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Love Is In The Air	By : LordKuyohashi Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 22668 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons, or any related characters, and neither accept nor receive any monetary or compensatory reward for this story.

Chapter List
- 10
- 11
It was the golden sunlight splashing across her face that made Lisa finally open her eyes, slight slits of grey-blue cracking open to greet the world. The air was soft and sweet, heavily scented with flowers in bloom, and the sounds of songbirds and children laughing conspired to further separate her from her furtive slumber.
Sitting up from the cool, fresh-cut grass, Lisa blinked the last vestiges of her nap from her eyes, a slight shiver running through her as the summer breeze ran over her skin. She rubbed gently at the crumbs of sleep still clinging to her eyes, looking around the park, at the couples walking their dogs, at the joggers going by. In the distance, she could see Homer and Marge and Selma walking hand-in-hand-in-hand down the winding cobblestone path, butterflies dancing in their wake. Elsewhere, she could hear Maggie giggle and tell Ling to behave herself. Lisa smiled to herself, brushing her hair behind her ear.
The cool touch of Bart’s hand over hers atop her thigh made her shiver, and she smiled that warm, toothy smile of hers. She sank backwards into his chest, resting her head against his heart, and let out a long, anguished sigh, brushing her fingertips through the soft grass under the tree where the two enamoured siblings rested.
Bart said something; the words were odd and distant and muffled and not really important, but his tone was warm and welcoming and gentle, and they made Lisa purr and bury her face into his chest, inhaling his comforting scent. She hurmured in response, saying something in turn, and shifted her body down until her head was resting in her brother’s lap, watching the clouds lazily float by. She imagined grand stories of adventure told in the shapes of the clouds, dragons battling brave knights, daring princesses fleeing from wicked castles and the warlocks within, and her keen mind began piecing the ideas to together, knitting them into a novel she’d tuck away into her back pocket and work on later, if she could remember.
A strong hand slid to her tummy, and her eyes drifted downwards, roaming over her stomach, over the visible distension there. Round and heavy, the noticeable late-term baby bump jutted up from her supine body, and a saintly smile came across Lisa’s lips.
Bart hummed a low, happy tune, tapping out the beat on Lisa’s bump, a gentle if jaunty tattoo rapping off her tummy.
B’dump b’dump b’dump b’dump b’dump.
Lisa sighed, watching Bart’s slender artist’s fingers lift then hammer down softly on her belly, the world falling away into silence as she and Bart became the only people in the park. The birds disappeared, Homer and Marge and Selma vanished somewhere behind a tree - most likely to fuck their collective brains out - and even Maggie and Ling were no where to be seen or heard.
Only herself.
And Bart.
And his drumming.
B’dump b’dump b’dump b’dump b’DUNK.
Something sat poorly in the throne of Lisa’s mind. That last sound was wrong, too deep, too…
No…
Suddenly she felt cold. With a grunt, she tried to free herself from Bart’s lap, tried to sit up and turn to him, but her body was like lead, as if the Earth’s gravity had suddenly increased itself a million-fold and pinned her permanently to her brother’s makeshift pillow. She fought against the mass holding her down, the unseen hands pushing against her chest, her heart racing as panic set in.
Nothing.
Hollow.
Empty.
She was empty. No child was in her belly, no seed had been planted or taken root. She had felt the bliss of her brother’s cock sawing into her, filling her womb with his seed, but she knew - knew- that there was no baby in her.
The ice cold shadow of Julius Hibbard loomed over Lisa, blotting out the sun with his presence, a sly, twisted smile on his lips. He was laughing at her emptiness.
“POI, Lisa. You threw all those eggs away, and now you have an empty cradle. Hehehehe.”
Her head bounced against the grass hard, as if Bart had simply dissolved into nothingness, had faded from existence, and let her body drop like a stone to the now-barren soil with a skull-rattling thud.
The sky was gone, replaced with an endless black nothing, an infinite canopy of sackcloth and abyss. Lisa found her feet, and set off running ahead - she was certain she was going forward, she…
This was wrong.

Her eyes cracked open again. The black void was gone, replaced only with the greying light of morning, the sun still lazily in its bed, only threats and rumours of daybreak illuminating the world outside the open window. She was back in Bart’s room, cradled in the twisted ropes of his bedsheets. A distant, lazy rumble of thunder warned her that rain was coming, as she pulled herself upright from the bed, the crumpled bed sheet clinging to her naked body. Slinging her legs over the bed, Lisa ran her fingers through her rough, dishevelled hair, a thick, sour taste sitting on her tongue.
She stared out the window for a while, trying to form something resembling a thought, something to make her forget her dream - already it was starting to fade, the images and shapes and sounds and feelings, but the mood of it dug in its heels and refused to leave.
Lisa stood on wooden legs, her head lolling listlessly. Her nostrils whined a sotto whistle as she inhaled, the cold, crisp tang of petrichor filling her head, and with a heavy sigh, she slipped out of Bart’s room like a wisp of fog, silent and fluid, crowning the corner to her own room, where she quietly closed the door, and let out a sorrowful, withering sigh.
Approaching the cold, unkempt bed, Lisa pulled the lone bed sheet from the well-used mattress, and slung it over herself like a cloak, the white linen resting on the soft, disheveled gossamer of her hair. She clutched the sheet to her chest, wrapping herself up like a threadbare burrito, and curled onto the bed, staring thoughtlessly at the blank, fluffy duck yellow wall just under her window.
Primary Ovarian Insufficiency. That was what Hibbard had told her. POI. Her body stopped making ova too early, he said. Lisa knew her biology - she had the talent to take it all the way to medical school, if Homer hadn’t decided that a year’s supply of gently used moustache wax wasn’t a better use of her college fund - so she was well versed in what this meant. Unlike males, who produce sperm all their lives but can only express it at puberty, females are born with all their eggs already developed; they’re just latent, unusable until a girl undergoes menarche, which for Lisa, was one very awkward Easter Sunday when she was nine. But in a small number of cases, the girl’s body simply…stops making eggs. The ovaries get a false order to cease ova production, and so they do. And once the girl hits puberty, every month her body expels at least one egg, reducing the number she has in reserve, and greatly limiting the chances she has to get pregnant.
Lisa knew all this, the same way she knew her name, knew the scientific taxonomies of the birds in the sky, but at this particular moment, the only thought running through her mind was how…how utterly useless she was. All she had wanted, from the very first moment in that treehouse when Bart pushed himself into her starving pussy, was to bear her brother's children, to become an incestuous breeding mare for her first real lover. Every part of her - the artistic bohemian, the pushy vegetarian, the feminist mouthpiece - every facet of her persona screamed and squealed in delight at the idea of being a mother to her own nieces and nephews, of pushing out Bart’s perfect little clones, then being filled up with the next batch. She couldn’t decide if she desired the feeling of being a taboo breeding cow for her own brother, or if it was the means by which she would get pregnant over and over again, impaled on Bart’s magical joy-hammer, that made her brain all pink and fuzzy and so…un-Lisalike. She ached for the concept; in those rare and treasured moments when she showered alone, she would drench the shower floor at the thought of being seeded by Bart, his sperm catching and burdening her womb with his heavy load until she was ripe and ready to pop.
And it was never going to happen now.
The cold, early morning breeze drifting through the window carried portents of the days coming rain, gently massaging the linens in which Lisa had entombed herself. She shivered at the chill, and hunched her shoulders, choking down a sob, until sleep once again crushed her under it’s cold, cruel, smothering weight, her heart too broken to bear.

Meanwhile, it was neither the low rumble of thunder in the distance that stirred Marge awake from her well-earned rest, nor the scattered waterfall coming from the en suite shower, where she could hear Homer and Selma giggling and grunting, but rather the empty, grumbling ache of hunger in the pit of her stomach that made her eyes blink open in the smoke-grey murk of morning. Fighting against the gravity of her own fatigue, and ignoring the siren song that was the warmth and comfort of her bed, Marge sat up, and winced sharply, her fingers finding the battered and pummeled lips of her well-used pussy. Homer’s love seeped from her gully, staining the sheets and tacking her fingertips, and Marge reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand to stem the seepage as she stood up on legs made of soup and staggered like a besotted wino into the en suite, her senses buffeted by a wall of hot, lavender-scented steam mingled with the smell of her husband and sister fucking like especially horned up marmots. Holding the wad of tissues between her legs, Marge twisted the faucet on the sink hard to the right, cold, and soaked a nearby washcloth, wringing it out until it was only damp and not flooded, before cleaning her leaking cunt of the previous nights rutgrease.
“Did-ooh! Did we wake you, Marge?” Selma’s tone was sincere, even as Homer pushed his sister-in-law’s pendulous udders against the shower door, mashing them like massive pancakes as he slipped himself into her from behind.
Marge shook her head, carefully daubing away at her pussy, seething as the cold cloth came into contact with her sensitive bits. “No, I was due to wake up anyway. Someone needs to get started on breakfast.”
“Mmmm, breakfast.” The mention of food made Homer finally notice Marge in the room, which was fairly standard for him. “Honey, why don’t you get the boy up and have him help you? You do so much around here already, and he’s the only one of our kids who bothered to learn how to cook. He should be helping out by now, instead of sleeping in all day and humping away all night.”
Marge smiled sweetly, scrubbing the last of the cum from her twat and tossing the cloth into the hamper. Without a word, she opened the shower door, and stepped into the steam cascading out, wrapping her arms around her sister as her husband pumped in and out with manic vigour. “That’s a good idea, Homie. But first, let me warm up a bit, hmm?”
Homer smiled at his dirty wife, then Selma did, as Marge leaned in and kissed her elder sister lovingly, her slender fingers reaching down and back to cradle Homer’s heavy, churning ballsack as it swung against Selma’s body.

Marge padded softly down the carpeted hallway, her bathrobe hanging loosely on her still wet body, the sash untied and her glory on full display to the world, stretch marks and matronly breasts and untamed blue-dyed pubic jungle and all. She was scrubbing her hair dry with a soft terry cloth towel as she stopped at Bart’s room, the tune she was humming happily to herself halting mid-bar.
“Bart, honey?” Her voice was barely a whisper - she didn’t like waking the kids, now that they had taken to loving each other so intensely. She wanted to preserve those moments for them, to give them some time to grow close to one another.
Stepping into the bedroom, Marge was unfazed by the state of her son’s environment. Nothing had changed since he was a boy, not really. The room was still a mess, a labyrinth of discarded things and possessions, but whereas once it was an obstacle course of toys and socks and snack wrappers, it was now a minefield of under garments, puddles of bodily fluids, unkempt bed sheets…as well as toys, socks and snack wrappers.
Stepping over a half-forgotten bra and a patch of soaked carpet that Marge would have preferred not to think about, she approached the bed, and gently placed her hand on Bart’s chest. He was so peaceful, so handsome like this, that it made sense why his mother had spent his childhood so fervently defending him whenever he got into trouble - sure, he could be a hellion, but it was in moments like this, the quiet times, that Marge saw her son for the gentle boy he could be.
“Sweetie? Wake up, Bart.”
Marge’s message didn't reach all of Bart, only the parts most important to him - namely, his cock. Whatever he had been dreaming, it must have been warm and wet and tight, because Marge could only giggle as her son’s pride and joy roused from its own sleep, lifting up to meet the day, still slick and sticky from Lisa’s love-tunnel the night before. The heady smell of his pheromones made Marge swoon, and despite the electric tingle still washing over her body from her morning dalliance in the shower, she found that she craved more cock. Quickly, she wrapped her wet hair in the towel, and leaned over, gently gripping Bart’s dick in one hand, the other bullying her left nipple. The raw scent of sex rising from his meat made her mouth water, and the moment her tongue touched tallywacker, it was all over. She moaned loudly, more loudly than she had meant to, and began cleaning under the helmet of the saintly cock in her grasp, broad, wet circles that filled her head with perverse ideas and flavours. Before she knew it, she was straddling the bed, impaling her skull on Bart’s hard dick, forcing herself up and down along his rigid shaft, her throat opening to take it in, then closing to massage it, before pulling it out to start all over again. Drool ran down her chin in curtains, down Bart’s shaft in thick rivulets and pooling on his resting ballsack before soaking into the pungent, well-used mattress. Marge was starving, and Bart had a full ten course meal plus dessert menu and wine list sticking up from his body, ready to feed any hungry slut who happened by.
Somewhere between the moist gulps of air his mother was taking in as she forcefully choked down her son's throbbing cock and the warm sheets of wetness running down his most sensitive bits, Bart stirred awake, his voice weak and dry.
“ Lees baby?”
Through lidded eyes, he saw only the dark dots of his mother’s gaze, the blue threads of her hair falling over her face as she hollowed her cheeks to vacuum-suck his prick. With a start, Bart moved to sit up, only for Marge to stop him with a hand firmly pressed against his chest, as she drove her nose into her son’s pubic hair, letting his cock dip deep into her throat.
“Ah shiiiit, Mom. What a way to wake up in the morning.”

Marge slowly pulled her son’s beefy ripcord from the sheath of her throat, thick traces of saliva coating the thick meat pole. With a wicked, foxish smile, Marge shifted upwards on the bed, bringing her hanging, soap-scented tits within reach of Bart’s dry lips.

“Mmmmommy knows a lot of little tricks to make waking up fun, sweetie.”
Marge rose up like a mountain from the depths of the sea, looming over Bart, and with all the grace of a ballerina who had three kids, swung her leg over Bart’s head, so that she was straddling his face, facing away from him. With a lustful, pneumatic hiss, she slipped her pussy against her son’s lips, letting him taste her forbidden juices.
“Nf!” Marge bit her lip as Bart’s tongue slipped into her sopping, matronly cunt; “We can’t play for long, honey, I need your help to make breakffffAST!” She yelped as teeth cheekily grazed her sensitive, throbbing clit. “You and your father, you both like to nip at my clit! What is with you boys?”
“Mffry, Mrmm.”
The warm sensation of Bart’s mouth on his mother’s sex made Marge sigh and flutter, her fingers squeezing the spittle-slicked beef-pole jutting up from her son’s pubis as he fed from her honeyed clench.
“It’s alright, sweetie; I know Lisa likes it rough, you just need to be taught how to treat other ladies. Do the other girls like it when you hurt them?”
Bart struggled for a moment to pull his face out of his mother’s pussy, and after a hungry gasp of air, managed to find his voice under the thick sheen of cunny juice.
“Some. Maggie likes when I spank her pussy mound.”

“Oh god, that does sound good. Make that cunt nice and pink next time, I want to hear my babygirl really yelp! Oooh!”
Marge squirmed as Bart sank his teeth into the meaty lips of his mother’s sodden slash, pulling at the fleshy mound, sucking them into his mouth. Marge stiffened her back, her head rolling back, mashing her weeping twat against her son’s hungry maw.
“Ffffuck, Baaaart! Eat Mommy, baby!”
With a shuddering convulsion that nearly drowned Bart in his mother’s torrential oils, Marge shook and seized until she collapsed, her full breasts squished against her son’s rigid, slickened cock, her face mashed into his fetid mattress as her back rose and dipped with every laboured heave of her exhausted lungs.
It took five minutes for Marge to slow her breathing, to uncurl her toes and find the Herculean strength required to pull herself away from Bart. Her entire body tingled with brilliant excitement, humming with a strange electricity. She hadn’t felt this invigorated since that drunken evening at the minigolf course when she was twenty-one, the night Bart was conceived in a wine-soaked fibreglass windmill.

She swooned as she righted herself onto her uneasy feet, legs made of wet noodles and head swimming with the sinful sensations of having splattered her motherly adoration all over her son’s face. Bart, for his part, pulled himself up into a sitting position, face of a glazed donut on holiday, and motioning to his still-raging hard on expectantly.

“Did you want to finish up, Mom?” Bart chimed hopefully. He had been waiting for this moment for months, every since Lisa intimated that Bart had a theoretical green light from the major players in the affair, namely Lisa and Marge themselves, and Homer, so long as he was off getting drunk and not thinking about it.

Marge slid against the door frame, eyes fixated on the magnificent cock half her genes had bestowed upon the virile young man currently propositioning her. More strength pulled up from the mythical well within her allowed her to shake her head in the negative; “Noooo, sweetie, this was nice, but Mommy’s still not there yet. I just…I just needed your help with breakfast. M-making breakfast, I mean.” Bart could tell his mother was faltering, her defenses about to drop like her panties. Just a bit more time.
Bart thought for a second, smiled to hide his disappointment, and nodded, teeth sinking into his lip as he sucked on his mother’s flavour.
“Sure. Yeah, I can help with that. I mean, I’ve already eaten a big juicy peach, but I can help you out, Mom.”
Marge giggled, catching herself as the light, airy sound left her lips, and watched as Bart slowly, lethargically, rose from the bed, her eyes practically welded to the shining, bobbing mast of hot, hard cockmeat jutting from his body. With a wry smile indicative of his youthful arrogance, Bart kicked a discarded but clean pair of boxers off the floor with his foot, acrobatically snatching it out of the air, and quickly and deftly slipping them on, removing the rigid temptation from his mother’s view.
With a bob of her head, Marge led the way downstairs, hips swinging to a giddy tune only she could hear.

Maggie inhaled deeply, the warm, savoury-almost-sweet scent of sizzling bacon levitating her off the sticky, sweat-slathered pile of naked lady-flesh she had sunk into during last night’s raucous sapphic maelstrom. She smacked her dry lips, the faint, thick taste of pussy still on her tongue, and wiped the spackling of rheum from her heavy eyelids.To her left, curled up against a body length wad of bed sheets, lay Terri, lavender hair sprawled over her face like a soft rat’s nest. To her right, Ling lay on her back, one leg slipped off the bed, the other crooked upwards, casting a malformed shadow in the breaking light of day as morning drifted like a song through the scattered curtains over the barely opened window.

Carefully, carefully, she tried to disengage herself from the jumble of exposed breasts, bent limbs and bare genitals on her bed without waking her naked bed mates. Placing her hand on the wall above the bed, swinging a leg over Terri’s unconscious form, memories of the previous night’s debauched sapphic wrangling running on repeat through Maggie’s mind.

Terri shifted in her sleep, her eyes parting open, and a light smile crossing her face.
“What are you doing?”

The question was sweet and playful, and if Maggie’s stomach weren’t rumbling up a storm, she’d have collapsed on her siblings’ fuckbuddy and tribbed out another three or four orgasms. But she was more hungry than horngry at that particular moment, so instead of diving head first into yet another marathon all-girl suckfest, she simple threw herself to her feet, off the bed, and returned the shy smile.
“I was going to grab some breakfast.”

Terri sat up in the bed, tossing the crumpled sheets she had been hugging to the floor. Next to the bed, Ling scrambled up, her hair a cute mess.

“Breakfast? Who said breakfast?” Ling’s voice was cracked and wobbly, her throat still sore from the intense screaming session last night as Maggie’s deft fingers had wrung a symphony of orgasms from her slit. As if on cue, Ling sniffed the air, and her entire body seemed to relax. She pulled herself back onto the bed, Terri taking her hand to steady her, and looked around for where she had tossed her panties the night before. Spotting them hammocked across the immobile blades of the ceiling fan, Ling precariously balanced herself on Maggie’s bed and reached p to snatch the pink lace gossamer away.
With a hop, Ling bounded to the floor, shaking the walls and windows as she landed on her feet, before parking her full, plump butt on the bed - Terri moving her feet to accommodate the suddenly active girl - and pulled her panties up over her carpeted cunny.

Maggie let out a withering sigh at the sight of her thick-bodied cousin getting dressed, and offered her hand to help the still-wobbly girl to her feet. Terri slipped her feet to the ground and achingly stood, her knees popping slightly as she rose. She was only a step or two behind the two kissing cousins, quickly tying the sash on her silk robe, when a voice, raspy and sweet came from the bottom of the stairs.
“Homer! Selma! Girls, breakfast is ready!”
A door somewhere tore open loudly, almost off it’s hinges, and heavy, rapid footsteps thumped hard on the upstairs floor, an airy giggle of dubious masculinity lilting after. Somewhere down the hall, Selma called out, “Dammit, Homer, you’re going to break your neck running like that.” Maggie snickered as she pulled Ling close to her, kissing her cousin’s neck. “We should hurry up and get down there, I’ve seen Dad swallow an entire kalua pork shoulder once.”

As the three girls headed downstairs, Terri taking a right down the hall to visit the washroom first, Maggie caught sight of Lisa’s room, the door closed all but a sliver, a lump of linen-wrapped drudgery laying on the bed.

“Hey,” she turned to Ling, squeezing her lover’s hand gently, “I’m gonna go see if Lisa’s up, save me a spot, okay?”

Ling smiled that kind of smile that made lovers melt and nodded. “Sure,” she said with a slight nod, patting at her upper thigh. “I’ve got just the place for you, babe.”
Ling skipped downstairs, and Maggie could hear the clattering of plates in the kitchen, and Terri’s quick footsteps as she padded from the bathroom to the kitchen quickly. Apparently Terri hadn’t noticed as Maggie slowly slipped into Lisa’s room, as the mauve-haired girl didn’t even turn as the youngest Simpson daughter vanished into her sister’s dark bedroom.

“Lisa?” Maggie’s voice was low and hushed, barely audible. Lisa, not quite asleep, did hear her sister, but stayed stock still, her tired, red eyes locked onto a blank spot just above the running board on her wall. “Lees, honey, breakfast is ready. Are you coming?”
Nothing. No movement, no sound, just…nothing. Maggie furrowed her brow, a mix of concern and annoyance. “Everything alright, Lees? Are you sick or something?”
Then, the lightbulb in her head went off, and her expression turned to one of joy.
“Lisa, omigod, are you–?”

Now, Lisa moved, and she moved quickly, rolling over to glare at her sister, finally betraying the tear stains that streaked her face. The wounded daggers she shot at her baby sister told Maggie…well, not everything, but certainly enough, mainly that the discussion of whether or not Lisa was pregnant was a grenade whose pin was best left unpulled. Soaking in the sudden dour mood shift that hung in the room, Maggie understood, and moved to sit on the bed.

“Okay, so maybe not. Not pregnant, then…did Bart say something? Because sweetie, he’s called all of us by the wrong name at least twice. I think he called Terri by her sister’s name a while back, she almost kneed him in the balls. I think she would have, except she likes his balls.” Maggie smiled, trying to coax Lisa to ape her expression.

Lisa wasn’t having any of it, though. Her grey, grim look sank Maggie’s attempt at levity like a mob snitch trying out his brand new concrete pool shoes. Maggie sat down on the bed, her hand near Lisa’s sheet-covered foot, the air filling up with the smell of breakfast. With a soft whisper of concern, Maggie leaned in close to her older sister.

“Lees, you know you can talk with me about anything, right? Please, if something’s wrong, I want to help.”

Lisa daubed at her reddened eyes, sucking back a sniffle, and nuzzled into Maggie, wrapping her arm over his sister’s neck and melting into a puddle of patheticness.
Maggie stroked Lisa’s back gently, softly, like a mother soothing a sick child. Lisa sighed in a long, withering rattle, and Maggie’s heart sank at whatever pain was weighing down her older sister.

Pulling herself away, she looked Lisa squarely in the eyes, her expression gentle and loving.

“Feel any better, hon?”
Lisa slowly, sadly shook her head. Maggie nodded slightly, understanding, biting her lip. “Not even a clue? A little one?”
Another shake of Lisa’s head. “‘M sorry, Maggie, I’m just...I’m going through some stuff, I’m not ready to say it out loud yet. I…I just need some time to get used to it before I share it with anyone else, okay?”
Maggie nodded, her hand sliding up Lisa’s spine as softly as a song, until it rested on her shoulder. With a kiss to her older sister’s forehead, Maggie waved lightly and went downstairs, trying to shake the feeling of worry she felt in her heart.
With eight people crowding the smallish Simpson abode, certain adaptations had to be made to the day-to-day lifestyle of the family - in this particular instance, breakfast had to be moved into the dining room. The dining table simply had more room for everyone, and given the recent need for more caloric intake, more room for a larger meal spread, which Bart was currently filling out, bussing another stack of orange-cranberry pancakes, Marge bringing up the rear, a plate of crispy bacon balanced on one arm, and a tray of syrup decanters on the other. All plates clattered softly as they were gingerly placed on the table, and suddenly a rain of hands grabbed at whatever food was within reach. In the mad dash of alimentary carnage, bacon got buttered, threads of rose and apple and chocolate syrup drizzled over stacks of steaming hot pancakes, lips met glasses of orange juice, cups of coffee, and other lips, and the air sang with a symphony of cutlery on flatware, the backbeat provided by the odd reverberating belch or demure burp. Marge watched with motherly pride as her brood stripped the table clean of every last crumb or dollop of gristle, until her internal calculator did an arbitrary headcount.
Homer and Bart are two. Ling and Maggie make four. Terri, Selma and me are seven…
Someone was missing.
“Where’s Lisa? Isn’t she hungry?”

Maggie swallowed the pulp of mashed pancake and orange juice she had stuffed into her cheeks, reaching for her glass to take a cleansing swallow, before coughing into her elbow and straightening herself in her chair.

“Lisa said she wasn’t feeling well. I guess she tired herself out yesterday, riding her bike all over the place or something.”

Marge hurmured to herself, pulling out the chair between Homer and Terri and stabbing her fork into a trio of pancakes. “Well, make sure you leave something for her then. Bart!” She called into the kitchen, over the din of mass consumption all around her and the oven hood droning like an old air conditioner, “Come sit down and eat, the rest can wait.”

Bart quickly flipped the last of the pancakes into the warming dish he had set aside, popped the dish into the oven to keep, and twisted off the stovetop, pulling the apron up over his head and tossing it into the laundry hamper down the hall as he stepped into the dining room. He had only been wearing his boxers while cooking, and thus provided a second feast for the ladies in the house, finding a seat at the end opposite Homer. As he tucked in to breakfast, he felt thin fingers slide up the leg of hist shorts and gently tease his still-aching, still-hungry cock, coaxing it to twitching life, and on his left, Ling gave a low, sultry growl, before withdrawing her hand. Bart chuckled, and reached for the jar of apricot jam.
Once the food had been tucked away and the table cleared, Homer signalled the end of the meal with a belch that set off car alarms half a block away. Checking the clock quickly, he grumbled at the realization that he was expected to go into work today, and rose from his chair with a grousing murmur to find his pants and shoes. As he kissed Marge and Selma goodbye for the day and headed out the door, the girls coordinated the cleanup effort with all the precision of a Swiss watch, moving in perfect synchronicity to clear the table, put any leftovers away and wash the dishes. Bart popped into the downstairs shower, and as Homer pulled out of the driveway, Marge turned from the door and eyed the stairs, as if looking at some insurmountable summit, or perhaps some dread alien monster in need of a good, rigorous killing.
With a huff of determination, Marge climbed the stairs. If any one of her children - which now included her niece and Terri, she supposed - were feeling out of sorts, then it was her duty to do all she could to comfort them and alleviate their suffering, if possible. Lisa had grappled with depression in the past - Marge suspected that may have been the instigating factor into her daughter’s love of jazz and blues, finding comradery in the music of others in pain - and while Marge herself knew the cleansing power of a good, depressive cry, she also knew that she couldn’t stand by while one of her kids, or any kid really, suffered, even in silence.

Marge found the inanimate lump of despair that once was her eldest daughter wrapped in a funeral shroud that had previously been a well-put-upon bedsheet. The phrase “depression burrito” popped into Marge’s mind unbidden, no doubt the end result of spending too much time with Homer and his unique take on human thought and the English language, and she stepped into her daughter’s bedroom, shaking the odd and intrusive thoughts from her head.

“Lisa honey, we made breakfast if you want some.”

Lisa shifted, shrugging her shoulders to bunch the sheets up closer to her ears.

So she was alive and awake, at least. That was good. That was something.

The bed slumped as Marge sat down next to the lump-that-was-Lisa, her hand resting on top of the linen-enshrouded bump.

“ Lisa? Honey, is something’s bothering you, you know you can talk to me. Even if it’s something you don’t think I’d understand, I’m still willing to listen.”

A million miles away, a low, dull rumble of thunder rolled over the town. The sky hadn’t made up its mind if it was going to rain or not, and the weather seemed to enjoy the tease. Lisa sighed, a heavy, plump sigh that drove all the air from her lungs in a single expulsion, and with all the effort of Atlas holding up the sky, she rolled over and sat up, turning to her mother.

Marge’s heart sunk at the limpid grey puddles of melancholy that were her daughter’s eyes, Lisa’s lower lip quivering as if trying to hold back a literal flood of emotion, and in one liquid motion, she swept herself over Lisa, arms cradling her daughter’s head to her bosom, warm whispers of protection hushed into Lisa’s ear.

“Mom!” Lisa sobbed, her voice broken and stilted as she melted against her mother, fingers digging into Marge’s mature flesh like clay.

“Ssh, ssh, it’s alright honey. Just tell Mommy what the problem is, and we can get to work making it…less.”
The only sound Lisa made for a good long while was a soft whimpering, as if she was trying to find the strength, or the courage, to finally say what it was that had rent her heart clean in two. Five deep sniffles later, Lisa swallowed hard, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, and stitched what was left of her emotional stability together with dental floss and pixie dust. Marge shifted in her seat on the bed, waiting with bated breath for the hammer to fall.

“I…” Lisa paused, drew in a stuttering breath, and tried again, “I went to see Dr. Hibbard last week.”

Marge’s heart couldn’t drop any lower than it had when she saw Lisa’s aching eyes, or so she thought, but those words somehow pressed the poor put-upon ticker deeper into the floorboards.

“Oh honey, no…don’t tell me it’s ca-” Blood ran cold.
“I got the results yesterday.” The colour drained out of the world.

“-Ncer. We…oh god, not my little girl, please.” Time froze solid.

“He said I can’t have babies.”

Marge blinked, then remembered she had to breathe, and the room seemed a bit more well-lit, the world less distant and dulled. It wasn’t good news, but it could have been so much worse, and she was glad for the little victories. But Lisa was still hurting, and a mother’s duty is never done, so long as one of her children suffers, and with all the strength of a bear sow, pulled Lisa to her chest again, smoothing out her daughter’s matted nest of hair.

“Oh honey, I…even if there’s a problem conceiving, you can still be a mommy, if you want. There has to be some medicine, or treatments, or…you could adopt, this doesn’t have to be the end of things.”
Lisa sniffled, shaking her head. “No, I want my own babies! Bart’s babies, Mom! It wouldn’t be the same if I adopted them!”

Marge sighed. Lisa’s tone had regressed from the intelligent young woman she was normally to a whining child, but Marge understood her daughter’s panic.

“Well, did the doctor say there was anything we could do about it?”

Lisa stopped sniffling, stopped breathing altogether, and looked up at her mother, grey eyes as big as dinner plates and deep as oceans.

“Um…”

Marge hurmured. It wasn’t like Lisa to miss a strep like this. “Honey, it’s a medical thing, right?”

Lisa nodded her head like a toddler, quick and messy.

“Well if it’s medical, than there must be a treatment, or a cure, or a procedure or something. Didn’t Julian mention anything?”

Lisa shook her head like a toddler, quick and messy. There was a theme going on today, Marge had noticed, a lot of infantile regression with her eldest daughter. It was serious.
“Alright, tell me exactly what he said, and we’ll take it from there.”

With the effort of Atlas holding up the sky, Lisa pulled herself away from the safety of her mother’s bosom, and took a deep, cleansing, fortifying breath, before regaling her with a truncated account of the previous days events - she left out the meeting with Mayor Bob and Doctor Jeng and the revelation that all of Springfield was utterly fuck-mad because of some toxic chemical fuckery that sounded like something right out of a bad pornographic fan fiction of their lives, the sort of thing you’d find on one of those seedy websites, or maybe tucked away on a more respectable one that for, whatever reason, hadn’t yet tossed the author of such dreck into a woodchipper and hit the “melange” setting.
Ahem. Moving on.

Lisa told her tale, rambling on until she got to the meat of the story, Doctor Hibbard taking her aside and explaining to her what Primary Ovarian Insufficiency was, how her body basically turned off the baby factory much too early and she was burning through her ova at a rate that would see her as barren as Katy Perry’s career prospects well before she hit thirty.

Marge sat in silence for a few seconds that honestly felt like days, digesting what her daughter had told her.

“Have you told anyone else about this, sweetie?”

Lisa shook her head, more slowly and deliberately this time.

“Well, that’s the first step. This isn’t something you can keep secret, you have to tell the people who love you that you’re going through a difficult time, it isn’t right to make them worry about you like this. You won’t be going through this alone, so you’ll have to tell Bart what’s going on.”

Marge swept a lingering tear from the corner of Lisa’s eye, wicking it away with a shake of her finger.
“Step two is finding out how other people live with this condition, and if there’s any treatment for it. What’s it called again?”

“...Primary Ovarian Insufficiency.” Her voice was quiet and small, and in her own head, she was burning with shame that she hadn’t thought of treatment options; usually that would have been the sort of thing she thought of first, but perhaps the despair of the news overwhelmed her too much?

Marge stood, gently pulling Lisa to her feet and giving her another squeeze.

“Alright, so that’s our project for the day then. You tell Bart what’s going on - you can tell the other girls if you feel up to it, but Bart has a right to know - and we find out how to deal with this issue. Deal?”

Lisa nodded slowly, sniffling one last time before grabbing a fistful of tissues from her desk and blowing her nose. She tossed the tissues in her wastebasket and slung her arms around her mother’s waist.
“Thanks, Mom. I don’t know why this was so hard for me. Usually I’m-”

“Sweetie, nobody expects you to be bulletproof. Just don’t forget that you’re not in this life alone. When you hurt, let us know, so we can share the pain and make it less…well, painful, I guess.”
Lisa nodded in assent, and followed Marge downstairs, mother dovetailing towards the kitchen, daughter diverting herself to the living room, where she had expected to find Bart, most likely watching TV while one of the other girls throated his cock.

Only he wasn’t there.

She heard a door close elsewhere in the house, nearby, and popped her head into the kitchen just as Bart stepped out of the downstairs bathroom, naked, dripping wet and flushed. He had taken a shower, alone for once, and was now headed towards the basement laundry with his bundled-up clothes tucked under his arm. Lisa licked her lips, her eyes glued to her brother’s bare ass, and padded across the kitchen floor, as Marge, seated at the breakfast table and nursing a steaming cup of tea, gave her a reassuring nod.
Bart stuffed his old shorts into the washing machine, then scooped an armload of soiled clothes from the nearby basket, layering in the delicates and letting the rest drop to the basement floor. The rush of water into the drum drowned out the creaking of the wooden steps and the footsteps descending from the upstairs hall, so Bart only noticed Lisa’s presence when she wrapped her arm around his chest and gently kissed his neck. Bart turned his head slightly, smiling at the sight of her.

“Hey there, pretty lady. I missed you this morning, where did you go off to?”
Lisa snuggled against her brother, pressing her chest into his bare back, smiling sleepily.

“Just wanted a moment to myself, is all. Is that alright?”
Another wad of delicates stuffed into the washer, the lid lowered with a click, and Bart turned around, his hands finding his sister’s hips.

“It’s fine by me, but I thought I had done something to upset you. Everything alright?”
Lisa bit her lip, hooded grey eyes looking up at her brother’s face.
Oh ffffffuck he is so naked and warm.
A sultry smile graced her lips, her breath fluttering as Bart’s fingers swept over the cleft of her buttocks like a gentle breeze. She wanted him - she always wanted him, and would have pinned him to the washer and impaled herself onto his cock and ridden him like it was the Kentucky Derby -
Heh, or the KenFUCKy Derby, amirite?
*Ahem!* In her mind, Lisa shook her head, driving such distracting thoughts from her attention.
She would have ridden him like a racehorse, if that sour, white hot mote of unwanted guilt weren’t nibbling away in the back of her mind.
Focus, girl. What are you here for? Do what you need to do, then get that yummy D.
Lisa took a deep breath, pushing Bart’s hands off her ass, her quim crying in protest at being denied its treat. She took a step back, and forced herself to say the words.
Bart listened - mostly as a courtesy, thinking that by listening, he could get access to Lisa’s tight, warm embrace again, but as the words sank in, his face fell. His shoulders slumped and he leaned back against the washer, his hands limp at his side. His eyes sunk to the floor, just off to the side of Lisa, avoiding her gaze. Any sunlight that had drifted into the basement from the window across the room seemed to have fled, bringing all the colour, the joy, the oxygen, with it, and leaving only the stark, cold reality behind.

Lisa’s heart froze at Bart’s reaction. Had she broken something? Were the marigolds no longer beautiful, now that she had told him the truth, told him about her condition?

“Bart? Did you hear me?”
He didn’t move, not at first. Lisa took a step forward, but Bart edged around her, moving for the stairs, before he stopped, hand on the railing. She watched him, tears in her eyes, her breath caught in her throat, unmoving.

Seconds went by without Bart moving, until, with a heavy sigh, he spun around and caught Lisa in his arms like a prowling jungle cat, his lips on hers, his hands on her back. She reached behind, steadying herself against the washer as Bart sucked the air from her lungs and massaged the small of her back. Nearly a minute of breathless bliss, then the kiss broke, Bart gazing into her eyes.

“Sorry, I just… I needed to process that for a bit. I’m not…”
Lisa nodded, understanding. He didn’t need to say it, she knew.

“You’re not mad at me for being…broken?”

His jaw clicked, locked into place and a cold fire burned behind his eyes. His voice was stern and commanding, but without anger or wrath.

“You’re not broken, Lisa. You’re not. This…this isn’t the end. Not of anything. So you have a little trouble getting pregnant. We’ll just have to keep on trying until you are. We’ll just have to keep fucking and fucking and fucking until we knock an egg loose good and proper, you got it?”
That old familiar warmth swept over her again, that primal liquidity that flooded her veins and muscles and most definitely her loins. She sank in his arms, melting into the contours of his body as the washer chugged behind her, and ever so slightly, she parted her thighs, letting her parfum d’excitation fill the basement.

“Do you mean that, Bart? You’re really not mad that I might not get pregnant the first time? Or the second? Or the tenth?”

Bart melted into her in turn, his lips grazing at the nape of her neck.

“If it takes ten tries, I’ll fuck you and fill you ten times. If it takes a month, or a year, I’ll make love to you the entire time. Until it’s done.”

“What about the other girls?”

“They’ll have to wait their turn.”

Lisa gasped as teeth glanced along the soft flesh of her earlobe, a rough thumb crushing her nipple down into her tit. “So you want babies as much as I do?”

“I want you to be happy. If babies will make you happy, I want you to have as many as you can. You know I’ll love them anyway, because they’re part of you.”

Her breathing was hot and staggered, and she hooked her leg up behind Bart, pulling him into her. He was hard and hot and ready, and slid inside easily, her cleft parting to welcome him into her warm, moist embrace. Bart seethed at the sensation engulfing his cock, and pushed Lisa back against the washing machine, thrusting into her with deep, slow, torturous motions.
Teeth sank into Lisa’s shoulder.
Nails raked down Bart’s back.
Beautiful pain collided with sumptuous pleasure.
Sweat and tears ran down their skin, tickling their legs and wicking off in tremulous eruptions as flesh slammed into flesh, like mighty continents crashing into one another.

At the breakfast table, not five feet away from where her eldest two were screwing their sweet little hearts out (provided one crossed this distance by cutting a hole directly in the floor and dropping down into the basement), Marge scanned her phone intently. She hated using the internet for medical purposes - there were so many social media doctors who didn’t know their pancreases from pancake batter but still shilled for radioactive dirt and magical miracle cures - but she knew asking a simple question couldn’t hurt too much.

Is Primary Ovarian Insufficiency treatable?
A simple query.

Yes.

An eyebrow went up.

God bless Google.
She clicked the first link, and scrolled down. A lot of medical jargon dumbed down for the average consumer, but it did mention that there were several options available, some rather expensive - estrogen and progesterone therapy, for one - and others rather not - adjustments to diet and exercise being practically free, and calcium and vitamin D supplements being at least affordable. In cases where pregnancy was the goal, in vitro and ova donations were recommended.
The back door opened and in stepped Selma, wearing a soiled sundress, gardening gloves on her hands and a thin sheen of daytime sweat on her skin. Doffing the gloves, she ran her hands under the sink, scooping cold water onto her face. She blindly clutched around the counter for a teatowel, drying off her eyes, and taking a deep, relaxing breath.

“I love this weather. Is Bart done in the shower?”

Marge nodded, still scrolling. “I think so, yes. He’s down in the basement running some laundry, though, so you might want to hold off on running more water.”
“Nuts.” Selma lifted the sundress over her head and tossed it into the hamper down the hall, letting the cool air conditioned atmosphere of the house interior wash over her sunkissed flesh. She ducked into the fridge, grabbed a beer, and popped it open, sucking out the sudden deluge of foam from the top as she eased into the chair across from Marge’s. “Mm, think he’d mind his old auntie going down to lend a hand?”

“Lisa’s with him. She had something to tell him.”
Selma choked on her beer, coughed a bit into her elbow, and swallowed, gasping in shock. “Oh my god, is she-?”
Marge looked past her phone to her older sister, eyebrow arched in curiosity. “Hm?”
“Well it’s about damned time! The way everyone in this house has been humping and screwing, it was just a matter of time before someone got knocked the fuck up! I just hope the other girls don’t get jealous that Lisa caught the baby-bug before they did.”

Marge set her phone down, took a sip of her tea, and shook her head. “No, no, Lisa isn’t pregnant. It’s something else. Look, I can’t say more, it’s not my thing to share, but when she’s ready she’ll tell the rest of the household. Just…Selma, just don’t get your expectations too high, okay? She’s sensitive today and she just needs our understanding.”
Selma blinked for a moment, then took a deep swill of her beer. “Well shit, is she okay? It’s nothing terminal, is it?”

“I…she’d be upset if I started sharing the things she told me in confidence, I hope you understand, Selma.”

“No, no, I…yeah, sure, if she told you in confidence, then I won’t pry. I just hope it’s not too serious.”

A wailing moan rose up from the basement, over the thumping rhythm of the washing machine against the basement wall, punctuated with more than a few vulgar invectives. The caterwaul lasted almost two and a half minutes, during which time, both Bouvier sisters had slipped a hand furtively under the table and slowly caressed their intimate folds, teasing themselves at the thought of Bart bringing Lisa to another explosive orgasm. Selma grunted as she slid a finger into herself, not bothering to pull away when the basement door opened, and Bart strode up, skin flushed and glistening, cock bare and pendulous, reddened with use and soaked in Lisa’s wetness. Behind him, Lisa staggered up on legs of rubber, her hand clutching for her brother. Marge could see a thin thread of Bart’s adoration for his sister running down her leg, and smiled.

“So?” Marge prodded gently. Lisa huffed, her voice airless and tired, and warily, she hefted her thumb upwards, denoting success. “And everything’s okay with you kids?”
Bart nodded, hugging Lisa to himself and kissing her neck. She moaned at his touch, and sank against him for support.

“I’m all hot and sticky now,” Lisa panted. “Come on, Bart, let’s go rinse off under the hose, and then we can take a nap in the tree house.”
Bart escorted Lisa gently outside, Lisa planting a gentle hand on her mother’s arm as she passed by. As the door clicked close and the two siblings beelined for the garden hose, Selma pulled her slickened digit from her hungry quim and smirked.

“Holy fuck, Marge, I don’t mean any disrespect to Homer, but that boy could have me any way he wanted me. Tell me you’ve taken a ride on that beast already.”
Marge grinned, licking her own fingers clean. “Hrmm…not yet. But I want to. Honestly, it’s a battle every day not to pull one of these other sluts off of him and take him around the world.”

“I mean, I love Homer’s cock, don’t get me wrong, but…have you ever thought of having them both? Like, being the meat in a hot cock sandwich?”
Marge giggled, nodding. “Oh god yessss. But I don’t know if I’d want one in each hole, or both in the same. I don’t think Homer would go for it, he expressly dislikes cuckoldry.”

Selma drained half the beer in a single gulp, and let out a window-rattling belch. “Hurm. I’m surprised he knows what the word ‘cuckoldry’ even means. He probably thinks it’s some flavour of barbecue sauce.”

“Still, the idea of having both my men inside me, filling me, fucking me…”

“Oh please stop, before one of us runs out there and fucks that boy into a coma.”

Marge smiled coyly, playfully. “Didn’t you get enough this morning, sister dear?”

“Yeah, but that was this morning. I’m tempted to get a job at the power plant just so I can fuck your husband all day long. Think they’d allow that?”

“Hmm, from what I hear it’s just about all Mr. Burns and Mr. Smithers do in that big office. All day long, just fucking and fucking and fuck…oh fuck, we need another cock in this house! It’s not fair, having to wait in line for one dick while the other goes off to work for three and a half hours!”

Selma rose from her seat, killed the rest of her beer and tossed the can into the recycling; then, with all the grace of a ballroom dancer, she pulled her little sister from her chair at the table, and, without a word but very much with a predatory purr, led her upstairs to the master bedroom, kicking the door behind her.

Marge fell backwards onto the bed, giggling airily as Selma opened up one of the suitcases she hadn’t yet unpacked from, and produced a glorious toy - eight inches of soft, supple silicon joy, bright neon pink, tucked into a leather-and-lace harness made up to resemble a pair of rather scandalous panties. Selma slipped her thick thighs into the apparatus, digging a small white tube from one of the suitcase’s side pockets, and squirting a small amount of clear liquid into the palm of her hand.

“Oh god, Selma…what are you even doing with that thing?”

“Mmm, this? Well, don’t tell Patty, but there have been a few times when she and Ruth would have a fight, and Ruth would need some comforting. So, being a good sister-in-law, I’d do my part to keep the peace.”

“Omigawd, you fucked our sister’s wife? That’s so - so..”

“Fucked up? Sick?”

“Fffffucking hot! Did you ever fuck Laura or Shauna?”

“Laura no, Shauna yes. Shauna’s a little slut, frankly Laura’s too good for her.”
Once the strapon was lubricated to Selma’s liking, she strode over to the bed; Marge stretched out backwards on the mattress, lifting her feet into the air and parting her thighs, letting her older sister get an eye-full of her sopping slit.

“Mmm, I knew that Shauna Chalmers was a little tramp. You know she flashed those ridiculous udders of hers to my boy? He was just a child, and she traumatized him by showing off her ugly tits. I’m surprised he didn’t turn out gay.”

Selma leaned into Marge, the tip of her “cock” glancing against the opening to her sister’s cunt. “Hmm, then you’ll be glad to know I really gave it to her. Fucked her so hard she swallowed a filling.”

“Oh - oh Jesus, Selma, yes! Fuck me like that, fuck my hot pussy just like that!”

With a grunt of effort, Selma dropped her weight onto Marge, pushing the strapon deep into her sister’s twat, giving it a few good digs before finding her rhythm. Marge pulled her sister down, closer, until Selma’s sagging breasts were mashed against Marge’s own, and with a plaintive whine and a hushed chorus of grunts, the two sisters began rutting against one another, the bed rocking and squeaking and tapping against the wall. Marge leaned up as much as she could, pulling Selma into a warm, soul-sucking kiss that was very unsisterly and yet so very loving, tongues rolling against one another. Selma slipped her fingers into Marge’s thicket of hair, and roughly tugged at it, eliciting a pained gasp from her younger sister’s lips.

Marge pulled back from the kiss, any semblance of civilization or rational thought well and truly gone from her eyes. With a growl that harkened back to a more primordial age, Marge commanded to her sister, “More, fuck me more! Hurt me more! FUCK!”
Selma rose up, driving her pink cock into Marge’s gully with manic vigour, tits bouncing and dancing in time to the brutal thrusts that rocked the bed and shook the bedroom. Selma slapped Marge across the face, entirely on instinct and very much to the shock of both women, but a wicked, carnivorous grin from Marge was all the permission Selma needed to do it again, and again, until tears ran down her sister’s face, mingling with the drool leaking from her gaping mouth. Marge pulled at Selma’s tits, nippled pinched and yanked like taffy, twisted with all the cruelty only sisters could show one another, then suddenly the sore nibbens were released and Marge meted out her vengeance by slapping the heavy, pendulous breasts, loud cracks joining the squeaking spring symphony at full play in the room.
Selma withdrew her toy cock from Marge, and forcefully flipped her sister onto her stomach, pulling her legs open and sinking down to taste the battered cleft between.

“You fucking slut, eat that hot cunt! Let me taste it, too! God, I want to fuck you after this, show you what it feels like to have that cock stuffed into you!” Marge’s voice was harsh and raspier than usual, heavy with lust. Selma didn’t say a word - her mouth was full of pussy at the moment - but as she swiped her tongue up Marge’s gash, as she probed inwards and swirled her tongue around her sister’s fucktunnel, her mind raced at the possibilities before her, both on the giving end of this toy and on the receiving.

Selma rose back to her feet, leaving Marge panting from her lingual ministrations. Grabbing a clutchful of blue hair, Selma pulled Marge’s head back and shoved her pussy-flavoured tongue down her sister’s throat, letting her savour her own tang, while a certain pink appendage probed into Marge’s winking butthole, slick with pussygrease. As Marge swallowed her pussy cream, Selma lurched forward, spreading Marge’s tight ring around the soft neon pink dong.

A sharp crack filled the air, followed by cruel laughter and Marge’s pained gasp, as Selma let her hand fly against her younger sister’s plump ass cheek, a redded palm print left in the wake of the sudden surprise spanking. Marge’s ass rippled and jostled against Selma, taking in as much fake dick as she could, begging for more spankings, her mind fogged with sexual fire.
Out of the corner of her eye, Selma spotted the treehouse in the backyard, swaying roughly back and forth in a manner too powerful to be caused by a simple summer breeze. She bit her lip, groaning at all the perverse thoughts that flooded her mind.

“Look out the window, sister dear.” She purred into Marge’s ear. “Your sweet little babies are fucking up a storm again already.” Marge lifted her head, bleary eyes and mouth agape, a stupid grin on her lips. “Oh?”

Sure enough, in the tree house, Bart was giving it to Lisa like a machine, him standing upright, her in a backwards wheelbarrow position, legs wrapped around her brother’s waist while she leaned back and rested her head on the floor, hiccuping with every thrust into her depths.

Marge moaned at the thought of her babies fucking like manic rats in a sack, thick wet pussy lips stretched around hot, hard cockmeat, balls swaying in rhythm as sperm churned and roiled before exploding up in life-giving spurts into a hungry, waiting womb.
She imagined herself receiving that hot load - whether it was Bart’s, or Homer’s, or Ned Flanders’, or, fuck it, even Selma’s, she didn’t care - and at that thought, her cunt walls began spasming around the smooth pink invader, gripping it, strangling it. Electric fire ran up every nerve ending in her body, her brain exploded into a lightshow of bliss. Panting like the bitch in heat she had become, mumbling a string of fucked-out gibberish, Marge arched her back, her bouffant hair brushing against Selma’s face as she erupted, screamed, then…silence. She collapsed into a heaving, sweating, twitching heap on the crumpled bed sheets, Selma collapsing on top of her little sister soon after, having worked out her own blissful orgasm.

It took three minutes or so for Selma to remember how to speak, for air to return to her lungs and brain. With a voice made hoarse by the grunting and squealing, she hissed into Marge’s ear.

“Mm, it's your turn to get on top now, baby sister.”

Marge smiled an evil smile. She was going to enjoy this.

Lisa collapsed on top of Bart, sweat caking her hair to her forehead, her breathing ragged and harsh. Playing with his bare chest, his hard cock still buried inside of her, corking her quim and the seven shots of potentially life-giving spunk he had shot into her, she smiled at him adoringly.

“Did you hear something?”

“Hff…” Bart’s brain was still rebooting from the last few rounds of “Bred the Sib,” so his attention may have been somewhat diverted - he honestly was having a hard time remembering how he got into the tree house, or how his thumbs worked, or what food was. “If it was you screaming how you want a dozen kids all named Ariel, then yeah, I heard that.”

She playfully punched at his chest, then kissed the non-bruise better. “I did not say Ariel, I’m over my Little Mermaid phase. I said I wanted to name them after jazz musicians. I was thinking, Ivie or Ella or Billie if it’s a girl, Louis or Nathaniel or Miles if it’s a boy.”

“Hmm…” Bart sleepy gripped Lisa’s ass, stifling a lion’s yawn with his fist. “Why pick? Why don’t I just knock you up six times and you can have them all?”

“Mm, that’d be nice, but given my condition, six might be asking too much. Let’s just focus on putting one in me, then we’ll see if we get any sequels.”

Lisa sat up, straddling Bart, pulling his hands to her chest, and puppeteering them into groping her tits as she pumped her hips back and forth. “Speaking off, think you got anything left in the tank?”

Bart gave his cheek a playful tap, as if to wake himself up, and sat up into a lotus position, before sliding Lisa onto her back, resting her ankles on his shoulders.

“Are you kidding? I got a sexy nympho slut sister begging me to breed her, I’ve got all the cum I’m ever going to need to get the job done.”

Lisa giggled as Bart began thrusting into her again, making her pussy sing.

“Oh god yes! Fuck your nympho slut sister then, Bart! Don’t stop until you feel the baby kick!”

The treehouse swayed back and forth again, with less intensity than it had been earlier, but with a tighter rhythm, as if the lovers inside had burned out most of their energy and were being more economical in their movements.

Maggie’s hand dug back into the bucket of popcorn resting in Terri’s lap, the three girls sitting on the picnic table in the backyard. Ling took a sip from her Watermelon Wazoo Squishy, the bright blue crazy straw slurping loudly as Terri popped a Choco-Button into her mouth, bit down and made a face of utter disgust.

I wish they’d tell you what flavours you get before you chew them; who are the lime ones even for?
“Hmph,” Maggie said in between bites of fistfuls of popcorn, when she wasn’t trying to pry the kernel out from under her teeth, “I told you girls a snack run was a good idea.”
“Should we go up there? I kinda wanna look closer.” Ling wicked a line of condensation off her Squishy cup, applying the cool water to her overheated nipple.

“Nah.” Terri spat out the lime-flavoured evil and popped in another Button. This one was raspberry, most acceptable. “Maggie said Lisa was feeling a bit down, so we can let her have him today. We’ll get him tomorrow.”

“If that whore doesn’t wring him dry like a washcloth.” Maggie smirked wickedly. She felt like such a bitch at that precise moment, just before she reached across Terri and stole a kiss from Ling. “In the meantime, we can always daisy chain the hell out of each other.”

Terri unscrewed the cap on her drink, a Krusty Brand Krust-Tea Iced Tea Flavoured Beverage (Now With 15% Less Mop Squeezings!)* and took a deep pull before setting it down behind her.

“I’m gonna be honest, I have no idea what ‘daisy chain’ means.”

Ling snuck a pinch of popcorn into her mouth, munching loudly.

“It’s where we form a human ladder of cunnilingus. Like, we all lay down in the grass or something, I eat Maggie’s pussy, you eat mine, and Maggie eats yours.”

“Ling honey, what does your search history look like?” Maggie teased her cousin/lover playfully.

“It’s all muscle mommies and Sydney Harwin videos, baby, you know that.”
“Oh fucking god yes Marge, pound my fat cunt harder you slut!”

The girls were stupefied at the sudden outburst from inside the house - none of them had even noticed the window to the master bedroom being open.
Ling swallowed the popcorn in her mouth with a loud, cartoonish gulp.

“Jesus, babe, I think our moms are fucking.”

“Well why the hell are we watching these two?” Terri gestured to the rocking treehouse, moans and grunts coming from inside, and hopped off the table. “We’ve seen them fuck, let’s go watch something new! Maybe we’ll get some pointers.”

“Or add some daisies to our chain.”

Ling wrinkled her nose. “Maggie honey, that’s fucking weird, those are our moms.”

“Fine, I’ll lick out your mom, you lick out mine.”

“Oh, alright then, that’s okay, sure.”
The three girls headed inside, Ling and Maggie skipping hand-in-hand, fingers entwined. In the treehouse, Lise curled into Bart, straddling his thighs, kissing his chest as another flood of jism rushed into her fucktunnel.

“I swear I heard something this time. Sounded like Mom.”

Bart kissed the top of her head, adjusting his seat on the floor of the treehouse, grunting as Lisa’s weight dropped right onto his groin. “Maybe our sexcapades got her so worked up she had to pet the bunny?”

Lisa smiled, cuddling up to her brother. “Hmm, I’d like to see that. God, when are you going to fuck her, I’m dying to suck her off your cock.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would, baby. I would suck our mother’s cunt juices right off your cock, then dive into her pussy to dig out your hot load, then I’d spit it into her asshole while you skull-fuck her into oblivion.”
Lisa cooed, shifting in her seat on Bart’s lap, something hard and silky smooth tickling her just right. “God, you like that idea, don’t you baby? You want to hear all the nasty things I’d do while you fuck our Mom? Mmm, while you plant a new sibling in her?”

Bart chuckled, pumping up into Lisa’s pussy anew. “Mmmfucking nympho slut.”

“You know it honey. Mmm, pretend I’m Marge, pretend you’re burdening Mom with her own grandbaby.”

Bart growled roughly, tugging at Lisa’s lower lip with his teeth. Lisa gasped, licking at Bart’s nose, lifting herself off his cock, then dropping back down, lifting, then dropping, longdicking herself against him, her body jiggling with every impaling..
“You know Homer would kill me if I knocked Mom up.”

“Mmf! Gaah! Mmfuck!” Lisa tried to respond, but every drop onto Bart’s cock knocked the wind clear out of her lungs, reducing her speech to a stuttering hiccup of grunts and groans.

“Although if we time it right, we might be able to convince him that it’s his.”

“Ah shit! Yes! Do it! Fffffucking breed Mommy, baby! Ahhhh fuck!”
Her nails dug into his shoulder, as she picked up the pace, controlling the speed of her ride. Bart pulled her to his chest, hissing into her ear as she flopped chaotically on his rod.

“Fucking slut. You want me to knock Mom up, but you want it first, don’t you?”
“Y-yes!” Lisa whimpered, her forehead pressed against Barts as she gyrated her hips against his. Her eyes were hazy and unfocused, her face a mess of saliva, tears and sweat. With a howl, she threw her head back, went rigid, and began convulsing, as if she were having a seizure, the walls of her pussy massaging Bart’s cock like a vice made of silk, milking him, drawing out the final torrents of hot spunk. Lisa wicked her soaked hair back, eyes locked with Bart’s, panting, heaving, both of them running out of strength, breathe, fluids; until, in one final rush, Lisa jackhammered herself in place, forgoing long strokes on Bart’s dick for short, quick bursts of pleasure, friction mounting, bliss building, juices spraying and nutsacks tightening, all leading up to the inevitable tempestuous pyroclastic orgasm that rattled the tree house like a Category 3 hurricane just tore through the neighbourhood.

And like a hurricane, after the noise and shaking and torrential deluge of fluids, there was only an eerie calm, a stillness that disturbed.

Bart lay on his back, Lisa curled into his chest, neither of them moving, neither of them even blinking. The only sign that they hadn’t fucked each other to death was the still heaving of their chests, the soft whistle of their exhausted snoring.

It was the golden sunlight splashing across her face that made Lisa finally open her eyes, slight slits of grey-blue cracking open to greet the world. The air was soft and sweet, heavily scented with flowers in bloom, and the sounds of songbirds and children laughing conspired to further separate her from her furtive slumber.

She rolled onto her side, the cool grass pressing against her clean pink sundress, the heat of Bart’s body next to hers. He was still sleeping, his eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids. Lisa snuggled into him, warm and happy, the air gentle and sweet. She felt a kick in her belly that made her smile, and at last in this dream, Lisa drifted off next to her brother-lover, letting the summer wind wash over them both. All was right, or would be soon enough.
- 10
- 11
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Love Is In The Air