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Property of the Original Owners	By : TENEBRE Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 17436 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- 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 2
                  Astounded wouldn't be the best word for how Marge felt. She thought, for a moment, she saw the arm of the figure move. If it did it occurred at the corner of her eye, where, for all she knew, it might've as well been her imagination. But there was something particularly unsettling that, had this been an accident it wouldn't matter, if something else, however unlikely, it gave Marge ample reason to leave the room. She stood still though, her hand holding what was left of the front of her dress to the balcony her brassier made out of her bosom.
                  Her eyes searched the room, only finding still life and then she realized each and every figure in the room resembled a man. Knights in armor and the figurines themselves were tall muscled men in poseable mannequin form. The one who seemed preoccupied with Marge was a tall, perhaps six-foot figure, almost a racist caricature of an African man. The features were pronounced beyond proportional realism, exaggerated and intense. Though all the features seemed pointed toward the eyes, which looked glassy almost aware. The gaze itself, from where Marge stood stared just away from her toward the distant entrance from where she came. The statues and figurines were arranged like an army throughout the room, rows and columns preparing for some fictional war with other equally inanimate foes. Well, all but one inanimate.
                  Marge turned and stood before the tall African man. Watched his eyes and felt for a moment something graze her where the dressed had parted, where the fabric receded and left her naked. She looked down and saw the figures arm, the hand open and waiting. Had the arm been there before? Marge tried to remember but she couldn't think clearly now. She pulled the dress up higher, heaving it over her shoulders, she wore it now like an oversized towel, up to her neck, as she turned and left.
                  Homer would find her an hour later, asleep, alone in bed, the game over. He stared curiously down at her, his eyes averted, though unknowingly, from the discarded heap of ravaged fabric draped over the vanity mirror.
                  James Edwards had spent almost all of last night filling out insurance information. By the next morning the car he pulled into the courtyard at the front of the estate was almost totaled. He looked back and saw his daughter, unscathed, smiling back at him. Pita, his wife took his hand in hers. For five years, since he'd lost his father, she'd been beside him. Then the night he meant to leave the world, leave everything behind she came to him and gave herself to him, completely. He hadn't a reason to really live until that moment. Even his father had little need for him. But Pita, she needed him, someone finally needed him. He had known her almost his entire life but he'd never imagined until that night how she really felt about him. A year later they were married and then there was Janine, almost four now.
                  They looked up at the estate, wide and alien in its proportion, almost beyond reason in its immensity. It was sad now to think that they'd almost died a few hours earlier because of this house, but that's what James found himself thinking. The car didn't even really appear. There was just the jolt of the impact, the car spun, the screaming, (of which may have been his own, he wasn't sure), and then the collision with the concrete wall. Everything stopped and everything was gone except him, Pita and Janine. Then he turned and saw the driver of the other car. The petrified look in the boy's eyes. It had never taken so much restraint on James' part in his entire life to keep from taking the kid down. He couldn't recall saying a single word to the kid, only the teen crying by the end. So many hours later and James was surprised that he could still drive the car.
                  Stepping out into the courtyard, he walked around to Pita's door and opened it; she stepped out in her sundress, smiling up at him. Then there was Janine's door, she unlocked her seatbelt and began to shift across the seat. He took her small hand and led her with Pita behind her to the front door. A few more hours in a hotel had absolved Pita and Janine of the nervous ticks that stepped out of the car attached to them. James, though, could see his hand still shaking when he reached up to push the doorbell. What sounded like a pipe organ began to bounce off the walls within the house a long meticulously woven tune of strange music.
                  The door opened and behind it stood a short, pear-shaped man with thinning hair.
                  It was at Marge's suggestion that both families eat together. There were, after all one enormous table, at least three families in length. All of this was agreed to, upon Homer's condition that it only be casual dress. Marge and Homer were both, by that time, inseparable from their children, all four dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. The exception being Maggie, who still less than a year herself obviously was without jeans.
                  Together now they conversed over their trip up, the car accident, their jobs and their lives. And Marge felt it reassuring that it was her that began so many of the conversation and not at the behest of her husband at all.
                  Later that night Homer and Marge put away the games and in the privacy of the smallest room made love for the first time in weeks. Later, as Marge lay in Homer's arms she could feel, as she was swept out to the threshold between consciousness and sleep, his hand drift down between her legs and begin to lift the silk of her negligee. She turned, only partially capable of acknowledging what her eyes would admit, the figure above her. Homer?
                  The figure reached down between their bodies, not his and her own, but hers and her husband's. And now that Marge was facing her new suitor, the figure began to disrobe Homer's wife. He took his time, even with her husband inches away; he had discovered a new patience he hadn't had earlier in the statue exhibition. After a time of shifting the silk of Marge's negligee he finally managed to pull it up over her head. Now with her fully unveiled, fully revealed in her utmost intimate way imaginable, he reached down and took her arms. The figure draped her arms over his shoulders and back. As she, through the passivity of sleep, hugged the faceless visitor to her nude body the stranger reached down and took her hips in his hands. As he parted them he savored the sensation of her body in his uninhibited hands. He lifted her legs and then wrapped them around his waist. Now pelvis-to-pelvis, he reached down and parted the petals of Marge's feminmity.
                  Now confident that Marge and Homer had worked themselves into a state of catatonia by the sheer unabated persistence with which they'd shared their love, the stranger inserted himself into Marge Simpson. A soft moan was admitted as he forced himself inside of her. The stranger wondered whether the moan was a result of Marge's body acknowledging an unfamiliar participant in this routine. The friction from a touch not persuaded by love but lust.
                  The stranger now reached down to her bare breasts. Once asserting a rhythm to recurring withdrawal and reinsertion, his hand and mouth went to Marge's breasts. His lust for her body went on unchallenged and inextinguishable for most of the night. Every curve and crevice of her nudity he sought out. As the housewife slept her body writhed and reached out for the stranger. It had been so long since the stranger had taken a woman, and once again he was addicted to the sensation.
                  Marge was startled from sleep by moaning, and at that moment realized it was her own. Homer, above her, asserted a new level of dominance, of disregard, which especially in midst of Marge's sudden wakefulness captivated her. Though not fully determined to abandon all of the routine of making love, she realized Homer could take this any direction he wanted to if only because it was him after all. It was her husband.
                  Though startled by Marge's slipping back into consciousness it didn't worry the stranger. If he had to take the woman he would, he had done it before. Though almost as soon as she opened her eyes he saw her squint and then the recognition as if she saw her husband. She didn't of course. She assumed he was her husband. So now, with her participation, he was really going to have some fun. He lifted Marge and carried her across the room, to the window. He laid her across the couch and took her there. He carried her out of the bedroom and down the stairs, laid her across the kitchen table and took her there. Then, despite near agonizing reluctance on her part, outside and took her on the balcony. The stranger prided himself on his conquests and enjoyed showing them off. He was half-contemplating taking her in the visitor's bedroom so Mr. Edwards could have sloppy seconds when he was done, and then an idea occurred to him.
                  The stranger draped Marge's body back over his bed and left the room.
                  Despite the fatigue that confirmed Marge's suspicions she told herself that there was something purely imagined about what she remembered from last night. Something about the indignity of Homer's ambition to possess her in new more undignified ways for his public gratification told her it never happened. Some aspects of those moments contradicted the man she knew and replaced him with a surrogate for which perhaps Homer might live out his most depraved fantasies. She remembered being caked in perspiration and cum, naked on the balcony. The light of the moon refashioning the features of her husband's face into the unsatable gaze of a giant, a man that seemed twice as tall, stretched in his new proportion from a pear-shaped middle-aged man to a lean figure, not unlike the chieftain who had sought her out in the exhibition. This was where she began to imagine it all a dream. She imagined the man, whoever he might have been. A visitor to the house or its original occupant. Things changed, whether distorted or becoming clearer, throughout the night they took on an eerie sense of certainty by the light of the moon. And Marge, whether she could see or could only speculate, didn't know the man that took her to the kitchen table, the balcony and then for some strange reason, just outside the neighbor's bedroom.
Quivering in the darkness, naked, trembling, only a few feet away from strangers, Marge began to doubt the validity of any single moment she experienced beginning from the time she awoke in the middle of the night to her husband's renewed desire. Homer never did these things. He'd worked himself into a frenzy hours before and, she thought, nursed all of his desires through her. But he was a new, almost emotionally indifferent person when she awoke. And yet, despite every excuse the inconsistencies of this story had told her, she couldn't neglect the fact that the next morning she awoke not in her bed, but naked on the study recliner, sitting where she would've throttled the man working at the study desk. She wasn't sure at the time where the room even was in the house. She'd never been here before. But Homer had been. Marge's eyes scanned the room and saw the door open and then across from it...
                  Marge's eyes squinting, hoping doubt would change what she was seeing. The door, opened, looked out into the bedroom where James and Pita slept. The study belonged to James and Pita.
                  'That asshole.' Marge thought to herself. Marge could reach back and remember times when Homer would leave things of hers on the property or in the possession of neighbors. Homer had misplaced so many of Marge's things; things that she thought had been stolen. Then Homer started to stage these scenarios, in hopes of reinforcing Marge's insecurities. It was all to spare him the grief on a confrontation. Homer hated fighting, a lot more than lying.
                  Marge sat up in the chair, not a thing to wear. She searched, unsuccessfully, for the next few minutes for an alternate exit but eventually resigned herself to the only one. She crept, her hands to her bosom and crotch across the bedroom toward the bedroom door. Her eyes relayed the occasional gaze back toward where James and Pita slept unaware, unexposed to the Marge's vulnerability. So helpless that Marge felt it in her gut. Something turned inside her and jolted her attention back to James, the only man in his room. She looked down and saw where the bed linen was now tented above his groin. Marge stopped and began to stare at him, as if waiting for him to open his eyes, not an ounce of alarm or surprise in them, and acknowledge he'd been watching her from the moment Homer carried her into the study. He'd speculated over every moan, every inch of her every response to Homer's persuasive touch. But then, standing there, her arms now to her side, she wondered, more out of dread than hope, if she was trying to will him to open his eyes for the first time. Was she willing him to see her there, naked, as only her husband had seen her? Was this some vengeance on her part, the consequences of Homer's actions, Homer's games?
                  Nowhere, in even Homer's most depraved and insincere times did Marge ever doubt he deserved her, or did she want anyone else. At the same time she never asked if there were men like these, men like James, that would've done more for her, men that p xmlns:o="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" xmlns:w="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:word" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40">
Chapter 3
                  Even in the remoteness of the country James got little leeway from Pita, his wife. She'd been pregnant for a few weeks now and was reluctant to engage in intercourse out of fear it might harm the baby. What was strange was in the aftermath of acknowledging this place didn't change a thing James drifted off to sleep, to a place where he dreamt about his neighbor, Marge Simpson. He dreamt that he'd gone into her bedroom, stolen her away from her husband and raped her. His clearest recollection was of her cries on the balcony, cries of agony that like the drums of war drove him on. By the end, resigning herself to the fact that no matter what he was her husband she throttled him while he sat in he study chair. He watched her body bounce, her full breasts heave with her chest and the deafly scream of agony as he came in her.
                  However certain that he was that this was a dream, far too unhinged from the consequences of reality, even he realized that he'd become an intermediary for some greater and more insatiable force of nature. It wasn't he whom wanted this woman so badly, but the new conscious will that occupied his body. Someone or something was living exponentially through him in order to get to her. As he pumped and she gasped and he watched her reel back and forth between the waking world and dreams he realized something equally unknown was lulling her back to sleep, withholding from her the knowledge that may have allowed her to evade this adultery. Maybe he shouldn't have lingered so long afterward on what it could've meant if it had been more than a dream. It certainly was only that, a dream. Stumbling from his bed when he awoke he stepped into the library and found no one draped naked across the study desk.
                  She was almost sorry for feeling the way that she did. Marge couldn't imagine being with anyone except her husband and yet she'd humored the notion of an affair, not even out of lust but spite for Homer's stressing the limits of her dignity. What would she call this? Humiliation? Did he intend on another man seeing her in her birthday suit? Was this a game? Marge would and could imagine the world without her children. The taboos, testing the threshold between indignity and depravity, her and Homer, alone with only their minds, bodies and a world without consequences. But then they were always alone. If they weren't alone than their decisions, no matter how self-satisfying, would have dire consequences.
                  Did that curtain just move? Homer thought to himself. He was lying in bed, feigning sleep as Marge dressed across from him. Even without her knowing he was awake he could still sense something tense and anxious in her posture. She didn't look his way to see if he was awake yet, she stumbled from the shower back into the bedroom.
                  Homer had always enjoyed these little snapshots of Marge in her element. He first noticed her when he saw Lenny stealing glances at her from across the lake at Summer Camp. A counselor at the girlï¿½s camp was trying to coax some girls into the water from the end of a pier. The future Mrs. Simpson was standing at the end closest to land, her arms folded over the front of a top that Homer thought she must've had bought before puberty burdened her. In contrast to her now more ample bosom it had become a micro-bikini. He had never since seen Marge wear something so wonderful or attention grabbing, though over the years he had managed to coax her into a few immodest dresses for social occasions.
He remembered the evening gown she wore to the Crass Wedding Reception. Mrs. Crass may have been beautiful, but there was no comparing her to his wife. With the backless white number with plunging neckline, he was the envy of the room. Or the low cut wrap-around dress she wore to their very public tenth anniversary. Josh, Homer's supervisor at the time, his eyes were the size of saucers when Marge had to bend over in front of him and pick up his pocket watch when he dropped it. Homer suspected the old man dropped it just so he could catch a glance down the front of her dress. Homer wasn't so boastful as to not get a little irate from the suggestion that his boss had staged the accident. At the same time he prided himself on the fact that he didn't have to sneak peaks when he wanted to. He made love to the woman that every man he knew fawned over. No one else did.style="mso-spacerun: yes"> He found out later the girls and guys at camp weren't calling her Marge, but Jayne, after Jayne Mansfield, the actress.
Homer wasn't unlikely to steal a few such glances himself, even though he didn't need to. It was as she immerged from the shower that he drifted back off to fake sleep and then opened his eyes ever so slightly when he thought she wasn't looking. When he opened them he saw the curtain twitch at the edge of his peripheral. He turned his head a little and saw the light outside move through the drapes unimpeded. He moved back to Marge, she began to turn toward him, and he closed his eyes again.
"What the hell?" Pita said as she moved her fingers through the gray matter that gelled the surface of the kitchen tabletop. It was sticky and just the slightest bit warm.
Sugar water? she thought.
She was tempted to put a bit of it to her tongue. It was food after all, whatever it was. There was something faintly familiar about the feeling of it, like it had been programmed into her genes or a secret word to cue a hypnotic suggestion.
She wiped it off her fingertips onto her pants and went for the 409 under the kitchen sink. style="mso-spacerun: yes">  Misting it with the chemical degreaser she wiped down the table with a rag and then returned to her scrambled eggs.
A minute later she was sitting at the table eating eggs off a paper plate. When she was done she tossed the plate into the wastebasket and went back to the stairs where she found herself intercepting Marge Simpson as she was headed down. Marge was dressed in a green sweater. It wasn't like her, Pita was sure, but she appreciated the gesture. No doubt, Marge had caught the eye of her husband James, several times since yesterday. Some people asked for attention, Marge was cursed with it though. Pita didn't want to hold it against a woman that seemed so otherwise unabated by her social handicap (or advantage, depending on the point of view) , as long as that woman didn't flaunt it. Marge wasn't flaunting it but not being self-conscious she also couldn't help occasionally drawing attention to it.
The day before she'd answered the door in a simple white t-shirt. While not provocative by itself, when stretched over a set of double-D's it definitely was. Pita wasn't watching James' eyes, though maybe she should've, but she wouldn't put it past him, or any man to, how would her ex- have put it, appreciate the view. Pita knew that sometimes women, even married women, dress so men will look at them that way. And maybe looking at them is doing some service to their self-esteem. Not in the long run, of course. Maybe it was just what was comfortable. Pita agreed that women shouldnï¿½t have to sacrifice being comfortable for being discreet. Pita wondered how James might have felt if her caught Homer staring at her tits. Boy, that would set him off, wouldn't it?
She walked around Marge on the steps, not giving her a second glance. She headed up to her daughter's room.
Marge was feeling paranoid.
What was that look that Pita had given her?
She was standing on the balcony now, looking down on the stone bench from the outer reaches of the dome shaped balcony, her head against her elbow, her elbow against the elevated ledge. She pictured herself, naked, writhing beneath a man on the stone seat. The beautiful broad view of fields from here, leading up to the road and, she imagined, an equally if not more amazing view from the road of her naked body on the balcony. Like the largest rooms in this mansion, the balcony was little more than a stage to broadcast its play to everything else around it. In this case, that was the front yard and the highway beside it.
She could picture some lonely bachelor driving home from a wedding where his best friend had married the one woman he ever loved. His mind somewhere else now he gets bored and allows his eyes to drift from the road, maybe the car with drift too and he would die, unrequited in love. His eyes drift and then they fall upon the naked woman on the balcony. But Homer is gone and she is alone. He turns down the highway onto the long driveway, toward the giant castle and finds her there on the balcony, waiting for Homer to return. The man could be Homer, every physical detail is the same and in place, but he is not Homer and never could be. For her, she knew no better when he entered her.
Inside her mind the image flickered like film running over a bulb to illuminate it, but the bulb was fading in and out. The moving picture became a sequence of snap shots, spaced apart by a few seconds, then minutes, then later an hour when he finally leaves her behind and she has been satisfied. She didn't know why or how, it was so unlike Homer to stick around until she was done, but he had. Or she thought he had.
It wasn't that Marge wasn't charitable. Maybe there was someone out there who deserved her more than her husband. Or maybe a man so pitiful that she could lift his spirits for one night. Adultery? Undoubtedly. She would be betraying Homer and even, to some degree her kids. The ring on her finger would mean nothing and many of the insecurities her husband had humored would be true. He'd been afraid that she would leave him, find someone else, find someone better. And he'd be right about her, for just that once. At the same time there were some inconsistencies to Homer's story. He'd opened up to her on occasions about fear she'd be stolen away by some handsome lothario type. Marge believed him for a while. And then there was the Crass Wedding Reception.
Boastful prick! Marge thought.
Marge thought at the time that Homer was going through some variation on men compensating with small dicks by driving hot cars. In Homer's case, replace driving hot cars with showing off wife's tits. According to Homer, there was a deposit down for the dress and he couldn't return it. Marge wouldn't put it past him that he pondered mortgaging the house for it. He absolutely had to see her in it. And so did everyone else at the reception.
It wasn't like him to guilt her into anything at the time, or ever since then. But he laid it on thick that weekend. It wasn't like Marge to hold a grudge. But as far as her list of pet peeves, humiliation was somewhere just above being lit on fire.
Sure, Homer may not have meant any harm by it. Maybe he'd just gotten in an argument with his supervisor over whose wife was the most stacked and his keeping his job depending on him winning the argument. His supervisor WAS there. He asked her for a dance. She regretted obliging him.
Blackmail by guilt. Marge was married to a dick, but that was almost six years ago. He was gone now. At least she thought he was. Would this stranger deep inside her husband go dormant again? Would she have to force it into hiding? What could she do?
She was going in circles again.
Marge had a thing for pathetic men. Homer loved her but he was flawed in a way that probably allowed him to evade every other woman without even trying. They were meant for each other because without her he was alone, and without him...
The stone seat was still warm beneath her when she sat down. It was getting cold outside but she stayed out on the balcony anyway. She couldn't see her husband right now.
When Pita left her daughter's room the Stranger was following her.
erhaps deserved her more than Homer. Willing his eyes open, she waited for a minute, and then resigned back to the front door.
                  As she closed the door behind her she began to wonder, what was she becoming? What did she really want for herself in there? What did she want for James? Was she trying to punish Homer?
                  Not long into her trek back to her bedroom, more and more aware as she crept of how her body was balmed with her own and Homer's fluids, how unlike herself she looked now. The facade she believed to be the truth stripped away, Marge in her nudity, in her certainty, had been transformed by her husband's touch into an animal last night. Two animals fascinated with one another.
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