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A House in the Hills	By : TENEBRE Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 11510 -:- 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.

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With her arms above her head and the bottom of her shoulders curling into the lithe flesh of her back Marge Simpson’s top-heavy shape was no more apparent than right now. Though only vaguely cognizant of her own nudity or her whereabouts she remained quite alone and inconspicuous for the next hour. As vulnerable as she was and as beautiful as she was naked there was little time left that her good luck streak could lend her. While Homer was in town preoccupied by his own children, his wife lay naked and unbeknownst to her waiting for a visitor that was indeed not her husband at all.

He might’ve been a good Samaritan or a friendly neighbor, but then again that would have been a better day than fate felt Marge deserved. Preoccupied with her dreams or nightmares she laid still, breathed normally and stumbled through her lucid half-conscious state, exhausted and overheated. In doubt of where she’d fallen asleep and in denial over how she’d fallen asleep.

“I need a doctor.” Marge mumbled as a shadow loomed over her, the cooler air momentarily relieving her skin of the threat of burning.

I know what you need and it isn’t a doctor.

“Are you a ghost?” Marge stared into the gray form that her eyes were unable to identify.

Hands moved beneath her back and lifted her, she turned and saw the chair become distant below her. The figure carried her to the shore and then laid her down where the water could coax sensation back to her curves. She softly moaned as the shadow’s hands felt their way all over her body, momentarily lingering over her breasts. This was when she began to speculate the shadow belonged to a man. His hands lingered to feel and squeeze her breasts, enjoying their naked immensity. Water crawled all over her. She laid still and for the sake of the cooling streams let the water distract her from the stranger’s fondling hands. Then the stranger’s attention drifted down the single remaining piece of clothing.

With a suddenly impatient and unkind hand he reached down and tore her bikini bottom from her groin. Marge felt the water wash up inside the starved gash of her pink pussy. His fingers drifted down to relinquish the water that had torn into her. His fingers equally unkind and curious. Marge could feel her insides suckling at the man’s digits as they entered her, her body reluctant to feel them leave. Her pussy gushed and washed the stranger’s hand in her warm juices. Marge could begin to hear the shadow laughing and then knew when she heard his voice, for the most horribly certain moment that this shadow didn’t belong to her husband at all. This voice, the voice that shaped the laughter belonged to a stranger. Marge overcame her fatigue and looked down. Indeed she was gushing like a fountain of love all over his fingers, validating her molester, coaxing her visitor into raping her. She couldn’t make out any single part of the stranger except one, as it grew closer and she became very aware she was staring at the outline of his erection through his pants, as it grew it came closer to her and so too into better focus.

Marge gasped. She was awake, she was alone, she topless and the bikini bottom soaked with her juices. Her hands hand disappeared beneath the material of her bikini bottoms, her nipples stood erect, her body oozed perspiration and ankles locked at each knee at the sides of the chair.

What had she dreamt? What had she fantasized? How had this gotten her so wet? She pulled up her fingers and saw the digits glazed with her moisture. She tucked her face into her shoulder and began to cry.

In the distance a light across the lake came on.

Marge was in the master bedroom now, she held a pillow to her bare chest. With her legs uncrossed the extent to which she had exuded her anticipation of the nightmare’s penetrating last moments had soaked her panties to such an extent that they’d been weighed down and now hung just above her knees. Even now the sensation of her body preparing to be pulverized by a cock lingered, the nerve endings between her legs, deep down inside her groaping for the unfamiliar, the strange touch of the visitor of her dreams. The mental picture of the outline of a cock through a pair of faded jeans. And then the sound of the metal teeth of a zipper being undone.
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A House in the Hills