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Marge Simpson: Because Bigger Means Better	By : TENEBRE Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 36079 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter 1:
Taste of a Stranger

The Simpson family was just passing the exit for Brewster, Illinois when steam shot up from beneath the hood of the car. Homer frowned and, checking the lanes between him and the far right lane, steered the car toward the next exit.
I-45W to Brewster.
Marge was asleep, already dreaming of what waited ahead of them in Jordan, Illinois. The cottage by the lake. A night of dinner and dancing. Maybe she'd even wear that scoop-neck dress she bought in Shelbyville. Her libidinous musings lifted the ends of her lips into a smile.
Homer pulled over just as the steam took on a high pitched whine. He stared at the cars passing him on the off-ramp, embarrassed and a bit unnerved by the unending squeal from the car's guts. Stepping out of the car, he crept along the narrow space between the lanes of the off-ramp and the side of his car, to the front hood, unlatched it and was immediately deluged with a thick hot fog of smoke.
His thumb slipped down and grazed the radiator lid, searing the flesh at his fingertip. He screamed, pulling his hand down to his side, holstering it in the pocket of his khakis.
He'd need water. Pronto.

It wasn't that it was a hot day, but he brought back more water for Marge and the kids to drink. For some reason, just the fact that they were still there with the car when he returned was reassurance enough that luck was on his side today. He was taken aback though, when Marge, either compelled by thirst or just what the sun had done to her volition, seized one of the water jugs and began to empty it down her throat.
"I...I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me." she said, water still dribbling down her chin and over her dress, wetting the linen to the curves of her upper body. She hadn't given herself ample time to swallow before she was apologizing.
And almost immediately following the apology, she'd picked up the jug and was drinking again. Her quivering lips twitched around the lip of the jug, throwing off tiny fountains of water, which further flecked her outfit, painting it tighter to the body beneath.
By the time the car was up and working and they were pulling into the small town, reproach pinched at Homer, seeing his wife, Marge, wearing the clingy second skin that the water had revealed of her green dress, when she stepped out of the car and walked past a filthy car mechanic.
"The car is overheated. Could you help us?" Homer was fending for the man's eyes, as they slipped away to assess the curves of Marge's hips, leading up to the perfect heart-shape of her ass.

Marge felt the man's eyes on her body, she tried her best to shrug it off, even as the man's penetrating gaze slipped over and around her legs and ass, she thought of a man's hand slipping up her dress, between her legs and suddenly, inexplicably, she felt flush with embarrassment and arousal.
"Not 'til morning. You can keep it in this here garage 'til then" she heard over her shoulder, the voice undoubtedly belonged to her voyeur. It was deep and melodious. Its flinty harmony seemed to set off some signal in Marge brain, as she heard the fabric and underwire of her brassiere bend as though it'd shrunk or her breasts were suddenly growing.
"Is there any place we can stay for the night?" she heard Homer ask.
The mechanic groaned, no doubt, still perusing Marge's disappearing and reappearing anatomy through the half-cloak of her wet dress, "Follow this street, here, down two blocks and you'll find the White Chalk Tavern. It's a bar and it has rooms."
"Any place more formal?" Marge turned to ask, seeing the man's strangely hazel eyes roam her as she spoke.
"It's all we got in Brewster" he said and turned to disappear into the garage side door. A moment later the larger garage door was opening Homer was parking it inside.

Marge was afraid to wear her dress down to the tavern. She wasn't sure what kind of people she'd see or meet down there. She wondered how Homer would feel about it. They'd bypassed the bistro on the way in. The smell of smoke divided the pub from the sleeping quarters.
And she was sure that if anyone was smoking in the pub it would emulsify the material of any dress. Then again, she wasn't entirely certain if there had been smoke in the pub at all.
She might look the fool dressed casual in a place like,..then again, the same could be true of the reverse.
Shifting through her suitcase she came upon the floral print summer dress.
Perfection.
It was light enough in case they had to go out, it was casual enough if the pub was run down and it was formal enough in case the pub exceeded their expectations.
Sliding down her green dress, which had already dried like a thin paste to her skin, she held up the summer dress and then pulled it down around her, careful that the straps landed against her shoulders.
Though it would take some time to pacify the kids; take-out seemed around right, or better yet, room service; she was already redressed before she had picked up to dial for the front desk.
"Is room service available?" from where she stood against the window the moon's light poured through the linen of her dress, showing in silhouette her long legs inside the skirt. The thin material offered no interference to the penetrating lunar backlight, "Could you send up a menu then, please. Room three-thirteen. Thank you."
In the next room Bart and Lisa sat with Homer in front of an old dusty Zenith. The shortage of stations had left a mark of disdain on Bart's pre-pubescent face.
"A menu is being sent up." she said, watching Homer's face light up, a young naivete glowing in his wrinkled sockets, "No, Homie. We're eating alone downstairs. And you know the rules, kids. Nothing on the menu over fifteen dollars. We're already cutting corners, trying to afford a stay in this pub."
"Bed and breakfast." Lisa corrected.
"Booze and breakfast." Bart said, thinking of the pub downstairs.
Marge watched the bright optimism begin to fade in Homer's brown eyes. Marge wanted to say tonight she was gonna give him something a lot sweeter than anything on that menu. But she stopped herself, not wanting to risk either of her kids would pick up on the innuendo. She also couldn't count on the kind of privacy that she'd need to pull off some of the bedroom gymnastic she already had in mind.

"What about a wine list?" Marge said, already seeing Homer's grin dim in being told there was also no beer.
Strange she thought, considering the customers. These people were definitely social drinkers. Then, what were they doing here, she wondered. While the waitress, a particularly busty girl, of Marge's own age, explained there was no wine list, Marge's eyes still scanned the room.
Two old chaps at the bar, Irish, it sounded like from their accents.
A couple of fraternity jock-types, their arms wrapped around their cheerleader girlfriends, as hands wrapped around their bosoms, they palpated the jutting domes through sweaters and blouses. One girl in particular caught Marge's eye, this one, not a blonde like the rest, but brunette, leaned over her meal, staring through a pair of glasses, through the plate, the table and toward the floor beneath as another asinine fellow fondled her atypical and strangely enormous breasts through her blouse. She didn't seem to have the nerve to concede to how uncomfortable his adventurous hand made her. All of the men had created this facade that the gesture was unconscious, talking as they might at any other social occassion as they groped their dates.
"I'll bring you water." the waitress said lastly. Marge turned from the jocks to the waitress, who she watched move her feet to the rhythm of her bouncing rack as she scuttled away.
She moved her eyes back to Homer, over his shoulder and past his smile, the two Irish chaps were eyeballing Marge lecherously. They were old as dirt and she was sure, to them, she was passable as a late-teen, early twenty-year old.
Suddenly the thought filled her with complacency. She pulled her eyes from theirs, finding her hand beneath her husband's, though already she was picturing them looking at her, as she slipped a strap of her dress down one shoulder, to tease and inflate their their libidinous imaginations with the prospect of the body beneath that dress.
She'd forgotten she was even looking at her husband until the waitress returned with their meals and their glasses of water. And though water had never had a taste to her before, once the cool liquid from the glass reached her palate the strange and elaborate texture of the flavor brought to mind the ocean, and the feeling of the foamy surf slipping between her bathing suit and her skin. The deeper into the meal the more she drank and the more she drank the more she watched the waves toss her body, until in one moment where she saw a purpose in the seas that pulled her one way and then the other in this half-dream. And then, in an instant, that purpose was realized when a wave plowed through her and heading further out, as it cast her to the shore, it carried away her bathing suit, and left her naked on a rock at low tide.
As the meal ended and the last of the water was drank the image of her naked body stretched across a rock on a beach remained with her. It was another woman in this fantasy, one who only looked like her. But this woman had no shame. Her bare chest baked in the sun, her cunt laid flat against the cold skin of the stones, her legs spread, her mouth agape, her skin left with signs of where Poseidon had taken liberties, groped, fondled and penetrated the ruined innocent.

Sex was out of the question, though strangely, it was the sight of the pond behind the pub that excited her as she lay in bed beside her husband. She didn't know why but she needed to be inside it.
At least once.
"I think I left my purse in the pub." she murmured in standing.
"Oh, god. Do you want me to---"
"No, I'll get it. It's fine." and suddenly, she was dressed and out the door.

Though she'd only seen it at the edge of her periphery as they were leaving the pub out the front door so much of the image before her was already familiar. She looked around, through the shallow banking trees and the solitary lit window at the back of the pub. Past the pub there was a narrow street, like the kinds in Colonial recreations. Beyond that houses, all dark by now.
Though as she moved her hands down to lift her green dress up over her head she gave not one iota of herself to worrying someone might see. Something far more important waited for her in the pond. And though she soon stood in only her bra and panties a few feet from the outer most rim of the water her approach was hastened by something not unlike a request from a voice that penetrated from the murky deep of the pond to reach only her ears.
"No." the voice said, "All of it."
Marge tried to ignore the voice and move forward, but her want to enter the black pond was meaningless without the means to move from this spot and enter the water. But she could not. Not without the voices' cooperation.
"Please." she said, not expecting it to hear.
"All of it." the voice said again, now tight with avarice.
Her gaze moved down to her bare feet, as she reached behind her back and unclasped her brassiere. A sigh, from a man's voice could be heard in the distance as she unveiled her breasts to the panorama of pond and the shore beyond it. A breeze came down from the distant trees and stroked her bare breasts, forcing a sigh of her own as she felt her nipples perk in the chilled air.
Her hands moved with more reluctance to the elastic band of her panties, as she slipped them down her hips the thought of her two ancient admirers at the bar watching her penetrated the last refuge for any modesty in her mind.
Once she was naked and allowed into the cold embrace of the pond the touch of the pond water against her skin went to work reminding her of her nudity. She swam for a time, having lost some control of her body as she moved through the water, found herself often swimming to the top of the water only to dive back down and expose the pale ovals of her ass to the light of the distant moon again and again.
It was during her fifth immersion from the blackness of the pond that she noticed the voices at the rim of the pond. Terror reawoke the coldness of the water around her and she held her breath, trying to sink and disappear into the colder lower concavity of the pond.
She pressed her time, waiting, before, driven by her instinct to keep breathing, was compelled back to the surface and saw nearby the men from the pub. As her body bobbed in the water their eyes drank up the exposed skin of her neck down to the split of her cleavage. Beneath the skin of the water her own skin prickled at the overwhelming certainty of their lustful gazes devouring her nudity.
Age had emaciated their faces, much the way starvation might've, and when the flesh of their cheeks lifted to elicit wide sinewy grins the sound of her heartbeat suddenly grew louder and faster in Marge's ears. It was thumping anxiously as she watched them reach to the bushes and lift above them her green dress and underwear.
"Shouldn't you be gettin' back to your sweetheart, ---sweetheart?" one said as he traced the inside of one cup of her brassiere with the end of his thumb.
The other one just remained quiet, his eyes thinly open but never blinking.
"How far is it to your room?" the first one asked, pivoting his head on the axis of his neck.
Marge suspected somewhere the little light coming from the street revealed her better to these men. They'd yet to see the most of what parts of her body remained out of the water.
"Well, we're gonna take these with us. If you wanna stop us, you're invited to." he tapped the second man on the shoulder and then began back to the pub, never turning to face away from Marge.
Fear for the future, for her distant naked stumbling up through the doors and up the steps and through the corridors to her room caught up with Marge and, trying to forget what else waited for her at shore, she moved through the water toward her clothing.
The skin of the water drifted down her body slowly as she moved closer to shore. At the touch of the cold air her skin rose like a ripening fruit, the pulp of her breasts filling and expanding the pliant ovals, the sinew of her stomach beneath her skin clenching.
Suddenly there was light and Marge caught herself moving her hands from her breasts to obstruct it. The beam of a flashlight then quickly drifted from her outstretched hands to her chest and bare breasts. Her hands reclenched them. Though her touch was no warmer than the air above the water and she almost instantly regretted the decision to conceal herself at all.
Still her hands stayed put and more of her body emerged from the pond, curve by curve crawling up to where their old eyes could enjoy her better.

Colin, the first who had spoken was glad to see whatever age the girl was, her years had done nothing to blemish the pale porcelain of her complexion. From the faint cords of her neck down to the small cones of her breasts there was no change in the tone of her skin, only a homogenized palette of vexing curves from one corner to the next.
Her breasts faintly bobbed inside her hands. The cold air had tightened the musculature beneath her skin and the perfect coalescence of her youth and suppleness almost astounded him to see in such completeness.
He watched her hand slip down between her legs as the line of the water drifted down beneath her waist. With one hand concealing the nipples of her breasts and the other between her hips, hugging her pubis, she stepped closer. Modesty bent her neck so here face was facing her own reflection in the skin of the pond.
"You're very young aren't you? Young and shy----" he stretched out the last word until it seemed to snap like the broken bow of a violin.
Marge didn't speak, she was ten thousand miles away right now.
"The kind of a girl that wears heavy sweaters out on sweltering days but wore a bustier under your wedding gown for your husband to find. Let's say we make a deal."
Marge pressed her chin to her clavicle. In the reflection of the water her eyes hung just above the line of her thin forearm. Panic had pulled them wide open and wet their rims with tears.
He continued, almost having totally forgotten he hadn't come alone, "Let's say--I'll give you back these clothes when I see what will be under them."

Something in Marge was compelling her to distance herself from the shore, to submerge herself back in the murky blackness of the pond.

"Come on, honey. Let's see what so special of yours under there. What is it you're sharing with that husband of yours and not us."

The words sunk into her body, through the skin, leaving behind some stale chemical residue of their lust. The aroma of sex's afterglow filled her senses. It was like she was knowing sex for the first time. The penetrating pain of its firmness and unsparing appetite.
Closing her eyes, regret tied a knot in her stomach as she slowly lowered her arm from her chest.

"I see you have been drinking the local water." he said, seeing where once Marge had had small cone-shaped bosoms, they already ballooned since arriving here, filling out into large perky tits. He wondered how long before she figured out her underwear didn't fit or strangely satisfying it felt for men to stare at them. How long before her old clothes became too small to contain them and she simply burst out of them?

She could almost feel his gaze melt against her skin. Leaving her guard down she suddenly felt sleazy and adulterous.
And in an instant he'd closed the distance between him and her. She squirmed as suddenly as she was in his arms. His hands moved down and began to stroke the underside of her breasts, they felt strangely large even in his already large hands.
Feigning some intact moral faculty, Marge sobbed as her her captor began to squeeze and stretch her fuller breasts. He knew well enough that she enjoyed it. What the pond water hadn't corrupted in her soul could be heard in the fervent hammer of her heartbeat.
"You're enjoying this too. Aren't you?" his voice in her ear.
Now with both hands held to her groin, where she felt the first fluttering tickle of her desire rising.
Despite the coldness of his touch, the sensation of his hands on her flesh felt undeniably erotic. His hands had pushed aside her conscience and loyalty to her husband. Now what squirmed beneath his touch was matching his own lust in intensity.
He held her still and straight up as the other man stepped closer. The man's eyes were wide and delirious, animalistic as he stared and drooled at the sight of his friend's old calloused hands squeezing Marge's pert young breasts. His hungry mouth and tongue moved over one pink nipple and, feeling it rise inside the heat of his mouth Marge let out a low, guteral and whorish groan of surrender.
Though it'd been more than a year since she'd last breast-fed Maggie, the suction of the old man's lips around her distended nipple had begun to stimulate her since dormant inclination to lactate. If she didn't dislodge herself from the hungry mouth her body would have no choice but to void her bosoms to pacify each man's voracious adult appetite.
The thought repelled her, and she twisted her body to escape the first hot mouth to encompass her bust. Pain shot from the end of her nipple and spread to the risen dome of flesh beneath. Her sobs turned to screams as she felt the first signs of foremilk ooze from the end of one nipple.
She couldn't imagine the painful fullness she'd felt before. The constant need to empty the milk that had turned her breasts into fleshy udders. The enormity that the act of nursing had left of her normally small bosoms. The feeling of self-awareness, of nakedness whenever she entered a room.
Her scream was an unbroken high-pitched sigh of agony, and as it filled her captor's ears she felt the mouth at her breast pull tigher and tigher.
Already she felt her breast expanding, filling with the motherly nectar, preparing to pacify the hungry mouth suckling at her bosom.
"I still have time." she said, pleading, squirming, screaming, "Just let me go. I still have time!"
They held her firm as the first gush of her warm ambrosia slicked his palate and ran over his lips.
"No----!" she bent her neck to look down to where the man's sinewy grizzled face tapered to her expanding bosom.
His mouth, slipped from the pink end of her nipple to fasten itself to her other breast. Behind her, the older man of the two arched her back, to feed more of Marge's second tit to his friend's still-famished taste buds.
His mouth was hungrier this time though. Impatient and resolute to taste what her occupation as mother had given her. What before was only utilitarian and inate was now sexual and that sexuality confused Marge as he became hungrier and hungrier with each bestial pull at her swelling udder.
Though she understood this, like many other of her aspects of her biology made her uniquely feminine, this man's need to feel her breasts gushing forth the white warmth of her voided motherhood over his lips and tongue petrified Marge. She wasn't entirely sure why. Though the sheer perversity of her treating this stranger with the same affection she had her own infant children had made her rapist's experience far more intimate than any she'd shared with her own husband.
Then, as though a damn had burst inside her, her body unglued some torrent of her milk, and it filled his mouth, overflowing their toothless confines and dribbled from the rim of his lips, and down her midriff. As he'd suckled from her second breast, his hand had gone to her first, fingers pinching and prodding the distended bud of her first nipple. Marge felt her throat dry and crack with the pain of her unending screams as she watched him pinch from her first breast a long stream of milk up into the air.
Feeling herself empty into the warm mouth Marge felt her face flush red, her skin felt sanguine and hot to the touch as her screams ceased from the pain of her fatigued vocal cords.
The first man moved around to her front. Moving his arms to behind her back to pin her own his mouth enveloped her first breast.
Now the two hungry mouths of the adult men pulled at her, unfastening memories of her early parental experience and deforming them. The strangeness of watching her youthful figure transform with the first pregnancy. The constant need of Bart, of Lisa, or Maggie to feed. Of them pulling at her blouses, dresses and sweaters whenever they felt the inclination. The embarrassment of people seeing this. Of people being reminded of what awaited under her clothes, hidden in the bundled restraint of her nursing bra.
The pain.
The swelling.
The...
Marge sunk to her knees as the two men released her. Only partly cognizant she groaned as the first man undid the front of his slacks and unsheathed his cock from its confines.
Terror pinched the last ounce of her volition to scream as he groaned and gushed a hot stream of cum over her flush delicate face. The slick stickiness of it ran over her nose, eyelashes and down to below her mouth.
The scream settled with a choke as he combed his cum from her chin up between her lips and into her mouth.
Her broken will hadn't the effort to do much else but pitch her face down, to face away from her captors. But just then she felt a hand beneath her chin lift her face again and the second stream hit her.
The second man wasn't as kind though. As her head trembled in apprehension of the next blast he held her steady and ran the end of his dick over the pink rim of her lips as it oozed.
Coughing, she was beyond simple indignity as he leaned forward and slipped the creaming end of his cock between her lips and into her mouth.
Marge swallowed, almost unsure of what was happening by now. The bulbous end of his cock filled her mouth and Marge thought of a piece of steak cooked in wine. The sweetness of this unfamiliar flavor and firmness of its tight flesh reminded Marge of some prime loin and she tightened her lips around it as it marinated the inside of her mouth.
"How 'bout more?" the second man said, leaning further forward and Marge pivoted her head.
More of the brawny flesh slipped into her mouth and her tongue sucked wetly to it, thinking of all the prime cuts of meat she couldn't afford, that exquisite and wholly-nourishing overabundance of flesh raised in the wild sliding down her throat.
In her mind, Marge was in a restaurant with Homer, behind her stood a waiter and from a plate he force-fed her the thickest leanest most expensive piece of meat she'd ever seen. Inside her mouth she feared for her dignity if they could see how passionately and wantonly she tongued at its embedded length. She studied the strangely humanly geography of its tight long body as it writhed, almost still living, inside her mouth.
The fantasy took on a strange sensuality as she felt the marinate dribbling from between her lips and spilling onto her chest, wetting her cleavage and crawling down the hallow between her breasts and inside her strangely slutty dress. Her mind was too caught up in savoring the prime meat to concentrate much on what the sight of her voracious appetite and the marinate wetting her breasts did to the other people in the restaurant.
Yet, inside her dress, between her legs she couldn't deny the the fullness of her appetite and every want being sated was now becoming strangely arousing, dare she say, dampening her panties. It was as if she was making love to the waiter, and doing it right in front of her husband.
Then the strangest and sweetest taste of them all filled her throat, though only the tiniest insinuation of what was to come had slid down her throat, now flooded her, basting the meat inside her hot mouth.
Oh god, she thought, the subtext of preforming oral sex on the waiter dawned on her and the naughtiness of the notion pinched her insides with a flutter of arousal.
As the cock slipped from Marge's mouth the thought of the thick prime loin never was replaced by the sight of the oozing cock. She'd never seen it and still the taste of something too exquisite to ignore faded inside her.
What strange exotic flesh had she savored then?
When could she get more of it?

She couldn't be sure of much of anything by the time she stumbled from the pond and found her clothing on the bushes. Some strange phantom of the lake had seemed to metamorphose her once sparsely curved physique into a far more voluptuous one.
Nothing remotely remorseful occurred to Marge until she met her own reflection in the bathroom mirror that night. Where the white residue of that strong manly scent had caked her face, little else was left of the woman she recognized beneath it.
She looked like a whore back from a gangbang, and the strange thing was how that thought had voided her innate need to antagonize her rapists or feel shame for the debauchery.
No.
The sight, though she was pained to admit it, almost turned her on. It was new and sexual.
Marge had never met a whore before this night. But now, conceiving of sweet taste of the man she hadn't even met filled her mouth, she was more turned on than she'd ever been before.

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Marge Simpson: Because Bigger Means Better