be getting later, he laughed. In actuality, our cock sizes were probably about the same, with little if any difference, but Nancy, having never seen mine, seemed inclined to accept her lovers word as gospel, and was soon sucking on his cock, taking it as deep as she could into her mouth, with unrestrained enthusiasm and eagerness.

Damn I hate it when everyone keeps calling me boy! I'm soon to be twenty-three years old and have been the master of our family house for nearly two years now since my parent's death.

It didn't take long at all for him to unload his first load of seed into her willing mouth, which she accepted as if it were the finest gift her lover could ever offer to her. She smiled as she licked away the last of his semen from her mouth and they both shared a laugh as they looked upon my helpless form squirming in livid rage.

What Nancy did next, hardened my heart to stone and forever killed my love for my former fiancée. Crawling up onto the bed, she laid on her back and willing spread her legs for her lover to come and deflower her.

"Give me you man-cock and make me a woman, a real woman ... your woman." She beckoned."

"I thought you wanted to wait for your husband's tiny little farmer cock to try to break your maidenhead?" He laughed, as he crawled up on top of her and placed his cock up to the lips of her moist and willing cunt.

"Why use a boy's cock when I've got a real man's cock!" She replied and used one hand to line up the Witchfinder's cock to enter her cunt and the other to grap his ass to push him deep into her, assisting her rapist to violate her virginity. The discomfort only lasted a few moments and soon they were actively fucking.

They fucked for hours. Him on top of her thrusting, she on top of him riding his cock up and down, sideways, on all fours. For hours. He filled her cunt full of his seed on at least three occasions but never seemed to become weary, I guess his magical arts helped to sustain him. At length she desired some respite and the two lovers cuddled together for a few short hours of slumber until the morning call for breakfast awoke them.

Too full of rage to sleep, I watched the nude intertwined lovers for the remainder of the night and did make one minor observation of interest. The Witchfinder had a gold ring with a gemstone pierced through the head of his cock. The gemstone had a glow to it in the darkness ... maybe that was the source of his magically enhanced stamina, or held other powers.

Nancy wanted a 'private and personal' repeat of last night's athletics without my enraged glaring at them, and the Witchfinder reluctantly cut my bounds and tossed my hapless body out into the middle of the street before returning to the attentions of his mistress.

Grampy and Joshua were pretty pissed with me for interfering in the first place and reminded me for the twentieth time or so to just keep my fat mouth shut. It was a wonder that I hadn't lost any teeth, and I wouldn't be eating any solid food for the better part of week.

If I expected to get any sympathy from anyone else, I was sadly mistaken. Even the other young women Nancy's age seemed to be annoyed with me for 'interfering', as if it were some sort of great honor to be bedded and even better, to be impregnated by a Witchfinder. No one actually said it, but they looked at me as if I were just a jealous boy, rather than a concerned fiancée. If I had any rights at all in this matter, I couldn't find any ... or anyone who cared to see my side of the issue.

Nancy stayed shacked up with her lover for pretty near three full days. They came out in public for a few meals but mostly took theirs alone in the bedroom. The one time I could make eye contact with her she gave me a contemptuous sniff of her nose and looked away from me to the other end of the long communal dinner table.

I loudly resolved then and there to everyone in the entire town that I'd "Sooner marry a fungal diseased dewmelon than ever lay a finger on Nancy Wheeler, let alone inviting that whore to share my life and my home!" I got a few nasty looks from the older matrons who seemed to have other ideas, but they didn't stop me from leaving.

While the Witchfinder was in town, I kept an extremely low profile. I spent the days working out of the further edges of the patch so that I could avoid anyone who tried to come over and 'talk sense into me'. The nights were worse. I mostly stayed out of town, camping out at an old half buried shack a few miles north of town that had nothing of interest to anyone, except for four sturdy walls and a roof. No one but me ever came here, and I used this hidey-hole to stash my little collection of recovered treasures. They'd stay hidden here for now, but I used this time away from town to consider alternatives for my future.

The second night away I had terrible trouble sleeping and wasn't in the mood to brood over how miserable I was. It was also unseasonably warm, with a hot and dry wind out of the south that was pleasant. I went out for just a short midnight stroll and somehow found myself outside of the Garland house guest room listening to my former fiancée and her lover fuck and make small talk. If I had any remaining second thoughts about dumping Nancy permanently, her pillow talk with her lover cemented the deal.

She rambled about how much she hated farm life, the dirty hands and stench of the men that put the hard grown food on her table, and of how she'd rather be a 'lady' living in the city instead. The gist being, she was wheedling her lover to take her with him away from this hellhole.

I was more than happy to see her ride off with her new lover, but even that forlorn hope was dashed when he rode off alone a few days later, but not before he promised to return in a couple of weeks ... which he did.

The two weeks of relative peace and quiet before the return of Witchfinder were anything but to me. It was made quite crystal clear to me by the Matrons that my engagement with Nancy was not cancelled, and that I would be expected to still marry her ... and the sooner the better, in fact. Nancy herself wasn't treating me with any particular affection or consideration, but was resigned that she'd soon have to marry someone ... so it might as well be me.

"Not a chance in seven hells!" I told anyone who would listen, which was nearly no one. Our local minister, Chesterly, was slightly sympathetic but unmoved. The Matrons, he reminded me, pretty much decided who married whom, and when. My fate was sealed, he said, and if the Witchfinder came back ... or even made a habit of visiting, I would just have to deal with it.

Fat bloody chance. I'd hate to leave my family home and wander the wilderness, but I'd do it if necessary to avoid marrying a woman that I no longer loved. Nancy wasn't even quite twenty yet ... the Matrons could some other fool willing to take her off of their hands. I'd made up my mind that the only way I'd marry that whore was if some held a gun to my head ... and that is about what happened!

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