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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 4
By the time Homer had apologized Marge couldn't remember why her mind had ever drifted to the image of the visitor coming to her on the balcony that night. It had been an hour and a half since she'd been standing on the balcony and she was offered the circumstances of the hypothetical. The visitor, who looked like her husband but was not the man she'd fallen in love with and married thirteen years ago, had visited the image of her alone and naked on the balcony. She regretted ever suggesting an affair, and this was the second time now since she'd come to this house. It was unlike her, to say the least. Something seemed so artificial about the thought, something alien and invasive like it had been implanted when she slept the night before. Had she dreamt all this?
Homer had been as vague as possible when he did apologize, while he was not completely certain what he'd done that had left Marge so miffed, he did know that she was irritated and avoiding him to the best of her effort. Something had happened last night, and that was all that he'd known. Marge wondered how much he'd had to drink just last night. The strange thing was he was a different person before she'd drifted to sleep than he'd been when he woke her up later than night. Homer, if he was drunk, had never before been so bipolar in his behavior as to have her question now if she had been visited by the doppelganger she'd imagined on the balcony. The fact that he'd so willingly acknowledged that he'd wronged her but not acknowledged what precisely he had done had confused her more. She knew it had been him last night. It had to have been him. Who else could it have been?
Had she been sleepwalking?
This was the first explaination she could come up with. It had been a dream. That was for certain. She was in some sort of trance last night. She had stumbled out of her bedroom and prompted herself onto the desk in the study beside the other master bedroom. But then what about...
Marge began to remember the thick white gobs of cum that had flecked her thighs, the gray river from her chin, down her neck and between her breasts. The feeling of somethng mixing with her own moisture.
The stranger could always choose whether or not to be seen. Last night he'd wanted Marge to see him. He'd wanted her to know, somewhere deep down, maybe eventually, that she'd been unfaithful to a man she promised she would never deceive, even if she did deceive him only through her passivity, her ability to take something or someone for granted.
When he followed Pita into the bathroom he chose not to be seen.
Pita had had enough of James. He’d never been so insistent on making love then since they arrived here. She wondered if it had something to do with that Simpson woman. Her body must’ve fascinated James because for whatever he hadn’t seen of Homer’s wife, particularly her breasts, he seemed intent on living out his obsession through her.
It was perverse and Pita found herself inexplicably drawn to the notion of undoing the woman who’d stolen her husband’s heart.
As quickly as the suggestion entered her mind she realized how she’d just a moment before sympathized with the woman who so fascinated her husband. On the other hand, the idea of somehow humiliating Marge nagged at her. And then it came to her. Marge Simpson wasn’t any more beautiful than her. She was easy. That’s what James sensed in her. James wanted only her, and when he couldn’t have his own wife he thought of a woman who, despite the rings on her finger or humble façade, oozed promiscuity.
Pita couldn’t allow Marge the opportunity to snare her husband. If Marge Simpson was so intent on being a whore, she was going to have her hands full with someone else. The question was who. Pita didn’t have much time. She had less than a week to wear Marge down.
Marge recalled the days of her youth, a life of anonimy, being a nobody and regretting that she’d never enjoyed it while it had lasted. Over the course of the next couple of weeks, most while in a summer camp her body changed. She went from a 34-inch chest to a 44-inch chest. Where her shirts had once tented, now they bulged and stretched to their limits. Marge remembered adopting a beehive hairdo in hopes it would distract. Quite frankly she missed wearing her hair down. She missed the days when she would just as soon try to draw attention to her chest rather than distract people from it. She missed being carefree and evading the attention of the opposite sex. She missed the miffed expression on her face when other women would snare men and not her. She missed having women for friends. She missed wearing push-up bras.
She missed conversations where a man would keep eye contact or even get distracted by another woman. True, her husband was there to protect her. But Marge couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t been there.
There had been hints as to life she had to look forward to. She’d tasted an ounce of that depravity when Homer’s supervisor pressured her into that dance at the Crass Wedding Reception. She remembered the camp counselor who had tried to grope her but was interrupted before he had a chance. He’d failed. But Homer’s boss had succeeded.
The catch, which restrained the wealth of Marge’s bosom, was only accessible to someone close enough to see it. Once unhinged there was nothing to prevent someone from slipping their hand between her skin and the dress. Marge was doubting almost immediately that anyone suspected she was anything more than Homer’s escort to the wedding reception. One that Homer had pawned off to his employer. He held her close, enjoying with one hand the lithe figure of her bare back , the warm naked details crawling down to where they would fountainhead into her ass, which he felt with the other hand through her dress His fingertips inched lines of surveillance across the concavities that comprised her intervals of her hips as her breasts rested bare against his tuxedo. He’d draped her arms over his shoulders and so as the dress crawled open at its front the front of her dress bookended her bare breasts between her and her husband’s boss.
Marge couldn’t pull away from him for fear others would see what he’d done. So she pulled him closer and his hands became more daring. He felt her body through her dress, aggressing from the back to the front.
After the experience she endured that night she understood, as if never before, how deeply she could hate a person. As unwavering as her opinion was of Josh a part of her wanted to humanize the monster she’d met that night. Putting herself through such an empathetic endeavor was hard enough but nothing hurt as much as the feelings of apathy, of which were so strong she’d never put herself through such emotional torment to contain herself or her opinions when she wasn’t alone. She wanted to understand who she hated, she already understood why she hated him, or at least she thought she did. The more she was able to comprehend of him the less she liked him and the less she blamed her husband for what they both were made to endure. Marge thought early on that Homer was the kind of person to boast, she would never imagine he was trying to save face.
Weeks before Josh began to invite himself to the Simpson house and Homer would take the blame for frequenting new dinner guest he knew little at all of Homer Simpson, only that he was better than the man, or so he had thought.
Josh Campbell was the kind of person who achieved his hold over people by reminding them of how much more fortunate he was and they were not. He was materialistic for sure, but also meticulously groomed in his talent for manipulating people in a way to make most of what he had and others didn’t. Little else mattered to him, it was about control.
But Homer was still confident, optimistic and opinionated then. He’d just married the woman he loved and of all the things that preoccupied his life for him to love he doubted if he’d lose any of them soon. Josh must’ve had trouble reading Marge’s husband and with no knowledge as to what his employer had outside of material prospects he sought out to erode away at a man that, with his confidence and curiosity Homer was capable of eventually succeeding him. Homer didn’t. He lost a lot more than his confidence. When push came to shove Homer resorted to confidence that he was married to a woman far more beautiful than Josh could hope to bed. But the confidence was all for not if he couldn’t confide that fact to the man who’d been taunting him and making his life hell.
The picture that Josh must’ve seen, the picture that Marge suspected Homer put on his desk with the intention of baiting Josh’s own insecurities must’ve only given the old man the slightest inkling of her own beauty. Either that or Josh enjoyed the shivers he gave her weeks later when he wouldn’t stop complimenting her beauty at dinner. Things got worst when he sequestered her while she did the dishes. It was clear to her then that the beauty of hers for which he spoke definitely wasn’t limited to an appreciation of her face. His preoccupations were more pubescent. Marge wished Josh had been a more indirect, the idea of this stranger trying to intimidate his way into her graces and eventually between her legs was repugnant and not only because of the notion of adultery but the careless way this man went about it.
Josh had a nice car and a nice house, she imagined he’d too enjoyed women with the help of his resources. Marge didn’t count herself as one such woman but she knew he controlled the circumstances of both her and her husband’s lives. The idea that he could’ve extorted her into sexual slavery terrified her even when he’d already given up the opportunity and Mr. Burns was Homer’s boss. But then that was years later. During the time that the opportunity haunted her and his eyes enjoyed her, the man for which she’d slowly accumulated a vast knowledge and hatred for had fascinated her. She was ashamed to say when the experience of her very public subjugation at the wedding was over she still amused herself with her curiosities about a man who’d clawed his way so close to cuckolding the one man she loved that she was almost willing to forgive his cruelty if she would be allowed to know why.
Why did she fascinate him? Why did he have to have her? With a man so tenacious in his intentions, if she had been forced to endure his hands on her much longer would it still be worth it to not just give in. There were times that Marge wanted to punish her husband, not for his unkindness but his weaknesses. Josh brought that out in her. Maybe a man as sensitive and impressionable as Homer deserved to be punished. Maybe Josh understood Homer was one of the few faithful men that deserved to be cuckolded.
The feeling of that monster’s hands on her body.
Moving under her dress.
Over her bare skin.
In her mind she saw the night on the balcony. Josh was climbing on top of her. She was throwing fists but he would not leave unburdened from his torment, unsatisfied or without the confidence that he’d finally one-upped the man he envied. Marge hated the man that climbed inside her. Penetrated and perverted her matrimonial sensibilities. Made her want to be wanted and objectified. Naked and accessible. She wanted to be raped into humility. A strange twisted kind of humility for only those of think of themselves. Not for her husband or custodians of kindness.
Marge remembered hearing the word “pricktease” before and not knowing where it belonged out of lack of knowing its meaning. She knew it was a man’s word, the kind that a man was expected to say out of want of a better more proper word. A word no woman would say. But she said it to herself, staring at her reflection, the mirror image of herself in that dress she wore to their friends’ wedding reception.
Knowing that men would want her, and even more now that she wore this. The strangeness of the notion that she had more opportunities for taking advantage of these men but was feeling more apprehensive because of it hit her.
She imagined her husband standing behind her, gesturing to her dress where her breasts immerged from behind red fabric, saying “you see these? I get to touch these. And see them naked. How do you like that?”, boasting to his friends, goading them into unquenchable envy and lust. What would Marge do if Homer was so crass tonight? What could she do within her vindictive means to teach Homer some humility?
‘See these’, Homer would say, ‘I get to touch them, and you don’t.’
‘Oh, so you say, husband’, Marge thought to herself.
In her mind Marge was back in their neighbor’s bedroom, she was leaning over James, letting her bare breasts drift across his bare chest. Her nipples stiffened against the sinew of his pectoral muscles. She looked up and saw the faces of her husband’s coworkers, one at a time, smiling at her. Dry thin pink lips in a lust elicited smirk. She turned and saw another coworker behind her, she was wearing tight jean shorts and he could make out the sculpted ovals of her ass through the denim. Then there was the groom, a tall handsome man who’d supposedly treated her husband like shit every day he’d known him. They were all going to have a piece of her.
Homer, I’ll teach you humility. Just like that stud Josh did to me. a voice inside of Marge said.
She stumbled back, withdrawing her thoughts from the lucid waking dream. She found herself alone, she was naked in the room of man-sized figurines, she was about to open the door to the balcony and seemingly step out onto it. Her sweater and jeans were in a heap on the floor behind her. She couldn’t trust herself alone any more. Not to her own devices and not away from her family. She had to find Homer and the kids.
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