Home, Home on the Range
by Sonarflash2026
Copyright© 2026 by Sonarflash2026
Western Sex Story: Pa is dead, killed by rustlers. Andrew, at thirteen, steps up to the challenge. He is already friendly to neighbours, soon undoing the damage of a brutal, self-righteous father who has alienated people. A short, stroke western with incest, and BDSM of a mild sort.
Caution: This Western Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Incest Mother Son .
Home, Home on the Range
“Get up!”
‘Wack!’
“Andrew James MacDonald! Get up!”
‘Wack!’
“It’s past noon!”
‘Wack!’
Andy J snapped awake, mind jerking from an erotic dream, wet, naked images evaporating. He blinked, looking to his righet, cheek pressed into the pillow. The broom in his mother’s hands was about to rise for another strike on his buttocks.
Glad he was on his belly, morning wood shielded from the assault, Andrew J twisted, arm shooting out, toughened hand grabbing the broom handle before his mother could bring it down again. Angered, he jerked hard. The tiny woman wouldn’t let go. Instead, she toppled forward, sprawling over her son and his narrow bed. Finally wrenched free, the broom clattered onto a pine board floor.
Fully awake, Andrew twisted around, his mother flailing, prostrate, stretched over legs tangled in bedding. Angered, he brought his arm down, hand pinning her across his lap. Lana MacDonald shrieked and kicked, slippered feet finding no purchase.
Her son moved, shifting, twisting around, easily restraining his sputtering mother with one hand pressed down between her shoulders, his left gripping the slight woman’s waist. Right away, with crystal clarity, he knew she wasn’t wearing a corset or stays beneath the worn gingham house dress. He almost removed his hand, then froze. In that instant, he recalled the dream.
A petite woman, Lana MacDonald struggled, trying to push off his narrow bed. Without conscious volition, Andrew sat up, pulling her across his lap. Even through bunched covers, he could feel her waist and hits, her warm belly and squirmming movements against his throbbing morning erection.
“Andrew James!” she bleated, feet still kicking air. “Let me up this instant!”
The vivid dream flashed back and his groin clenched, delicious, explicit sexual images flashing through his mind.
Right arm still pinning his mother, Andrew moved his left hand, cupping her butt, squeezing taut flesh beneath gingham cloth.
Lana MacDonald squealed, flailing to no avail.
He saw her again. In the dream, his mother was naked, rinsing off soap, standing in a washtub by the kitchen stove. Fragments of the vision flashed through Andrew’s mind. Somehow, he had stripped bare in moments. Then, still wet and soapy, his mother was beneath him on her bed, panting, their naked bodies thrusting together.
Now, helpless, his mother flailed, trying to push herself up, shrieking again, jerking Andrew J out of recollections of the waking dream.
“Unhand me!” his mother demanded.
Out of habit, he started to obey, then stopped himself. His right hand pushed her down. His left gripped the cheek of one buttock. Only a threadbare cotton sheet, light blanket and her gingham dress separated them. He could feel the heat of her soft belly right through to his aroused cock. The grip of his big hand on her butt cheek tightened, pulling her even closer. The woman squawked. Andrew J pressed down firmly on his mother’s shoulders, glancing down at her wriggling form.
“Your father will thrash you for...” Her words and struggles ceased abruptly.
He understood at the instant of her realization. Andrew J felt a malicious glee. He grinned. His father was dead, no longer there to intervene. No more trips to the woodshed. No more thrashings with a thick hide belt or convenient stick. No more shameful bruises. No more pain. At thirteen, Andrew J hadn’t cried when the town pastor spoke words over his father’s grave.
The lanky, adolescent boy was glad rustler’s bullets had cut down his embittered, self-righteous father. The elderly rancher was no more, leaving behind a widow, growing son, cattle and two sections of prime range.
Now, after four years of hard work, Andrew J was seventeen, lean, strong and much larger. Like an epiphany, realization swept through him. His mother was pinned and helpless. She couldn’t bring his father’s brutal punishment down on him--ever again. The ranch was doing well and there was money in the bank. The herd had grown. Andrew’s efforts, range savvy, two hired hands, careful management and determination had brought them a measure of prosperity.
That Andrew J was the opposite to his dead father made a big difference throughout the valley. Even as a little boy, he was always friendly, and always there to help neighbours. People came to like the gregarious youth. Alienation caused by his taciturn, bitter father evaporated within a year of Andrew taking charge of the ranch.
Still wriggling and trying to get off him, his mother started crying. Andrew J felt a pang of guilt; but, he steeled himself against her emotional outburst. Her threats no longer held substance. Her wailing and tears were a sign she had realized her vulnerability.
Still pinning her, Andrew relished the heat of her slender body held against his erection. Her small, soft breasts were pressing against his right thigh, that alone adding to a morning arousal. The dream images were still there, provoking him. He considered the lean rump in his tight fingers, then grinned.
“You aught not try wacking me any more, Ma,” he said conversationally, left hand squeezing, then releasing her butt cheek. “I’m the boss of this ranch, now, and a man needs his sleep. Was up past midnight dealing with a foaling mare.”
His left hand rose, coming down smartly on her ass.
Laura MacDonald shrieked. She squalled. Andrew’s big hand came down again, this time even faster and harder. His mother quivered, letting out another shriek.
Still recalling the erotic dream, Andrew J considered, then reached down, left hand bunching the hem of his mother’s dress. Startled, the woman gasped, then stilled. Equally startled, Andrew discovered she wasn’t wearing bloomers. The rosy marks left by his hand were there, already showing pink on the pallid cream of her ass.
Andrew! Stop this instant!” she wailed, struggling as he bunched the dress and linen shift about her waist, left hand caressing the curve of one bare cheek.
“Andrew! No!” she gasped.
He licked his lips, appreciating the view of her exposed bottom, once again recalling his dream. Without another thought, he raised his left hand, bringing it down hard on her bare flesh. Laura screamed.
Slow and methodical, Andrew continued spanking her, alternating from one cheek to the other.
‘Smack!’
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