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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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4

A cold shower would have to do for now. Marge had balled up her clothes, what few of them should could find. After Homer and the kids were settled she’d search the woods for whatever had happened to her bikini top and shirt. Earlier when she’d tossed them to the wind the breeze must’ve carried them into the woods, she only hoped that Homer and the kids wouldn’t see them on their way back.

The cold spray of water on her body relocated the images that had fissured her juices from between her legs to back of her mind. By the time she decided she was tired of waiting for Homer and the kids to return to the cabin she’d also decided that every element of her experience outside had been manifested by her mind. She’d been alone and safe the entire time. This idea helped her negotiate around her the impulse to stay inside. She wasn’t, after all, going anywhere near the One Stop convenience store today. She’d have to reinvent the word ‘casual’ before she left though, she didn’t want to give any of the locals the idea that she was easy or single. If she could find a way around dressing to reinforce her top heavy figure that would help too. So before she moved onto the shirt and pants she searched through her wardrobe for a sports bra.

“So what am I supposed to do until the taxi gets here?” Homer was anxious, not just because everything felt unfamiliar and he was stranded but because he now knew that his car was just as useless as the water heater in his cabin.

He looked beside the garage and saw Bart and Lisa playing with some hick kid who’d built a fort out of junkyard parts.

“Is that thing safe?” Homer asked, and in responding another face emerged from behind a parked car. Inside the garage he could see a tall lean man stand up from behind the raised hood of a car, presumably maintaining it in some way. He was handsome in a way that kind of seem to dislocate him from the rest of the locals here culturally. He also had a twinge of something presumptuous in his gaze. He seemed to give Homer a look like he might give a three-legged dog. A look of pity and something else that Homer couldn’t quite place.

“Me and the guys were gonna play some cards, you want in?” he said.

Homer shrugged off the glance the man had earlier given him. Maybe he just couldn’t read people the way he thought he could. Maybe this guy wasn’t half as transparent as he seemed.

Homer was taken behind the garage, to a table where he sat with the mechanic he’d met earlier, the handsome tall man he’d just met and another one named Lionel, older than other two and maybe a decade Homer’s senior.

“So Mr. Simpson…what’s your vice?” Lionel said.

“Excuse me…?” Homer didn’t quite understand the question.

“Your vice. I suppose mine is money. Joe’s is these cars, and Peter..well, I’d say, pussy, because that’s what he can get away with…stealing pussy.”

The idea of “stealing pussy” threw off Homer and started to figure they were talking about sex of the non-consensual kind.”

Peter, the handsome tall and out of place man of the three spoke up, “Don’t listen to them, Mister Simpson. I have a wife.”

Lionel interrupted, “Boy does he ever…Peter here is the one married man I can think of who I wish I actually was…I hate the idea of being tied down…so few women are worth it…but not this…what’s her name?”

Peter said, “Beth.”

Lionel turned to Homer, “No matter what you have back home or who you have back home, trust me, you would rather be this guy…”

Homer heard his wife’s voice in his head, “I’m married,” he said and almost instantly regretted saying it at all.

Peter looked at Homer with his thinning scalp and pear-shaped physique and said, moving aside his usually restraint honesty, “to your job, right?”

The other men at the table laughed at that. Only one of the three men actually was ugly next to Homer. Homer wasn’t handsome by any long shot, but then again he hadn’t just fallen for Marge because of her looks, and neither had she for him. That was neither here nor there.

But it was here, and it was laughing in his face.

“No, she’s very beautiful.”

Lionel had his face in the middle of a sandwich when he said, “You should see the tits on Peter’s wife.”

Homer felt like he was stumbling into one of those awkwardly quiet moments of conversations when one speaker steers it in the wrong direction.

But Peter wasn’t deterred, “They are nice.”

Peter turned and saw Homer’s face go flush, “Don’t worry. There’s nothing that embarrassing about stating the obvious.”

Marge’s voice in Homer’s head again.

“Would you like to see pictures of my wife?” Homer asked, he was already digging deep down into his wallet.

“Not really.” Lionel said.

“No wait…” Peter said, “Let’s say for the sake of argument that your wife is more beautiful than mine. What’s the most flattering picture you have of her right now?”

Homer would think of one where Marge was getting ready for Lisa’s school recital. She was facing the vanity mirror and her bare back was to the camera. Her hair was combed down and fell over her shoulder. She looked surprised and without any makeup her beauty was disarming Homer as he took the picture. The picture had a special significance for him, not because he kept it so close despite the content of the photo seeming so private and intimate to him and her, but because he remembered that just seeing her there like that, half-naked drove him to forcing himself onto her at the time. She gave in and ended up wanting so much more that he knew he’d hadn’t truly taken her against her will at all. He’d only read her mind at the time.

“You and me, Mr. Simpson.” Peter said, “if I win I get your picture and if you win, mine.”

Homer wasn’t so sure he wasn’t so sure he wanted to even see this guy’s wife. Nothing about what he was afraid he was about to do did he think for a moment would fulfill him in any way.

Homer interjected, “I’m not so sure its worth it to see your wife.”

“That’s funny, I think the same thing about yours.”

Homer remembered a conversation he’d had with Marge during the last date before he proposed to her. Marge told him how her sisters had been telling her for years how ugly she was. No matter what Homer said he couldn’t liberate Marge from this insecurity. So he ended up actually bribing a friend to say something crude about Marge. Later that night he tore into his friend with the first punch he could ever remember throwing in his life. He’d lost a friend, but he’d gained Marge’s respect.

But the words he’d heard his accomplice say to his future wife made him cringe, looking back at them, “Tell your boyfriend if he’s short money for a tip you’ve got enough curves to more than make up the difference.”

Later when he first made love to Marge the knowledge that the friend he’d left behind had also wanted Marge but it was he who ultimately had her drove him to an explosive orgasm. A part of him like to brag. Some deficient part of his character needed to brag. Some part of him that was stupid enough to believe he owed it to Marge.

Homer’s wallet was out and his fingers were moving behind the picture of him and his kids where his prized possession was hidden.

Peter never saw that picture of Homer’s and he was grateful. He’d managed to spark the interest of the table though with his unwavering confidence. Either they thought he was incompetent, a great liar or married to a terribly good-looking woman. Peter was still pessimistic about Homer’s bluff though.

“Tell you what…my wife and I are going out to this Italian restaurant just down the street, how about you and your wife meet us there?” Homer said.

Homer, “I don’t know…”

“So you were bluffing there, huh? Probably was a picture of your saint-bernard or somethin’, right?”

“Fine.”

“I don’t want you to think that this is some sort of competition between my wife and yours but…if you were bluffing earlier I don’t think we can do business anymore.”

“Business?” Homer said.

“Your car. You’ll have to take it to the garage in Bueller.”

Homer thought back to his trip up here. Bueller was two hours away from here. If that was the next closest garage and Lionel or Peter wouldn’t tow it, Homer, Marge and the kids might never leave this place.

Homer looked down at his open wallet in his lap. He thought he could save him and Marge the trouble if he had just lost the card game. But there was something private about that picture and he wouldn’t give it up to anyone right now. He was sure if he’d had the choice to play or not he’d rather fake having an ugly wife than expose his very beautiful real one.

“You need a ride?” Marge heard the voice come up from behind her.

She’d, since leaving the house, gotten so far as the threshold between the woods and the highway before she’d slipped and fallen into a puddle. The water had washed the legs of her jean shorts up her hips and caked the flesh around her neck through the opening in her plaid shirt.

Marge did need a ride regardless of the toothless truck driver’s nasally pitch and almost fascinated gaze. Shrugging off the self-conscious feeling making her perspire through her clothes she climbed inside the truck. There was only a front seat and the gathered length of her denim shorts afforded the old man a unobstructed view of Marge’s tanned and toned thighs right up to where the material of her clothing actually started, around her crotch.

“Where are you going?” he said, his eyes crawled across the lithe flesh of her hips, even keeping in mind the weakness that came with his old age, he fought the impulse to let go of the steering wheel and let one hand fondle the muscles of her thighs.

Marge’s eyes were watching the outside, memorizing the path up the road.

“Town,” she said.

Now his eyes were now divided between the responsibility of watching the road and the pearls of muddy perspiration collect around Marge’s neck, then slip down into her cleavage. Her shirt was unbuttoned to the point that only someone taller could’ve seen down the neck, though her driver was a tall man, almost eight inches taller than his passenger.

“Any place in particular?” he said.

Marge didn’t answer. Right now she only felt like getting out of her clothes again. She wished she was back home.

On the ride back the kids sat in the back and Homer said beside Marge, though unfortunately not between Marge and the driver. The driver gave her the creeps. His eyes were ever the slightest wayward from the road. And his hands had by the time they’d arrived back at the cabin gained a broad knowledge of the skin of her legs, brushing them whenever he shifted gears, and he shifted gears often.

Homer was astounded to find his wife so pre-occupied with lustful thoughts that she refused to leave the house at all, for any reason without him first feeding her starved fixation. She was equally reluctant to shower before the act, despite how dirt had accumulated and would only regret this later when his tongue hugged the skin of her spread hips and tasted the taste of the old man’s curious fingertips. That strange touch was still between them and closer to her skin than even her husband had achieved in being. The thought of this made her mind mask the image of Homer’s touch with the wide tongue of the old man gathering heat as it headed to her waiting pink gash.

Marge kicked her legs up in response to her unwanted conqueror, pulling away but Homer resolved to sink in, starved himself now and wanting, no, needing to be inside her, he held her legs down and apart and burrowed his tongue down inside her.

The feeling of the tongue inside and the image of the old man’s cracked lips around it confused Marge’s loyalties. The experienced touch of her husband and the tongue of the old man inside her. The strangeness of this new touch but the knowledge with which, despite it was adultery, made her moist sunk into Marge, made her heart beat faster and her breasts heavier with the building momentum of her desire.

She was certain that she wanted her husband when they’d initiated the act of love earlier. Now she wasn’t sure what she wanted.

Homer’s hands went to her breasts and with little help those breasts burst through the sports bra with their immensity filling and then overflowing from his hands. Despite Homer’s reluctance to even feign interest in Peter’s wife’s breasts, he did so adore Marge’s. They were perfect to the point that they became, even when restrained or covered, intimidating. Though when bare-naked Homer was divided between worshipping them along with the rest of her body or give into his basest instincts and simply manhandle and manipulate them over the palate of his taste buds.

With his tongue going deeper and his Marge bracing herself against the bed, against the headboard, her pelvis ground down into the mattress as if to escape the touch of the encroaching phantasm of the old man, Homer decided Marge’s reluctance was part of her game. He was going to make her cum if it was the last thing he did tonight.

Pulling his tongue from her twat, her juices pouring from the inside of his mouth back over her, he pulled Marge’s convulsing thighs wider apart and sunk his cock between her trembling petals.

Marge’s eyes were closed when she felt the cock slice into her, the living waking nightmare had finally broken through and now she felt it in the form of the old man’s manly appendage thrust inside her.

If she would only open her eyes and wake but a part of her refused and the cock moved deeper, deeper. It grew thicker inside her like it had not even been erect when it entered but was only growing to its fullest right now. Her thighs kicked but she found only air around them, she couldn’t find any leverage to pull away or extract the ripening organ from inside her.

His lips, his mouth and his tongue pulled at the globes of her breasts and she could feel her heart beating faster and faster beneath her flesh, though that intensity had sunk down into her stomach where she fear it was only waiting for the end of the encroaching invader that her insides so willingly suckled at.

So this is what is feels like to be wicked, a voice in her head said. It wasn’t her own, she didn’t recognize it at all. It was deeper than her own, like a woman transforming herself, divorcing herself from her dignity and training her senses and curves for only sex. Sex with strangers, sex with friends, sex with people she hated or her husband hated. Sex without respect and sex, despite her wedding vows, sex with strangers without consequence.

Marge opened her eyes when Homer burst inside her, a hot gush of fluid filled her and she saw Homer had finished before she really ever reached the source of her horrible new obsession or the paramount of her indignity.

“Roll over,” she said.

He did and she throttled his cock, dropping all of her weight down at once. The friction, despite the moisture almost brought him to he point of swearing, but for her the pain only reawakened her waking nightmare.

The old man was back and he wasn’t finished with her yet.
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A House in the Hills