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Love Is In The Air	By : LordKuyohashi Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 18572 -:- 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
- 3
- 4
- 5
Sweet summer air wafted in through the open window, sending the powder blue curtains to dance gently in the early morning breeze. Somewhere, a nest of robins was letting the neighbourhood know it was time to wake up, if the amber rays of sunlight cutting through the pre-dawn blanket of clouds hadn’t already alerted them. For Homer, however, the sunlight was a foul betrayer, intruding upon his dreamscape with all the subtlety of a mariachi band falling down the stairs.
He had been white water rafting with Uschi Digard, restored to her prime circa 1977, on a river that flowed both out of Marge’s tight, wet pussy, and yet also from a distant mountain range that looked like tits, with giant penises for paddles, when the horrid sun decided that he should instead face cruel, unfair, logical reality.
He rolled onto his left side to escape the wrath of the light, only for his arm to slip off the bed, nearly toppling him over the side. He was on the wrong side of the bed; normally he took the right side, so that he could hold Marge whenever he needed to roll over. But he was now in Marge’s space. Ah well, it happens, he thought. Turning over to the other side, he found the soft, warm shape nestled under the sheets he had been searching for, and shuffled over towards the lump. Curling his left arm over the heap’s form, he pulled himself close, nuzzling against his wife’s perfumed neck, her warmth stiffening his cock to full alertness. With a smile, he reached under the sheet, took his piece in hand, and fitted it between Marge’s thighs, pushing into her warm, wet pussy. A few clumsy, furtive humps and he was inside, clutching his wife to his chest, sighing contentedly. Marge made a low, raspy murmur to show her appreciation for Homer’s attention, then let out a rough, wet cough.
That wasn’t Marge’s cough. It was harsher, more laboured. Homer stopped pumping his cock into the strange pussy beside him, his fogged, and frankly, inadequate mind racing through the possibilities.
Then it hit him. The perfume. It wasn’t perfume; it was cigarette smoke.
The figure beside him shifted, as much as she could with a fat cock buried inside her, and raised up on one elbow to turn to Homer.
“Hey, lardass, you gonna fuck me, or is your pecker just window-shopping?”
Homer’s eyes went wide in horror. Unbidden, his cock reflexively spurted out a shot of cum into the vice-like grip holding onto his shaft, then Homer scrambled out of bed to his feet. He fell against the closet door, clutching at his chest as the truth of the scene before him set in. His heart pounded in his ears, his mind refused to accept what his eyes told him to be true. Madness seemed to be the only escape from the unimaginable new hell in which he had found himself.

Selma let the sheet clutched to her chest fall, revealing her sagging tits to Homer, who had taken to screaming like a siren with the hiccups, curling into a fetal position.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“It didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. It didn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. It didn’t happen.”
Homer was rocking back and forth in his chair in the kitchen, his mind trying to come to terms with the events of only four hours ago. Marge poured another cup of herbal tea for him, while Selma, who had thankfully managed to find her bra, although her panties were lost to history forever, leaned over the sink, blowing smoke out the window.
“Is this going to take long, Marge? I gotta check on Ling, see how she’s holding up.”
Marge draped a blanket over her traumatised husband’s shoulders, patting his sweating, dishevelled head.
“He’s had a terrible shock, Selma. He…wasn’t expecting to find you in his bed. He’ll just need a little time to come to grips with it.”
“He’s had a shock? He woke up next to the best piece of ass he’s ever had. You want to talk about a shock, let’s talk about me finding out that this blubbery moron has the best fucking cock in town! Why didn’t you tell me Homer was riding pipe all this time, Marge, I might have backed off him in exchange for a ride every now and then.”
Homer covered his ears, banging his head against the breakfast table. “Nonononono, not happening. It’s not real. So much hair. So many stretch marks. She’s never had kids, why are there so many stretch marks?”
Selma crushed out the cigarette on the sink, soaked the butt under the tap, and tossed it out the window.
“Hey, Lardthario, snap out of it! We fucked! I’m not proud of it, either, but…it happened. And…it wasn’t horrible. You smell better than I had expected, that firepoker you’ve been hiding in your pants got the job done and then some, you can stop going mad from the revelation already.”
Homer suddenly reached up, knocking over his tea and grabbing Marge by the arm, a frantic, desperate yet hopeful grin of madness on his face.
“Marge, you don’t see her, right? She’s not really there, with her fried-eggs-on-a-nail just hanging out for the world to see? I’ve gone insane, right? That has to be it! Yes, that’s it, I’ve gone stark raving bonkers! I must be mad, I couldn’t possibly have found Selma sexually appealing! It’s better to be crazy than to have slept with your sister! Please, Marge, tell me I’m hallucinating Selma!”
Marge looked long and lovingly into her poor husband’s eyes, and hugged his head to her breast, stroking his back soothingly.
“Oh Homie…I wish that were true. I wish you were out of your mind. But it’s not. Selma really is here, and you really did fuck her.”
Homer whimpered in defeat.
“And from what I heard, you really got your rocks off with her.”
An anguished wail rose up from Homer’s throat, followed by the sobbing of a man crushed utterly by life.
“Oh come on, you drama queen,” Selma had poured herself some tea, and poured some beer from an open can in the fridge in, giving it a furtive taste before wincing in disgust, then resigning herself to it. “It wasn’t that bad. Sure, I’m not as young as I used to be, and sure, I might need to take a machete to the Amazon rainforest that covers my…” she looked her body over, “everything not covered by a shirt,” another quick scan of her body, “mostly, but I know how to please a man. You even said I had the tightest asshole you’d ever pounded. I’m sure the goats at the local petting zoo will be devastated that they’ve lost favour in your eyes.”
Homer bolted up from his chair, resolutely determined. “Marge, I’m going to be down in the basement today. I’ve got some very important business to take care of.”
“You’re not going to kill yourself, are you?”
Homer paused for a moment, his expression unchanging.
“I’m not not going to kill myself. It’s best to leave my options open.”
“Homer, if this is because you feel guilty about sleeping with someone else–”
Homer looked at Marge, his face softening into one of pain and defeat. “Marge, I could handle waking up to almost anybody besides you - Mindy, Lurleen, Princess Jasmine -the stripper, not the Disney Princess, I swore off Disney Princesses ever since the Ariel Debacle of 2003 - even Stupid Sexy Flanders and what I imagine is a dick completely covered in psalms tattoos. But not one of your sisters. That requires a level of humiliation and degradation I like to reserve for my job. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be at Moe’s, trying hard to scrub my brain clean of the horrors it has witnessed.”
And with that, Homer turned and walked out the front door, still completely nude. Selma poured the rest of her tea down the sink, watching him leave.
“That man+ may be dumber than a bag of especially inbred rocks, but for some reason his ass just will not quit.”
Marge murmured, taking a sip from her coffee cup.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Twelve Hours Earlier++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“Mom, have you seen my leash?”
Lisa threw the box in her hand back into the closet, scattering its contents onto the floor.
Marge was in the kitchen, scrubbing this morning's breakfast-orgy cum-puddle from the tile, when Lisa called down from her room. Sitting up on her haunches, she wiped the sweat and a bit of Homer’s load from her brow.
“No, sweetie, I haven’t. Did you look in your closet?”
“I just looked there!”
“Hrmm…maybe Bart’s seen it?”
Lisa stomped to the top of the stairs, leaning over the railing.
“Well I can’t ask him, he and Terri went out and didn’t even wait for me!”
Marge, tired of all this back-and-forth yelling, stood up and walked to the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her lucious daughter in her new hot pink vinyl outfit.
“Can you call him?”
Lisa shook her head, “I’ve got his phone up my cunt, so I can keep myself on edge until he gets back.”
Marge cocked an eyebrow. “How in the-”
“Oh, he has it on vibration. If I feel like my horniness is diminishing, I just call his number, his phone vibrates, my pussy sends sweet happy-chemicals to my brain.”
“Why, though?”
Lisa didn’t understand the question, and her face expressed as much. “Because I’m a slut?”
Marge shook her head, giving up on logic and walking back to complete her chores.
“Maybe your father took it when he went to walk the dog.”
Lisa gasped in horror at the idea, running down the stairs desperately.
“But that leash came with my harness! It cost nearly $180!”
She came to a stop in the kitchen doorway, pouting like a child. “Bart bought it for me.”
As if summoned from the ether, the front door opened and in walked Homer, leading the family dog Clarabelle by a tell-tale black leather leash with a female symbol medallion hanging off the hand-loop. Lisa’s eyes went wide with shock, and she surged forth to grab the leash away from her father.
“D-a-a-a-ad! That’s an expensive leather fuck-leash!”
Homer looked at the leash in his hand, as the dog chewed on the carpet like an idiot.
“Oh…so that’s why the dog was licking it…and the Flanders boy, I thought that was weird.”
He sheepishly handed the loop of the leash to Lisa, who snatched it away, bent to unhook the dog’s collar, and clipped the leash to the black leather collar around her own neck.
“It is NOT for dogs, Dad, it is for BITCHES!”
In a huff, she zipped up her black leather thigh-high boots, grabbed her tiny black purse, and stormed out of the house,leaving Homer to stand in slack jawed confusion.
“What crawled up her butt?”
Marge tossed the cleaning rag into the sink, straightening a kink out of her spine as Homer sat at the kitchen table.
“Not Bart, that’s for sure.”
“Ooooh…she’s jealous of the new girl, Terri.”
Marge put on some water for coffee, and pulled out a seat to rest on.
“She tells it differently. They had this whole thing planned out where the three of them would spend time together, and Bart and Terri couldn’t wait for Lisa to find her leash. She loves that fucking thing, I guess.”
Homer was silent for a bit, then spoke up, scratching the back of his head.
“Honey, do you think we’re okay? I mean, even Lisa’s acting like being naked all the time and screwing Bart in public is no big deal. Don’t get me wrong, I’m loving all the lovin’ I’m getting, but…do we really want grandkids with five fingers, no overbites and pink skin?”
“What we want, Homie, is for everyone to be happy. Don’t we?”
“Y-e-e-e-ah, I guess.”
“And aren’t you happy? Aren’t the kids happy?”
“No, no, I am, I am. And I think the kids are, too. I’ve never seen them go so long without arguing, it’s been weeks since they said anything mean to one another. And now when they swear at each other, it’s because they’re humping their sweet little hearts out. But still…”
Marge stood up, walked around the table to her husband, and planted her hands on his shoulders, staring into his eyes. Homer swallowed the uneasy lump in his throat, as Marge ran a finger down his chest, undoing his shirt buttons one by one.
“Let me put it another way, Homie; if there was a big red button that, once pressed, would return everything to how it was before I was blowing you in the dairy aisle, before Ned Flanders was loosening up with Lindsay Neagle, before Bart and Lisa and Terri played ‘hide-the-schnitzel’ every hour on the hour until the upstairs smelled like a University of Tampa dormitory, would you press that button?”
“I–”
“Would you go back to maybe getting snuggled once a month? You’ve lost weight since Springfield became some sort of almost-free love state. You look better, you’re sleeping better, your job performance is up. I think having pink grandbabies with five fingers is an acceptable price to pay, for a little happiness.”
“Yeah, but-”
“Ssh ssh.” She dropped to her knees, resting between Homer’s thighs as she quickly and sloppily undid his belt, throwing it to the side and unzipping his pants. “The only ‘but’ you need to worry about, is the one you’re going to be stretching out-” she fished his stiffening cock from his pants, resting the yellow, fleshy log against her face, “- with this weapon of ass destruction.”
She giggled at her own joke, then took a deep breath before engulfing Homer’s cock with her entire face, burying her nose in his pubes. Homer rolled his head back as his wife’s tongue tickled along the underside of his shaft, hooking under his knob and licking up the precum collecting there. She pulled her head off his cock, her face a slickened mess, a goofy grin on her lips.
“See, Homie, I like the new us. I like being your cock-hungry slut. I like that Lisa and Bart have found someone they can be with, even if it’s each other. I like that the Flanders boys are fucking each other, I like that Superintendant Skinner and Regional Comptroller Chalmers are fucking each other, I like that everyone is fucking everyone else. I even like that I’ve stopped that bullshit schoolmarm euphemism shit I used to do. We do not ‘snuggle,’ we FUCK.”
Marge stood up, working a kink out of her left leg, and lifted the hem of her pencil-dress just enough to expose her pink, glimmering cunt, topped with a light bunting of grey hair. Homer bit his lip in anticipation, stroking a fat finger from the crown of silver fluff down to the reddened clitoral hood, giving his wife’s button a light flick, further to her sopping slit, rubbing his finger between her lips. Without warning, he grabbed a pinch of Marge’s pubic hair, tugging at it just enough to send a jolt of agonising joy up her spine.
“You should dye this the same colour as your hair.”
“Mmmffwhy? Who else is going to see my hairy cunt?”
“Nobody. But I want you to do it. I want my girl’s carpet to match her drapes.”
Marge humped against Homer’s hand, panting hard as she lowered her dress, her heavy tits popping into view.
“Then I‘ll do it, Homie. I’ll dye my pussy hairs blue for you.”
Marge leaned Homer back in his chair, the legs creaking as she added her weight to his, straddling his lap. She held herself open, hovering just above his erect cock, and dropped herself down onto it, gasping in pained rapture as he filled her depths to the limit. Marge crushed herself against Homer’s torso, rocking back and forth onto his cock, the rickety kitchen chair swaying uneasily as they moved together. Homer’s mouth found Marge’s, and their tongues entwined, his thick, fat fingers digging into her soft, jiggling ass-flesh, his thick index finger working into her tight puckered starfish until he was inside her up to the knuckle.
Marge sucked in a lungful of air, her tits expanding outwards, as Homer slotted into her asshole, her pussy muscle contracting and milking his fat cock as a reflex.
“Marge, I don’t think this chair is going to last long.” Homer’s voice was filled with naive concern.
Marge only hummed along as she rutted herself against her husband, the chair swaying a bit too much, creaking and groaning in time with her movements.
“Neither am I, Homer. God, I’m so fucking hot!”
Marge began thumping her cunt against Homer roughly, dropping onto him like a hammer over and over again, until the chairs legs had had enough and gave up the ghost, splaying out in all directions, the chair collapsing to the kitchen floor with a crash that shook the house and rattled the window and drove Homer J. Simpson’s thick, throbbing cock into his wife’s waiting womb, where she shattered any remaining peace with a piercing shriek of pleasure. Her cunt spasmed out on Homer’s cock, hugging it agonisingly, her juices flowing freely from her stuffed pussy as she screamed in long, hiccuping gouts, until she was able to catch her breath, clutching herself to Homer. She sobbed into his shoulder, weakly trying to pull herself away from him.
“Honey?” Homer tried to comfort his shaking wife, even as she milked his meat inside of herself. “Are you alright?”
She nodded, head buried in his neck, grinding against him as if nothing had happened. Finally, she pulled herself away from his chest, tears in her eyes, and kissed his mouth gently.
“I’m fine, Homie. It was just really intense when you drove in like that. Holy shit, you’re all the way in me, baby. You’re in my fucking womb, I can feel you. “
She looked into his eyes, smiling, and Homer, overcome with passion, growled as he grabbed his wife, clumsily rose to his feet, and started fucking her in a standing position, moving her ass up and down on his cock. Marge swung her legs around Homer’s waist, gasping with every invading thrust into her guts, her head swimming as he hammered away at her g-spot.
“Fuck! H-Homer, y-you’re gonna break my c-cunt!”
“Fine, if I break it! I’ll! Fuck! Your! Ass!”
Marge went limp, flopping backwards as her vision exploded again, a second shower of pussy oil drenching Homer and splattering onto the kitchen tile. Homer helped Marge collect herself, lifting her back against his chest, still filling her pussy.
“God, yes. D-do it, Homer. Fuck my ass. Fill my asshole, break both my cunts with your monster!”
Marge disengaged, and staggered into the living room, dragging Homer behind her by the hand; she bent over the armrest of the couch, wiggled her ass, and pulled her cheeks open, giving Homer a full view of her nethercunt.
“Come on, baby. Momma Marge’s tight asspussy is hungry for your thick fucking babycream.”
Homer stared at Marge’s asshole, her pussy gaped wide and winking at him as if it were gasping for air. His cock throbbed at the sight, and he turned back into the kitchen.
“Lemme just grab something to grease me up then, honey.”
“No!” Marge half-whined, half-shouted after him. “I need you now, Homer. Just go in dry, I can take it!”
“Are…are you sure, Marge? I don’t want to hurt-”
Marge half-turned to Homer, snarling like a beast in heat, “Get that fucking cock up my ass now, Homer! If I’m not fucked deep and rough in the next five seconds, I’m going to see if Ned Flanders can do the fucking job!”
Homer’s expression turned dark, and he surged forward, gripping Marge’s hips and pushing his meat into her narrow chute.
“Like fuck Ned Flanders is getting my wife’s asscunt. This is my asspussy!”
Marge let out an anguished cry, but grabbed at Homer when he instinctively tried to pull away, pulling him closer to her.
“Yes, baby, tell me who owns this ass!”
Homer blinked in disbelief at his wife as tears and sweat ran down her face.
He pushed harder into her, stretching her tight ring inch by inch until he was balls deep inside. Marge winced and howled her pain, but Homer played along and ignored it, responding to her demand with punctuated thrusts into her guts.
“This is! My! Fucking! Asshole! And my! Fucking! Pussy! And nobody! Fucks them! But me!”
Air rushed from Marge’s lungs with every powerful push into her ass, her teeth grinding painfully as she absorbed the suffering of having her ass stretched out.
“Nnngyyyessss! Own this ass, Homie! Tear it the fuck up and destroy me!”
Homer’s fingers dug trenches into Marge’s soft assflesh, his nails almost drawing blood as he ploughed into her ass like a monster, balls swinging with every thrust, until sweat poured down his face and pooled into the divot of her spine, running down her back and into her ass, acting as a lubricant to Homer’s merciless rutting.
Marge gritted her teeth and threw her head into the couch cushions, grunting through the burning pain coming from her tortured anal ring. She dug her nails into the throw pillows lining the couch, tears running down her face. She tried to fill her lungs to speak, but every thrust into her guts pushed the air out of her chest, leaving her unable to make any sound save for a whimpering, hiccuping yelp punctuated by the odd pained squeal as Homer lost all sense of humanity and bore his entire weight down on his poor, luckless wife. She willed herself to relax, despite the scorching pain, and began pushing back at her husband, letting her hole engulf his cock, until the pain began to fade away into tingling numbness, followed by crashing euphoric pleasure. She pushed herself up from the couch, ramming back against Homer with renewed vigour, grunting, panting, laughing as he ploughed into her repeatedly, until his body stiffened up, and his balls tightened against his body, unleashing a torrent of scalding hot cum into Marge’s insides that spilled out onto the carpet.
Homer collapsed first, pinning Marge to the couch, humping away at her bruised and battered bunghole, his breathing reduced to shallow, wet heaves as he moved his heavy frame on top of her, before draining out the last of his load. He struggled to catch his breath, rolling limply off of Marge onto the floor, his cock pointing straight up and still dribbling the last few drops of cum. Marge turned her head to her husband, prostrated and delirious as he was, and smiled weakly, moving her sweat-matted hair from her eyes.
“See, Homie, aren’t things better now than they were before?”
Homer moaned in half-awake exhaustion, drool running down his chin and sweat matting his clothes to his heaving chest. With great effort, Marge pushed herself to her feet, corking her leaking ass with one hand and steadying herself against the couch with the other, and she stepped over Homer’s body on her way upstairs to the shower.
“Oh, and Homer, don’t forget that you have to pick Selma and the girls up from the airport in a few hours.”
As Marge walked upstairs, still holding her ass closed, Homer grumbled something, then rolled onto his side and let out a rasping snore.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The unforgiving summer sun beat down on Bart and Terri as they lounged lazily on the bench in the small park just across from the shopping promenade. Bart had his eyes closed, his head reclined back as he tried to squeeze every bit of enjoyment from the scant breeze blowing today, and Terri had snuggled up to him, her face buried in the nape of his neck, her fingers tracing along the bulge in his shorts. She had already jacked him off to completion since they sat down, and had licked her fingers clean of his cum, and now they were just enjoying the sunlight and the people passing by.
“She’ll be here, babe; relax.”
Bart sighed at Terri, gripping her ass tightly. She squirmed, her skin turning hot, and slipped a kiss on his cheek. “I’m thirsty, Bart. Did you want something from the drink stand?”
“Sure, babe. Um, a lemonade, if they’ve got it. If they don’t, surprise me, I guess.”
Bart slipped her some cash, and with another peck on the cheek, she jumped off the bench and walked to the drink stand a few yards away. Bart watched her full, plump ass wobble and sway with every step she took, licking his lips like a hungry wolf watch a flock of sheep. He reached down to adjust the bulge in his shorts, shifting it from one side to the other. Terri was wearing a sheer blouse that hung off her shoulders and showed off her full, heavy tits and dark pierced nipple, and a blue thong that seemed to disappear up her round ass globes. Bart smiled as she paid for their drinks, and sauntered back to the bench, handing him a dew-speckled can of lemonade.

“You were in luck, hon.”

Bart took the proffered drink, and ran the cold can along his sweaty chest.

“Thank you, Terri.”

Terri bit her lip watching Bart draw the cold can in wide circles on his chest and stomach. With a clever glint in her eye, she popped open her own drink, a can of strawberry soda, and took a big gulp, cold pink liquid running down her chin and onto dripping down the front of her blouse.
“Oh shit!” Terri set her drink down on the bench, and began unbuttoning her blouse. “This’ll stain, where’s there a washroom so I can clean this off?”
Bart grinned lecherously as Terri exposed her D-cup breasts to the sun, and nodded towards a water fountain nearby.
“Use that fountain, it should be fine.”
Terri rushed over, and held the blouse under the water spray, rubbing at the pink stain until it had faded away, leaving only darkened fabric behind. Walking back to Bart, she tucked the blouse into her purse, giving him a resigned sigh as she picked up her drink again, pressing the can against her bare tit.
“Well, I guess my girls are getting a suntan today.” She looked up at the sun, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Not that I couldn’t use it, I suppose; I’m so pale normally.”
“Yeah, why are you so pale? And what’s with the purple hair, I’ve always wondered about that?”
Terri shrugged, taking a seat next to Bart, who swung an arm over her shoulder and gently squeezed her right boob.
“I dunno, it’s normal for us, I guess. Why don’t you and Lisa have hairlines?”
“Oh, we do not go down that rabbit hole, babe. Chasing that line of questioning leads to dalliances with madness, trust me.”
“Okay, okay, fair enough. The mysteries of life and all that, I can respect that. Next question; where do you get your money from? I never see you go off to a job, and yet you can afford to buy expensive gifts for Lisa and me.”
Bart rolled his neck, and took a deep breath. The monster in his shorts stirred for some reason, but he pretended not to notice it.
“Right, that. Well, I get residuals from a few places, some things I’ve done in the past.”
Terri cocked a curious eyebrow. “Oh really? Like what?”
“Nothing sordid, no male prostitution or drug running or anything like that. Just…okay, do you remember the whole “I Didn’t Do It” thing?”
“Barely. You were on TV for a while, right?”
“Yeah, a couple of gigs. They don’t pay much anymore, that well’s pretty much dried up, but there’s still a small trickle of money. The “I Didn’t Do It” merch still sells in Germany and Argentina. I got a little money from some old commercials I did for some baby breath spray, and some for the Angry Dad movie. Some I got from Tony Hawk, I toured with him for a bit, he even put me into a few of the Pro Skater games. And then there’s the work I do as a session drummer. I get a steady trickle from many streams, Lisa likes to say.”
“Huh…and that’s enough to cover the three of us?”
“Oh fuck no, I couldn’t rent a gumball. But luckily I have a sister who is not only the smartest person I know, but is also for some reason almost Fatal Attraction-level devoted to me, so she helped me make some investments to grow out my bank account. I’m not a millionaire, but I’m not selling my kidneys either.”
Terri snuggled into Bart’s chest, drawing circles around his left nipple.
“Well then, I’ll have to keep that in mind and remember to treat you as my personal sperm bank, and not my personal piggy bank.” She smiled as she said this, and punctuated it with a kiss to Bart’s neck.
Bart nodded, and drank his lemonade, watching the clouds drift past. He was almost tempted to fall asleep in the crushing heat, when a voice caught his attention.
“There you two are.” Bart opened his eyes, and saw Lisa in all her slutty finest pattering towards them, holding her leash in one hand, the other planted on her hip. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Terri’s eyes lit up at the sight of Lisa, a friendly smile crossing her lips.
“You came!”
Lisa stood before them, clearly annoyed. “I arrived. We’ll see if I come later. And what’s this? You’re sunning your baps?”
“I spilled something on my top. So, yeah, they’re getting some sun.”
Lisa made a sound that could have been some bastard evolution of their mother’s irritated grumble, or a sound of masked arousal, Bart wasn’t certain. He motioned to the leash held in Lisa’s hand. “You didn't need to bring that, you know.”
Lisa pouted, stamping her feet lightly in an infantile show of rebellion. “But I want everyone to see that I’m your bitch.”
Bart patted his leg invitingly, and Lisa automatically sat down, wiggling her ass on her brother’s knee. Bart could feel that she was wet and dripping.
“Lisa, honey, most everyone we know in this town has seen you beg me to fuck you in every hole you have. They know you’re my bitch.”
“But I like it when they see me like that. It gets me hot, Bart, all their eyes on me, judging me. Imagining that they’re whispering about me, calling me all sorts of disgusting things, like ‘whore,’ or ‘slut,’ or ‘brother-fucker.’”
“Hmmm…well, in that case, we better put on a good show for them, hadn’t we?”
Bart smiled his devilish smile, and took the leash from Lisa’s hand. He gave the cord a light tug, eliciting a soft grunt from his sister’s lips, and pulled her towards himself, stopping her only by placing a hand on her tit. Leaning in close, his eyes locked on hers, he whispered to her, “Fucking hell, Lees, I can smell how hot your cunt is.”
She squirmed at his words, rubbing her thighs together. Indeed, the raw smell of her arousal mingled with the burnt sweetness already in the air, and she shivered as Bart drew his tongue along her wet lips. He pulled away, and Lisa could feel the massive tent jutting out from his shorts. She ached to hold his cock, to feel it forcing its way into her depths, to have it throbbing in her throat, releasing its hot, salty seed onto her face for all the world to see. Her eyes went wide when Bart handed her leash to Terri, the purple-haired girl’s eyes flashing a dark joy at the power she had just been handed.
“I don’t…why are you giving Terri my leash?”
“Because I want to see what she does with it. Now, Terri, you wanted to go to the hair salon, didn’t you?”
Terri didn’t take her eyes off of Lisa, only smiling a crooked, vulpine smile at her. She wiped her hand across her chin - the girl was actually salivating at the thought of leading Lisa around on a leash! “Yeah. Is that alright, Bart?”
Bart grinned and slapped Terri’s ass, making her jump up with a yelp. “It’s fine with me, babe.”
Terri glared playfully at Bart, rubbing her sore ass. She leaned into Lisa, their noses touching, and after a moment, gave her a quick peck on the nose
“Well then, let’s take this slut for a walk, shall we?”
Lisa was pulled along, the leash tugging at her neck, Bart and Terri ahead of her, holding hands like a happy couple. Lisa tried to keep pace, her heels clicking on the cobblestone walkway of the promenade, her eyes glued to Terri’s plump, jiggling ass. Lisa wanted to drive her tongue up Terri’s asshole, to suck on her cunt and drink her juices deeply. She wanted to please Terri the way she pleased Bart; her pussy burned with the desire to be spanked and punished and she was surprised that she hungered for Terri’s attention. Wasn’t she supposed to be the alpha female in this relationship? How did things get so backwards that she wanted to eat Terri out like a good girl?
Good girl. Those two words played in Lisa’s head. She was a good girl. She wanted to be a good girl. What was a good girl? She decided that it was someone who loved, and who loved to serve and please those she loved. Then a cold, sobering thought occurred to her; Why do I want to be a good girl so badly? Where did this thought come from?
She trailed off onto another train of thought as the friction of her slick thighs rubbing together made her pussy wet, fluid running down her legs and trailing behind her. Whatever she had been thinking before wasn’t important, not compared to the bouncing flamenco dance Terri’s quivering ass cheeks were doing as she walked along.
Terri and Bart stopped short at a quaint hair salon, and Terri turned on her heels, facing Lisa with a confident smile. She reeled Lisa in with the leash, like a fisherman pulling in the day's catch.
“Now listen up, slut; Mistress Terri is going to go inside for a bit.” As she said this, she bound Lisa’s wrists together with the leash. “If you’re a good girl” - Lisa faltered at these two words, sighing as a trickle of cream ran down her thighs, which Terri gave a wicked smile at - “if you’re a good girl, then I’ll have a special treat for you when I get out. Okay?”
Lisa tried to find her wits enough to speak up. “T-Terri, please-”
An angry jerk on the leash shocked Lisa back to some semblance of her senses. Terris glared at her scoldingly. “Mistress Terri, slut. When I’m holding the leash, you’re my bitch. Aren’t you?”
Lisa nodded quickly, eyes wide in a mixture of fear, uncertainty, and arousal.
“No, you stupid slut, say it.”
Lisa swallowed, suddenly realising how dry her mouth was right at that moment.
“I’m Mistress Terri’s bitch when she’s holding the leash.”
Terri’s face softened into a loving smile, her hand gently caressing Lisa’s cheek.
“There, see. You can be a good girl.” Lisa pussy wept another trickle. “Bart will watch you, but you’re not allowed to have his cock, so no sucking or fucking until I get back.”
Lisa looked to Bart for support, only seeing him smiling at her, his hard cock hanging out of his shorts like a ten-inch flag of veiny meat. Her pussy ached and throbbed for his cock, a pain made even worse by Terri’s edicts. The leash tugged again, and Lisa turned to see Terri tying the lead onto a bike rack just outside the salon.
“Bart, no breaking the rules, okay sweetie? If you leave her like this, you’ll get a special treat, too.”
Bart smiled, waving Terri away. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll keep my little sister-slut in her place.”
Digging into his pocket, Bart pulled out his credit card, and offered it to Terri, who snatched it and skipped up the steps into the salon. The chime rang as she pushed in the door, and disappeared.
Lisa sank to her knees, a puddle of pussy oil forming on the pavement under her ass. She looked up at Bart pleadingly, trying to ignore the pendulous swinging of his glorious fucktrod.
“Bart, baby, honey, darling, please…I need something to get the edge off. That bitch got me so worked up I’m going to explode if I don’t cum.”
Bart hummed and hawed and leaned against the bike rack, slapping his rigid pole into the palm of his hand, Lisa’s eyes following the swaying meat like a dog watching a tennis ball go back and forth.
“Yeah, it sounds like hell, being all wound up and not able to do anything about it. I bet you can’t even jill off right now.”
Lisa tugged at her bindings, trying to loosen the leash enough to wriggle her hands through the leather loops, but to no avail. Terri had wrapped her wrists too well, slipped the leash back through the bindings so it would hold fast. Lisa slapped her hands into her lap in frustration.
“Fuck! No, I can’t. Bart, please! I just need a taste! Just let me lick your knob. You can fuck me with your toes again, we both liked that, didn’t we?”
“I dunno, Lees. Terri really wanted me to not help you out, and I think I should do what she said, y’know?”
“But why? You’re in charge of us, you claimed us! You don’t have to obey her, you’re not her bitch!”
“Oh, I know. I don’t mean I have to obey her. I’m just interested in what she does next.”
Lisa slumped in defeat, sitting in the pool of her own pussy grease. “Well shit…I hope she doesn’t take too long, my cunt needs to pop before I go crazy!”
Bart stood in front of his tormented sister, squatted down onto his haunches, and began stroking his cock slowly, letting her watch as his hand slid up and down his turgid meat.
“I can’t imagine she’ll be happy when I tell her you called her a bitch.”
Lisa’s eyes went wide. “Bart, no! Please, she won’t let me cum if she hears that! I’ll do anything, you know I will, just please don’t tell her!”
“Relax, little sister, she won’t hear it from me. How about this: if you can endure not cumming until she finishes inside, then I’ll buy her a collar and leash. “
Thoughts struggled to race through the haze in Lisa’s brain. This meant something, but her need to cum was making it difficult to concentrate or form a coherent idea. Slowly it dawned on her.
“You’d let me do this to her too?”
Bart stood up, still stroking, a dollop of sweet precum honeydew forming on the tip of his cock.
“It’s only fair, isn’t it? Besides, my sluts need to be reminded of the pecking order. She can play with you, and you can play with her, but who owns your orgasms?”
A happy, stupid grin pulled at Lisa’s lips, a fog of lustful devotion clouding her eyes.
“You do, Bart. Only you.”
Bart smiled at his sister’s devotion to him. He smeared his thumb against the tip of his knob, and pressed the precum-stained digit to Lisa, who sucked on it hungrily, her eyes locked with his. Her tongue tickled his fingers as she savoured his taste, and smiled up at him.
“Thank you, Bart, I love you. May I please have some water, it’s hot as fuck today and all my fluids are dripping out of my twat.”
Bart nodded and walked to the nearby drink machine, popping in enough for four water bottles. He clumsily juggled the drinks over to Lisa, setting two of them down by his foot, and one on a rusted old mailbox nearby, and twisted the fourth one open. Lisa opened her mouth wide like a baby bird, her tongue hanging out. Bart laughed at the site, and her poured the water into his sister’s mouth, watching some of it run down her chin and chest. She swallowed what she could, giggling, and finished the bottle off. Bart tossed it into a receptacle on the corner, and came back, opening another bottle of water.
“No, it’s okay, Bart, I’m fine now, thank you.”
Bart shook his head, and held the bottle over Lisa. “You look hot, little sister. You need to cool off inside and out.”
And with that, he poured the water onto Lisa, soaking her hair and drenching her outfit. She squealed as the ice cold water ran down her entire body.
“Bart!” She stopped, bit her lip, and looked down at her pink vinyl bustier, now beading with water. “Thank you, Bart. I’m going to suck your brain out through your cock later, if Mistress Terri says I can.”
Bart sat down on the bench, tucking his cock back into his shorts.
“Good girl, Lees, you’re getting it now.”
Lisa pouted silently as her favourite toy disappeared back into Bart’s shorts. She squirmed in the puddle of ice water and diluted pussy juice, wriggling in anticipation for Terri to emerge from the salon so she could finally get some relief.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Despite the overclocked air conditioning turning the interior of the Springfield International Airport terminal into a massive art nouveau icebox, the average dress code of the people inside was what could charitably be called “Mardi Gras Gone Wild,” save for what was no doubt the corporate mandated presence of official uniforms on the airline employees and airport security. The common folk, however, were in various states of undress, some wearing lingerie or revealing clothing, some wearing so little as to not even have bothered. And this being Springfield, very few of them were contributing in any meaningful, positive way to the overall aesthetic by baring all to the world.
Homer, being Homer, had used his finely tuned senses to locate the airport bar, to isolate a stool, and to colonise it with plans to build a small nation upon its upholstery. The first step in his master plan was to get so drunk, he’d forget that he was doomed to inflict the presence of his depressingly mean-spirited sister-in-law, Selma, upon himself. The second step would come sometime after the drunkenness, and probably entailed more drunkenness. One could never have too much of a bad thing, after all. And so far, six beers in, his plan was going off without a hitch, if one didn’t count the swirling double-vision and the sour taste in the back of his throat that really wanted to come out the front. Homer managed to fumble his fat fingers into the handle loop of his newly refilled mug on the sixteenth try, and let out a small ‘Whoo-Hoo!’ at the achievement, as the bartender wiped down the bar, sopping up the beer Homer had spilled as his mind had grown foggier over the course of the afternoon.
“What was that, buddy? You say somethin’?”
“I ssssshrrrre did, Moe. I said, I sh-shaid, gimme anuvver!”
“Pal, you haven’t even finished this one yet. Am I gonna have to cut you off?”
“Pfffffnah, Moe, you know me. Izzyer ol’ pal Homer, I can han-handle m’beer.”
Homer let rip a belch that rattled the bottles behind the bar and burned the bartenders nostrils, then he dropped his meaty fist into the bowl of pretzels like a bomb, scooped up a handful, and shovelled them into his drooling, stinking maw.
“Shay, Moe, w-where’s Barney? Haven’t seen him around here lately.”
“For the eleventh time, Mister Simpson, I am not this Moe person. If you’re talking about Moe Szyzlak, he’s not permitted within fifty yards of this airport, not after what the drug sniffing dogs found in his socks. And the only Barney I know is Captain Barney Gumble, and he’s flying the six-fifteen to Singapore right about now.”
“Barney’s a pilot? The fuck did that happ’n?”
The bartender moved the upturned bowl of pretzels away from Homer’s grasping mitts and mopped up the drool under his spot at the bar.
“I assume he’s been a pilot all his life. He drinks at the pilot bar, and only pilots are allowed into the pilot bar, and he passed the test to see if he was in fact a pilot, so naturally one would assume-”
“Was his answer that he stowed his uniform in the overhead compartment?”
The bartender blinked for a second. “How did you–?”
“Because that’s the answer I gave when I wanted to drink at the pilot bar, too. And I’m not a pilot, I’m a noo-cleer safety tek-tek-teknishaguy. Any idiot can sneak into that bar, it’s not even hard!”
This bit of news ran through the bartender's mind like a freight train.
“Aw fuckballs, not again!”
He produced his phone from behind the counter, and quickly slapped it against his ears in a panic. “Control Tower Five, this is Jerry Ludlow. Yes, former Captain Jerry Ludlow, dammit! You have to stop Flight 615 to Bangkok, we’ve got another Code: Travolta! ….No, Heather, I’m not drunk…this time. And this has nothing to do with us, our children, or that thing I saw on the wing of the plane. I don’t care if you believe me about that thing or not, but this one’s real!”
Homer was sure that whatever the bartender was talking about was super exciting, but then again, the man’s back had been turned, and the beer tap was just sitting there, unattended and un-being-sucked-dry-by-him, so Homer did what any sane drunkard would do, and slowly, quietly, slipped across the bar with all the grace of a walrus on roller skates and planted his lips around the tap, sucking down as much beer as he could. He managed to gulp down three more mugsfull, when a familiar voice cut through the grungy fog of his brain.
“Dad! Why did I have to be right about you being in the bar?”
Homer attempted to turn his inverted body towards the new voice, but again, walrus on roller skates, and in a spectacle of pure and unadulterated catastrophe, he found himself crashing into the racks of liquor lining the shelves behind the bar, sending the bottles down upon himself. Homer scrambled into a crouching position, soaked with booze and riddled with shards of broken glass, seemingly trying to hide from the young blonde woman standing just inside the doorway. The bartender tapped his foot impatiently, apparently finished with whatever his phone call was about, a look of disdain on his face.
“Sir, I’m going to have to insist that you leave this establishment.”
Homer fluttered his hand urgently at the irate bartender, shushing him down. “Ssh, ssh! She doesn’t know I’m here yet.”
“Sir, she saw you first, she knows you’re here.”
“Nuh-uh, I’m hidin’. She doesn’t have a clue.”
“Dad, I know you’re there, I can hear you.”
“No you can’t! If I can’t see you, you can’t see me!” And with that, Homer covered his eyes with his booze-soaked hands, then quickly pulled them away, screaming as the alcohol seeped into his now-burning eyeballs. “Yaaaagh!”
He jumped back to his feet, hitting the shelves again and sending more bottles to the floor. He opened his mouth to defend himself, only to meet the horrified look of embarrassment on the blonde woman’s face, and the stern and searing look of hatred from the bartender.
“Ahem, I do believe I may have overshtayed my welcome a bit. Garcon, the tab, if you would.”
“Just fucking leave before I call security.”
Homer stumbled and staggered from the bar like a dancer moving to an erratic rhythm, lunging forward and tippling backwards uneasily. The young woman reluctantly pulled him into the main terminal’s vast chamber by the arm, her face beet-red with embarrassment.
“I cannot believe you did this. Actually, no, I can absolutely believe you did this. You were supposed to drive us home, Dad. How are you going to do that drunk off your ass?”
“Oh sweetie, I don’t use my ass to drive; I use the gas pedal, the steering wheel, and sometimes, if I’m feeling especially saucy, the turn signal.”
Maggie dropped her head into her chest, then let out a small chuckle. “Shit, Aunt Selma said you might be in a state when I found you. Come on, Dad, let’s go find some coffee to straighten you out.”
Maggie led Homer to the airport cafe, calling Selma to let her know where they were, and Homer nursed a coffee gingerly, the coffee burning away the comforting haze he had settled into at the bar. With the clarity came pain, specifically behind his eyes, and he groaned as his head cleared.
“Ooog...I wish beer had never been invented by the semi-nomadic Natufians for the purposes of ritual feasting. Why couldn’t they have been happy just drinking milk and honey?”
He rested his head on the table, trying to ignore the pounding beat running behind his eyes, when Maggie sat down across from him, sipping from her cappuccino.
“You’ll be fine, Dad. What I don’t understand is why you felt the need to get ripped in the middle of the day. What would Mom say?”
Homer sluggishly raised his head, cleared his throat and, in his level-best impression, “Homie, I know you’d rather dive dick-first into a wheat thresher then stand anywhere downwind of either of my hideous hag sisters, so I’ll understand if you feel the need to pre-emptively numb yourself to the droning hell into which you are about to enter.”
Maggie blinked in stark shock at her father’s performance, before taking another pull of her drink.
“You are getting way too good at that, Daddy.”
“Thank you, I’ve been practising.”
“But you shouldn’t be too hard on Aunt Selma. She’s taken really good care of us in Europe, I think we would have been robbed or scammed out of our money if it hadn’t been for her.”
Homer forced another swallow of coffee down his throat, forcing himself not to wretch.
“Alright, sweetie, I can be a big enough man to–”
A harsh, sour voice cut Homer off before he could finish his thought. “-Generate his own gravitational field.”
Homer turned in his seat, wobbling uneasily, and came face to snout with Selma Fucking Katherine Bouvier, the sagging, sallow sister to his dear, sweet, loving wife, varicose veins and cellulite incarnate, an emotional support cigarette clutched between her fingers. Behind her, a slightly chubby but otherwise adorable looking Asian woman in a pixie cut dragged two carts of luggage behind her.
He didn’t even think, the words just formed themselves whole-cloth in his brain and lept out of his mouth unbidden.
“Jesus buttery fuck, do you get just a little bit uglier every time I see you on purpose?”
And no sooner had somebody said that in Homer’s voice, using Homer’s mouth, that he instantly regretted it.
“Listen here, you sad sack of beer-soaked dog turds, if my sister hadn’t- ”
The beer, puppet master extraordinaire even at such low levels in the human bloodstream, made Homer stand up, fists clenched and heart racing as he rose to defend himself. Maggie shot up from her seat quickly, standing between her father and her aunt.
“Okay, hey! Here’s a fun thing we can do: why don’t we all drink some more coffee, make this cold, soulless corporation some more money they absolutely will not share with their employees, then we all go to our respective homes without having killed each other.”
Homer let out a grunting sigh, and upended his coffee into his mouth, ignoring the searing pain and letting the chemical alertness wash over him. “Alright, sweetie, I think your mother would appreciate your Aunt and I not killing one another.”
Homer brushed past Selma, trying very hard to ignore the disdainful snort sneezed in his direction, to offer a hand to Ling, who was struggling to pull both luggage carts on her own.
“Here, sweetie, let me help you get those to the car.”
Homer pulled at the more burdened cart, forcing himself to smile warmly through the throbbing pain at his niece. Ling nodded and returned the smile, trying to move past the awkward aura in the air. “Sure, thanks, Uncle Homer.”
Ling saw her mother’s disapproving glare, but said nothing, following behind her uncle and cousin as the four of them headed for the parking garage.
Homer grunted with effort as he lowered the last bag into the car. The ladies had already claimed their seats, Maggie and Ling in the back, and Selma in the passenger side, no doubt to spite Homer by sitting next to him, her arm hanging out the open window, her cigarette still scissored between two stained fingers.
“So how was Europe? How was the band?”
“It was okay. Cheap, mostly. Like, you can get a Krusyburger in Copenhagen for like, a quarter of what it is here.”
Homer closed the hatch and fitted himself snugly behind the steering wheel, closing the door as he slotted himself into the car.
“Well yeah, but what’s the quality like? What do the Dutch know about making American hamburgers?”
“Copenhagen is in Denmark, you fat moron.”
“It was fine, Dad.” Maggie was quick to try and defuse any further tensions before they got home. “They call it a bøfsandwich though, and put cabbage and gravy on it. It takes a while to get used to.”
“The Dutch burgers were good, too, though.” Ling piped in. Her eyes kept darting to her mother, as if she were making sure it was alright to speak to her uncle in her mother’s presence. “It was like a pastry, or a pie, stuffed with beef and ham.”
“And the band was amazing. There was this one set they did, in Dublin, I swear to God Jenny - that’s Jenny Chu, she’s the bass player - she must have been drunk or stoned or something, because she just staggers out onto the stage, nearly falls into the pit, some guy tried to grab at her, and she knocked out three of his teeth with an amp, got back up on stage, and just…pardon the language, just fucking destroyed the place. Like, in a good way, though.”
Homer smiled warmly into the rearview as Maggie told her story. He might have caught Selma’s disapproving glare out of his periphery, but he ignored it, and as he pulled the car out of the parking garage, he could almost see that even his dour and disapproving sister-in-law had started to soften a bit as the girls rattled off on their European adventure.
As the pink station wagon unloaded off the highway leading into the city proper, Maggie wrinkled her nose at something sweet and bitter and heavy all at once.
“What the hell is that rank? Dad, can we roll up the windows, please?”
“Hmm? Well, sweetie, I’d love to, but then we’d be trapped with your Aunt’s cigarette smoke, and…well, Selma, dear, you wouldn’t mind putting that out so we can roll up the windows, do you?”
Selma only stared cold daggers at Homer. “I haven’t had a smoke in two months, fatboy. They don’t let you smoke in public in Europe, and you can’t smoke on an airplane or in an airport. I couldn’t even sneak a smoke in the hotel bathrooms, they got detectors for that shit. You can pry my Slims from my cold, dead fingers.”
“Selma cold and dead? Stop, I can only get so erect,” Homer grumbled under his breath. “Sorry, sweetie, we’ll just have to push through until we get home. What are you smelling that’s so bad, anyway?”
“I don’t know, it’s like...like that time you tried to make homemade Gummi worms on the barbecue, and you spilled the corn syrup all over the coals. Only…worse. And stale. Stale burned sugar, mixed with…floor cleaner, or something chemical.”
“Yeah,” Ling had covered her nose and mouth with her hand, muffling her voice, “I smell it too. What is that, did a candy shop burn down?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t even smell anything. What about you, Selma dear?”
Selma took a drag of her cigarette, tapping the ashes out the open window. She looked at Homer, measuring her words carefully.
“No, the only thing I smell is…sweet, relaxing flavour, with a slight undertinge of mediocrity.”
Homer prickled at the jibe he was certain had just been lobbed at him.
“Soooo. I guess you’ll be excited to sleep in your own bed tonight, huh Ling? Those hotel beds can be so stiff and unfamiliar.”
Before Ling could open her mouth to speak, her mother interjected.
“Oh, we won’t be going home tonight. Patty and Ruth are having a date night or something, they were very insistent that they have some time alone. I guess the last two months don’t count or something. But anyway, I’ve already called Marge and she’s agreed to put us up for the night.”
Homer heard the acidic smile on Selma’s lips, even if he didn’t see it, and he ground his teeth trying to keep from screaming. “Oh, you don’t have to do that, Selma. I’m sure a nice, pricey motel would be more than willing to put you up for the night.”
“Oh, but we’d simply love to visit with family, H-Homer.” She struggled to say his name without adding an insult, mostly succeeding, even if the nuanced inflection of a barb was still present in her delivery. “It’s been far too long since we’ve seen Marge and the kids. It’ll do us all some good to sit and talk and catch up on the family gossip.”
It all became too much for Homer, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t contain an agonised groan. He wanted to beat his head into the steering wheel, hoping that if he killed himself with enough blunt force to his head, then he would be spared the tenth circle of Hell that the ancients called ‘House Guests,’ but the sound of Maggie’s voice from the back made him reconsider.
“So what’s up with Bart and Lisa? I’ve been trying to text them, but Lisa hasn’t been answering, and I keep getting a “cannot send” from Bart’s number. Are they okay?”
“Hmm?” Homer snapped back to reality. “Oh, Lisa’s been busy with a new project lately, and you know how she can get when she discovers some new thing to obsess over.” That new thing being Bart’s hard cock and how many loads she can coax out of it, but no need to tell Maggie that. “And I think Bart misplaced his phone or something.” More like, Lisa had jammed it up her crotch without checking if it could handle the moisture, but again, not his story to tell.
The car fell silent as they passed into the residential neighbourhoods, turning down onto Evergreen Terrace and closing the distance on home. It was Ling who noticed something strange was up, pointing at a couple walking their dog, both completely naked, and neither especially young, attractive, or fit.
“Oh my god, are those people naked?”
Maggie snapped her head up from her phone, and craned it to look out the window.
“What? Where?”
Ling pointed behind the car as they passed, and Maggie squinted to see who her cousin was talking about, but the car had already passed by a line of bushes, obscuring the view.
“Oh, you’ll get all sorts of weirdos in this neighbourhood.” Homer dismissed the chatter from the back seat. “You got your nudies, your hippies, your Flanderseseseses, all sorts of oddballs and freaks. Luckily,” by now he was turning into the family driveway, “you got us normal folks here to balance it all out.”
Selma snorted, then cocked an eyebrow. “You know, Homer, the sad thing is, you might be right about you being the most normal person in this neighbourhood.”
Homer killed the car engine, and lugged the ladies' bags into the house, loaded down with bags and suitcases and receiving no help from any of them at all. He had barely had time to dump them into a pile by the door, when Marge appeared from the kitchen, her hair still wet from her shower. She ran up to Maggie, and swept the young woman into an engulfing hug.
“Maggie honey!”
Maggie returned the hug, trying to pry her neck from her mother’s embrace. “Hi, Mom,” she said weakly, almost embarrassed to be entrapped by her mother, “we’re home.”
Marge led her daughter, niece and sister into the kitchen, where the kettle was slowly simmering on the stovetop. “Homer, bring the girls’ luggage upstairs, please and thank you.”
Homer grumbled but begrudgingly loaded his arms with the bags again, and muttered his way up the stairs. Once he had climbed to the top, he looked around for a place to put them, and decided to just stack them in the hallway, let the ladies figure it out later.
“Oh, and Homie,” Marge called out from the kitchen, “bring down some linens and spare pillows for the couch for Selma and Ling, please.”
More grumbling, more muttered curses as Homer pulled a stack of bedsheets and pillows from the linen closet by Maggie’s room, and despite the arthritic creaking and cracking of his knees, he carried them downstairs to the drawing room, and set them on the couch in front of the fireplace. He rolled his neck, wincing as the joints popped, and leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, rubbing his temples as a headache began making its presence known to him.
“Honey, I’m feeling a bit tired, do you need anything else before I take a little nap?”
Marge looked up at Homer as she poured out four cups of tea. “No, I think we’re all settled down here, Homer. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I just…my knees are sore, my back is sore, my head is starting to hate me now. I just need a few hours to recover and I’ll be back to my old self.”
Marge smiled gently, “Alright Homie. Sweet dreams, darling.”
Homer returned her smile, leaned in to kiss her cheek, and caressed Maggie’s head as he passed out of the kitchen into the front hall. Back up the stairs, ignoring the popping noises his knees were making, he stripped off his shirts and pants and left them in a heap on the floor. Before hitting the pillow, he made a detour into the bathroom, popped open the medicine cabinet, and shook two aspirins from the bottle, swallowing them dry with an audible gulp.
With a stretch and a yawn and a scratch to his fat belly, Homer slipped under the cool sheets, coughed into his pillow, and settled into a warm, peaceful slumber, as the muffled voices downstairs buzzed and murmured and slowly faded into incoherent white noise.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Marge couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “Young lady, how could you do this without consulting me?”
“It’s no big deal, Mom. It barely even hurt.”
Maggie had pulled her pants down to show off her right buttcheek, which now bore the permanent autograph of some musician Marge had never heard of etched into the taut, supple flesh of her youngest daughter.
“Margaret Evelyn Lenny Simpson, you know damned well I’m not talking about the pain. I’m talking about my daughter flashing her fanny at some rock star so he can sign it, then she goes off and gets his signature carved into her skin. What were you thinking?”
Maggie pulled up her pants, biting her lip nervously. “Ummm…mostly I was thinking, ‘Omigod, absinthe is amazing, I bet if I ask real nicely, James Englehardt will sign my ass.’ That and, ‘Oh god were those regular brownies we bought at the bakery, or Amsterdam specials?’”
“So you got drunk, got high, and showed a stranger your butt?”
“No, I got drunk, possibly got high, and showed an entire Rotterdam football arena my butt. They even showed it on RTV Noord, uncensored, because they can do that over there. Hey, Aunt Selma flashed the band her tits in five different cities!”
Selma chuckled, draining another cup of tea. “Oh yeah, that drummer was cute. The way his eyes bulged when he saw my girls, woof! If I were a few decades younger, he’d have been banging me instead of those drums.”
“Selma, please do not encourage my child to carve the names of random strangers into her body.”
“Oh no, that was all her. I suggested maybe getting a t-shirt made up with the autograph, the tattoo was all her.”
Marge turned to Ling, who was finishing off her third lemon sandwich cookie in as many minutes.
“What about you, Ling? You didn’t get any strange tattoos, did you?”
Ling swallowed her cookie, shaking her head, “Eugh, needles, no way. Not on my skin.”
“Well that’s good.”
Ling plopped her purse onto the table, and pulled out a pair of black silk boxers, unfolding them with pride. “But I did get James’ shorts.”
Maggie giggled, and the two cousins gave each other a high five. Selma was less enthused.

“And just how did you get those, young lady?”
“Oh Mom, relax, I made him use a condom.”
Marge choked on her tea, before Ling smiled widely like a Cheshire Cat. “No, god! Can you imagine? No, I asked him if he had something better than an autograph. I wanted to show Maggie up, and he took me backstage and gave me these. They’re clean, he had them in his go-bag in the dressing room. He even signed them with a white-pen. See?”
She held the shorts up, and sure enough, in white ink was a near indecipherable signature near the y-flap in the front, the handwriting matching what Maggie was sporting on her ass.
“James Englehardt doesn’t sleep with groupies or fans, Mom, he’s gay and married. And like, really devoted to his husband, apparently.”
Marge coughed into her fist nervously. “Well, Selma, did you bring back any souvenirs that don’t involve a strange man’s underwear or permanent scarification?”
“I brought back booze, Marge. Lots of it. You wouldn’t believe the duties I had to pay on them all.”
“You brought back booze?”
“Lots of booze.” She emphasised.
Marge thought for a second, then smiled. “Well then why the fucking hell are we sitting around here drinking tea like a bunch of old women? Go break it out, I’ll get the good glasses.”
While Marge reached into the cupboards and pulled out the fine wine glasses, Selma trudged up the stairs. At the top of the steps, she heard Homer’s soft, whining snore from behind the bedroom door, and shook her head, wondering how her sister could put up with that doofus. Turning around, she stopped as soon as she saw the hapdashed pyramid of suitcases Homer had built and abandoned.
“Oh for the love of..that fat, lazy, half-witted…”
She dug through the bags, looking for the calico-coloured Samsonite suitcase, and found it on the bottom of the pyramid. She carefully extracted it, and headed back downstairs, grunting every time the bag slammed into her legs with every step she took.
She carefully placed the suitcase on the kitchen table, popped it open, and pulled out six bottles, handing them to one of the girls as she produced them.
“We’ve got some jenever from Holland, some Albanian rakja, I picked up some ouzo in Greece, this one is pastis from France, that’s some Italian palinca, and this one is Hungarian unicum.”
Maggie proudly pointed out that last bottle as Selma handed it to Marge. “I picked that one out, I thought the name was funny.”
Selma rolled her eyes, “Yes, we all laughed at the joke.”
“So many different types of liquor. And I always thought Europe only had wine. Well, crack one open and we’ll have ourselves a tasting party to celebrate the family all being on one continent again!”
The Bouvier sisters shared a smile, as Selma popped open the ouzo, and began pouring it out into the four glasses. And as they sat around, drinking and gossiping and laughing, they didn’t even notice the strange burning sweetness floating in from the open window.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Lisa had taken to bouncing on the balls of her feet in a crouching position to take her mind off the aching throb of her eager and starving cunt, to no avail. She needed to be fucked, needed to cum and to be cummed on and in in order to preserve her sanity. She had taken to eyeing up every man who passed by, mentally sizing up the bulges in their pants and trying to determine if any of them might ring her bell harder than Bart did. She abandoned this diversion when she saw Jeff Albertson, the Comic Book Guy, coast by on a foot scooter in nothing but a Speedo. Suddenly the game had lost its lustre, and she instead returned her gaze to her brother’s tent. He was busy watching the clouds, or possibly sleeping on the nearby bench, one hand tucked inside the waistband of his shorts. Lisa licked her lips and imagined it was her hand gripping his hard cock, stroking him to completion and licking up his messy load, when the bell to the salon rang as the door opened, and out stepped a pale young woman with a long purple undercut combed over the right side of her head, heavy pierced tits bouncing as she stepped down onto the sidewalk. Terri did a little spin to show off her new hairdo, the left side of her head shaved clean to the skull, the right side draped in a long curtain of purple hair.
“Well, babies, what do you think? Do you love it as much as I do?”
Bart sat up from the bench, and ran his fingers through Terri’s hair. “So this is the look you went with?”
Terri bit her lip coquettishly. “I thought it made me look different enough that nobody will ever call me ‘whichever one you are’ again.”
“Was that really a big deal?”
“Bart, honey, I’m a twin. I’ve been Sherri’s shadow my entire life. Do you honestly think I enjoyed wearing bows in my hair? Fuck, I would have kicked a kitten if it meant I get a tan or wear something of my own.”
Bart thought for a minute, then nodded, smiling warmly. “Alright, I think I get it. And I do like it, it’s kinda…punk, y’know?”
Terri pulled away from Bart, moving her attention over to Lisa, who stood up, looking at Terri with hang-dog eyes.
“Ooh, I like that. Terri the punk-slut. Get me some ink and a pierced clitty and fucking own that shit, right slut?”
Terri took Lisa’s bound hands, and untied her from the bike rack.
“Were you a good girl, Lisa? You did as you were told and kept your hands away from your pussy?”
Lisa nodded silently. Terri cocked her head to the side, “I can’t hear your head nodding, slut.”
“Yes Mistress, I was good”
Terri turned to Bart, who had been handed the lead to Lisa’s leash.
“Was she good, Bart?”
“Better than gold, babe.”
Terri’s wicked look softened, and she turned back to Lisa, looming in almost too close to the poor girl.
“Better than gold, hm? I like that, better than gold. Well, since you were a good girl, you. Get. A. Treat.”
Terri punctuated her promise by kissing Lisa’s nose three times, followed by a sensuous lick, and finally topped with a kiss so deep and intense, Lisa thought her breath was being sucked out of her lungs. Terri, flicked a finger under the quivering Lisa’s chin, and turned, taking the leash from Bart, and slipping her hand into his shorts, securing a decent grip around his hardening root. She led them both down the sidewalk, towards a small park, to the shade of a massive tree surrounded by flowering bushes. Terri stopped at the foot of the tree, took a deep breath, and felt a warm tingling sensation fill her lungs, before she sat against the tree, her knees parted slightly.
She tugged on the leash, enticing Lisa to sit on the ground.
“Come sit with me, Lisa. Right there, so that our pussies are kissing, that’s it.”
Lisa clumsily complied, slipping one leg over Terri’s, sitting on the other, and inching herself forward until her sticky, glistening slit was mashed against Terri’s leaking cunt. Terri moaned as Lisa pushed against her, the sound of their mutual wetness pressing together, and dug her long nails into Lisa’s ass.
“Shit yesssss, that’s it honey,” Terri hissed, her eyes darkened and predatory with lust, “fuck me with that pussy. Feel how wet I am? Ah shit, Lisa, you feel so fucking hot.”
She pumped her hips upwards, thrusting at Lisa, rubbing the two slits together. Lisa melted against Terri, cooing airily at the electric shiver running up her spine, then she began bucking her hips, her lower body slowly undulating against Terri’s.
Terri looked over LIsa’s shoulder, eyeing Bart up like a piece of meat, her attention especially focused on the thickening bulge taking over his shorts. His slack-jaw and dumb expression made her smile wider, hungrier, and she beckoned for him to come forward with a coaxing finger, her other hand splaying Lisa’s ass as wide as she could, exposing her tight, winking pucker.
“And here’s your treat, Bart honey. Your sister’s tight, moist, virgin asshole, ready to receive your hard cock while she bumps my kitty.”
Bart’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Did I stutter, stud? While your sister fucks me, you get to fuck. Her. Ass.”
A wet spot had formed on the front of Bart’s shorts, and was spreading out slowly. “Lisa? Is this what you want?”
Lisa whimpered like a wounded animal, nodding her head quickly. She half-turned to face Bart, as far as she could, tears running down her face.
“God yes, Bart! Please pound my asshole and fill it with your hot meat! Don’t worry about lube, I’ll take you dry!”
Bart’s body responded on its own, his hands pulling his cock from his shorts without him thinking about it, as he wandered closer to Lisa’s ass.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Bart, we’ve been over this, I like it when it hurts. Pound my ass dry and wreck me, please!”
Bart hovered over his sister, uncertain of what to do, his knob furtively wedged between Lisa’s soft, warm asscheeks. She pleaded with her eyes for him to use her, but it wasn’t until she pulled him in for a deep, passionate kiss and whispered, “Please, baby, I need it, and I’ll forgive you if it’s too much.” that Bart found the courage to push himself into her ass.
Lisa’s anal ring wasn’t exactly on board with today’s impromptu sodomy lesson, and stubbornly refused access to Bart’s phallic invader. She inhaled through gritted teeth and tried to relax her muscles, seething as her brother’s cockhead pushed into her. She felt a tear, bit down on her lip, and pushed herself back against him, holding her ass open wider. Terri saw the agony in Lisa’s face, and ran her hand down Lisa’s stomach to her slippery clit, hoping to mitigate some of her lover’s pain. As Bart squeezed himself past Lisa’s sphincter, Terri flicked at her swollen, reddened button, causing Lisa to flinch in a wave of conflicting sensations. Lisa slapped her hand into the trunk of the tree to support herself, bracing herself against Bart’s intrusion into her guts, hissing as he slowly, incrimentally stretched her out. She whined and grunted against the burning, searing pain, pushing against it, through it, until in one moment of unheralded bravery, Bart surged forward, coaxing a tormented shriek from Lisa’s lips, and mashing his pubis against her back, his member filling the lower ten inches of Lisa’s guts.
Sweat ran down Lisa’s cheeks, mingling with her tears. She panted like she had run a marathon, her brain trying to parse the mixed signals she was getting from her brother’s brutal fucking of her ass, and the utter bliss of Terri rutting their cunts together. She wiped her face, smearing away the layer of sweat and tears and drool, and opened her eyes to see Terri’s concerned face. Did Terri not know it would hurt? Had she expected Lisa to just take Bart’s cock like it was nothing? Whatever her expectation had been, the reality had worried her greatly, and she caressed Lisa’s face lovingly, hoping to soothe her suffering. Lisa smiled weakly, bent down to assure Terri that she was fine with a soft and gentle kiss, then she rose back up, using her spare hand to brace herself between the tree and Bart’s chest, and began rocking back onto his cock, fucking herself on his meat. It was slow at first, and stuttering, as she tried to find the rhythm that best allowed her to move, without also hollowing herself out, but after a few minutes, a few stops and starts as she acclimated to her new impalement, and a shuddering orgasm as both her lovers hit her happy spot, and Lisa was able to piston herself back and forth between Bart’s cock and Terri’s twat, grunting like an animal at the trough.
Bart cleaved himself to Lisa, pressing his chest to her back, hands arms around her waist and hands toying with hers and Terri’s tits, mauling them mercilessly Terri pulled Lisa’s face down, kissing away her tears.
“Are you alright, hon? Do you want him to stop?”
Lisa shook her head, forced a smile, and gritted her teeth. “No, I want this. I need this. It burns and it hurts and I love every fucking second of it.”
She groaned as Bart began truly humping her ass, picking up speed as her hole now welcomed him into her. She dug her teeth into her lower lip, purring in agonised pleasure, her eyes rolling back into her head.
“Mmmmfffffuck! Aw fuck, Bart, yes! Plow that asshole, give me that butt-fucking cock, you fucking beautiful bastard!”
Cheered on by the half-maddened glare in Lisa’s eyes as much as the lusty growl in her voice, Bart threw caution to the wind, and redoubled his efforts, placing a hand on Lisa’s back, just above the dimpled cleft of her ass, and began pistoning his cock in and out of her bruised, bleeding asshole. Lisa squealed in pain, fucking back into her brother, tits swaying like enticing pendula, swearing up a storm as Bart stretched her out.
“Fucking fuck! Oh shit, yes, it hurts so fucking good! Cum up my fucking ass, Bart! Make me fucking squirt all over Terri! Fuck, Terii, baby, fucking ram your cunt into me! I want both your loads, please! Fucking cum all over me, the both of you!”
Terri gripped Lisa’s hips harder, humped her hips like a jackhammer into Lisa’s pussy, watching her new lover go insane with lust, breathing reaching a maddening crescendo until she let out a pained howl, her body trembling like a tree in a storm, until she went rigid, screeching bloody murder, and collapsed against Terri’s tits, her cunt flooding out a torrent of warm girlcum.
Bart and Terri didn’t last much longer after Lisa exploded all over them; the two of them sandwiching the barely-conscious girl between their genitals, fucking her dazed body feverishly. Terri dug her fingers into Lisa’s flesh, mashed her cunt against Lisa’s, hammering away at her until she went stiff, moaning and shaking and spraying her pussy cream onto the two Simpson siblings. The sight, sound, and smell of the mingled orgasms, combined with the sensation of his sister's anus milking his cock, sent Bart over the edge, and he shuddered as his balls exploded up her tailpipe, flooding her guts with his hot seed. He didn’t even have the sense of mind to bother counting how many cock-blasts he shot into Lisa, only tumbling backwards onto his ass once he was spent, his meat firmly lodged inside his sister’s asshole, his breathing ragged and shallow.
It wa somewhere between ten seconds and a million years when one of the fucked-out lovers stirred, spoke, or made a coherent thought, and when it finally happened, it was Lisa, who had forced her weakened limbs to push herself away from the tree, and to curl against Bart’s chest. Terri was next, following Lisa to Bart’s side, sandwiching the spent youth between their heaving, sweat-scented breasts, snuggling into his neck gently. The two girls listened to Bart calming his breath, eyes locked with one another, fingers entwined. Terri planted a soft kiss on Lisa’s knuckles.
“So how was your first butt-fuck, babe?”
Lisa groaned in pain, holding her hand to her leaking ass. She checked herself, seeing a streak of blood along her palm, mixed with Bart’s cum, and showed it to Terri.
“Should I be worried about that?”
Terri looked, and shook her head. “That’s normal. It should stop in a few minutes if you apply pressure. But you’ll be sitting on an ice pack for a few days. Didn’t Bart buy you some toys so you could train your ass?”
Lisa nodded sleepily, closing her eyes. “Yeah, but I wanted him to break my ass open. Toys would have been too gentle.”
“Hmph…you are one fucked up slut, Lisa Simpson.”
“Yep,” she yawned, which inspired Terri and Bart to mimic her, “and you love me, Theresa Mackleberry.”
Both girls laid their clenched hands over Bart’s heart, feeling it slow to a sleepy beat.
“Fucking right I do, slut.”
Bart licked his lips and spoke, his voice a parched croak.
“You two girls are going to kill me, you know.”
Terri and Lisa clung to Bart, slipping a leg each over his thigh. “We love you too, Bart.”
He chuckled, planting a hand on either ass. Lisa yelped a bit, but settled into it.
“And I love you sluts. Now let me rest, I don’t think I can walk for a while.”
“That’s alright,” Lisa whispered, closing her eyes and letting the warm summer air wash over her. She only now remembered that they were in the park, and felt her pussy tingle at the idea that someone must have seen or heard their rabid threesome, an idea that warmed her well-fucked depths like a gentle bath. “We aren’t going anywhere, either.”
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“No, no, thasss no’ what happened at all, you silly cunt!”
Selma pointed her glass at Marge accusingly. Her eyes were glazed over, her movements almost ragdollish and her words slurred. Three of the bottles had been half-drained, with Marge nursing a glass of the Unicum, her eyes droopy and red.
“I think I know my own life, Selma dear.”
“An’ I say you married that fat oaf in…in th’ Seventies! You were dancing to the Hustle, Patty an’ me heard it through the walls.”
“They played disco on the radio in the…whenever times it was! Disco is forever!”
“Hey, I married Disco Stu, I know the shelf-life of disco like the back of my hand. An’ an’ lemme…lemme tell you, little sister, I-”
Maggie stood up from the table, uneasy and lurching on her feet. “You both don’t know what yer talking about, the best peanut butter was Peter Pan! That shit w-was…that shit was the shit! You know? That shit was the shit, yeah.”
Ling was on the floor in front of the fridge, hugging the large bottle of ouzo like it were a life preserver, snoring gently as the women in her family got to the heart of society’s truly pressing issues - why Marge couldn’t pinpoint the exact year she and Homer met, whether or not MacGyver could beat up Magnum, PI, and what sandwich spread from the 1960’s, which had long been discontinued and Maggie would have no reason to even know had ever existed, was best.
“Oh shush, girl, I’m your mother an’ I know best. An’ what I know is that I love you kids, you’re like…like the best kids. Best in all of Springfield, right? Selma, right?”
Selma drained her glass, looking through it as if expecting more booze to be at the bottom.
“Fuckin’ right, Marjorie. Mmmmarjorie. Wow, this is good stuff. Yeah, Maggie, you guys are the best kids. Like, those wieners next door? Whatsisnames? Raaaawd and Taaaawwd? Fuck ‘em, they suck. And that blue-haired kid with the nose an’ his parents are twins or some shit? Fuck ‘im, too, he sucks.”
“Milhouse.” Marge offered.
“Fuckin’ kind of name is Milhouse? Nah nah, you guys got the better kids. Except for me, my Ling is a fuckin’ treasure. I’d-I’d-I’d fuckin’ take a bullet for that girl.”
Maggie tugged at the collar of her shirt, sweat beading on her forehead. She staggered away from the table, and mopped at her wet hair.
“It’s too fuckin’ hot for this bullshit. I’m go-gonna go-” she looked out the kitchen window and saw the old treehouse standing against the twilight sky. “I’m gonna go sit in the treehouse. Gotta be cooler out there than in here. You ladies keep talkin’, I’ll be right back.”
Maggie stumbled around the table and outs the back door, not that her mother or aunt noticed her leaving, they were too busy arguing over whether Milhouse’s parents were twins or cousins.
“Or or or, here me out…they could be CLONES!”
“Yer outta yer…clones? Fuckin’ seriously, Marge? I’d ‘spect that kind of stupid from Homer, but yer smarter than that. Get outta here with yer clones.”
“Well then why do you think they look so much alike then, Miss-Miss-Miss Fuckin’ Smartypants?”
“Because they’re the same person, but like, from different points in time.”
“Whaaaaat? Yer crazy, that doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, see, it makes sense. Like, the dad, he’s a sad little loser, right? Can’t get a woman. I mean, he did, but like, how? It don’t make no sense. So, he becomes a woman, and travels back in time, and hooks up with his past-self.”
“But they have a kid.”
“Naaaah, nobody hates their kid enough to call them ‘Milhouse.’ He’s the same guy, too, just from the past. He married his trans-self from the future, and they adopted his younger self from the past, it’s the only thing that makes rational sense!”
Marge stared at her older sister, bleary eyed and sick. She dropped her empty glass limply onto the table, and lay her head down on her arm.
“Yeah, shit, that does make sense.”
Marge murmured something, then dissolved into a soft snore, falling asleep at the table.
Selma stood up shakily, surveying the now quiet kitchen, and realised that her bladder was nearly fit to burst. She stepped over her slumbering, drunken daughter on the floor, and headed towards the downstairs bathroom just off the kitchen. Fumbling for the light, she took one look inside, and recoiled in disgust. A small, faint voice in the back of her mind seemed to recall Ling saying something about not feeling well, then something about nobody using the downstairs bathroom for a while, and now Selma understood - her drunken child had gotten sick at some point, and in her inebriated state, had forgotten how to aim.
So the downstairs bathroom was a write-off. Luckily the Simpson house had a second bathroom.
On legs made of cooked spaghetti, Selma staggered up the stairs, took a right at the top, and nearly tripped over the pyramid of suitcases Homer had built earlier.
“Fuggin’ hell, Homer, you stupid fuggin’ jackass sonova–”
Selma tried to step over the luggage to get to the upstairs bathroom, but her balance wasn’t co-operating at the moment, and it took nearly slipping on one of Ling’s bags to convince her to try something different. But what? She needed an answer fast, or else she’d wet herself, and she wasn’t looking forward to that prospect.
Then, a small light went on in her brain. Wasn’t there an ensuite in this house, a bathroom adjacent to the master bedroom? She had only seen inside Marge and Homer’s bedroom a handful of times, the idea of what went on in there haunted her dreams, but she was certain she had seen a bathroom.
She gently turned the doorknob to the master bedroom, careful not to wake the slumbering Neanderthal within. The room was dark, but she could see from the hallway light the heaving shapeless form under the sheets that was no doubt Homer, clumped up to one side like a log. Quickly she stepped into the room, silently closed the door behind herself, and tiptoed to the bathroom.
Selma was quick, as quick as she could be given her compromised faculties, and her chemically-induced fatigue. She yawned wide and loud, her head heavy and full of cotton. She was able to flush, barely able to wipe herself, and somehow she managed to wash her hands, not that she remembered that last part, only that her hands were wet but didn’t smell of piss, and snapped off the light. Her insides were warm and her brain was foggy in a good way, and in the darkness she felt an overwhelming urge to stay, to find some warm dark corner and sleep until dawn.
In the morning she wouldn’t have been able to explain why she slipped into Marge’s bed. It’s not something she had ever planned on doing, but her limbs were like lead, her head was a rock, and the liquid fire in her belly had made her slow and stupid, and so she decided, as much as any drunk person can be said to ‘decide’ anything, to sleep in Marge’s bed.
And she did, for a while. She didn’t know how long. She was certain she had slept. She had closed her eyes and let the warmth take her away. She might have even dreamed, she couldn’t be quite certain.
What she was certain of was her hand moving on its own, holding something hot and hard and smooth and thick and oh Christ it smelled so good, so raw and filthy. She wasn’t even aware of what she was doing, but she was enjoying it. By the time some random bit of logic drifted into her brain and ended her sleep, she had managed to work Homer’s fat cock into a foamy, precum lather.
Not that she understood where she was. It was dark, she didn’t know what time it was or where she was, but there was a man with a hard-on within handjob range and Selma Audrey Katherine Bouvier was not going to let this pass her by.
“Fucking hell, pal, I dunno who you are, but you brought enough sausage for everyone, I see.”
The only response she got from the lumpy lothario huddled next to her was a low gurgling sound and the rhythmic throbbing of his dick in her hand. The warmth in her belly spread out and down towards her long-neglected cunt; she hadn’t been fucked in so very long, since before she had adopted Ling at least, and that was ages ago. With a wicked smile, Selma ducked her head under the bedsheet, and ran her long, pointed tongue along the shaft of the cock clutched in her hand. It tasted salty and savoury, like a good cock should. It was the tastiest meal, the sweetest candy, the most potent drug, that she had ever had, as far as she could remember, and she was hell-bent on taking as much of it as she could. Pressing her face into the musky shaft, Selma inhaled deeply, a shiver of pre-orgasmic want running down her spine.

Her tongue snaked out of her mouth, almost unbidden, as if it had a mind of its own, and reached for the fat, heavy balls of Selma’s hidden lover. She moaned as she tongued her sleeping brother-in-law, tickling up his sack and savouring the strong, rich tang of his sweaty, salty nuts. She deftly sucked one into her mouth, slurping loudly on the meaty nut, drool running down her chin and onto Homer’s swollen belly. With a soft, wet pop, she extracted the ball from her mouth, and buried her face into the slumbering man’s crotch, snorting and inhaling the masculine musk like a pig hunting for truffles, her fat fingers strumming the lips of her long-neglected twat like the strings of a guitar. She probed into herself, one two fingers working up a lather, until she felt a fire spread up throughout her body. Mad with blind hunger, she climbed up the shadowy body, threw a leg over the silhouette beneath her, and positioned the strange cock at the entrance to her pussy, squatting above the fat, meaty spear. She looked to her right, and saw their shadows on the wall, backlit by the headlights of a passing car and a streetlamp. Something made her lurch reflexively, an orgasmic shudder of anticipation. She had been starved for a good fuck for far too long, and her she was, in unfamiliar surroundings, her head pounding, her mouth sour, her heart pounding beneath her sagging breasts. She hesitated for a second, hovering above the first cock she had tasted, had felt in far too many years, unsure if she could take something so thick and long after such a torturous draught.
She licked her lips, savouring the ball sweat still lingering there. “Well fucking hell, Selma, the world hates a coward. Either you ride this cock, or you go back to jilling yourself over old pictures of Richard Dean Anderson.”
She gulped, and the man moved in his sleep, murmuring something dreamily. A name, something familiar. Selma’s head was too foggy with drink and the ghost of sleep to recognize it, but she knew that if this man woke up, he might take the cock away from her, might find her unappealing and unworthy of a good fuck, and she couldn’t let that happen, not when she was so close to feeling the warmth again.
Closing her eyes, she let herself drop onto the shaft, whining as it pushed her wide lips open and slammed hard against the back of her cunt.
Homer lifted his head at the sensation of a great weight dropping on him. He had been somewhere else just now - a saloon? A tavern? Some sort of bar, one served by dinosaurs and robots and other bizarre creatures - and now he was in the dark, faintly lit by some pale orange light from the distance, with a shadowy figure sitting on top of him. It felt familiar, delightfully so, and in his hazed condition, he recognized tits bouncing just above him.
“Mmmmmarge,” he moaned out sleepily. The bar must have been a dream, he reasoned, but this dream is better. A heavy leaden hand reached up, groping the unseen tit, and a raspy, low moan rose up from “Marge“as she bounced on Homer’s hard cock. He managed to rattle out what was meant to be “I guess you didn’t get enough of my dick this morning, huh?” but in his confusion, came out as, “guuuyan’tganuffmud’kzzzzmrrnguuuuh.”, and groaned as Selma’s warm, wet cunt pulsated and undulated on his shaft, massaging it, milking it, sucking it like a straw. The bedsprings squeaked and rattled as the two figures groped and rutted, and Homer rose off his pillow, his mouth finding “Marge’s”, his tongue wrangling hers like two eels entwined.
Selma’s head swam as her g-spot was battered and bruised. She only vaguely recalled the last man she had fucked, some used car salesman in a night club restroom, but this one was easily the best she had ever had. She could see flashes of light and coloured bubbles float before her eyes with every downward thrust onto the magical dick sliding snugly inside of her, and his warm, sour breath filled her lungs as they kissed. His hands were rough and calloused, grabbing and twisting her nipples until she wanted to scream. Her lover growled from the back of his throat, and roughly rolled her onto the bed, his steely girth driving into her from a higher angle now, slamming into her depths over and over again.,
“Oh shit!” She could only hiss out the words breathlessly, his weight pushing the air from her chest as he pounding into her, “Fuck me! Fuck me harder! Make me cum, fill me up, please!”
Homer pressed himself against Selma, sweating and grunting into her, balls slapping against her ass as his reptile brain took over and tried to breed her like the animals they both were.
The bedframe rocked and slammed against the wall, shaking the end table nearby and toppling the alarm clock to the floor. Selma looked to the wall, and saw the two shadows, melded into a single rocking blob of tangled limbs, and she dug her nails into her partners back, drawing him closer to her, determined to keep him inside of her until the very end, until they both exploded.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The sound of creaking and hammering and animalistic grunts stirred Marge out of the fog of drunken sleep. It hurt to open her eyes, but it sounded like someone was trying to tear her house down, and even intoxicated, Marge had strong moral objections to that sort of thing. Lifting her heavy head from the table, she looked around the kitchen, blinking groggily through the haze.
“Fuckin’ hell is that noise?”
She rose to her feet, stumbling a bit on the chair leg, and walked to the foot of the stairs. Sure enough, the pounding was coming from above her, from the bedrooms.
“Goddammit, Bart! Lisa!” Her voice was a tormented crackle, her head too sore to be anything more intimidating. “Knock it the fuck off already, it’s too late for this shit!”
The squeaking and grunting and moaning continued, and annoyed, Marge set her foot upon the step, slowly and uneasily climbing.
Little bastards, fucking at all hours of the night, she thought. I love them, but fucking hell do they have to wreck the house when they screw?
Bracing herself against the wall as she stepped onto the second floor, she approached Bart’s door, nearly stumbling on the pyramid of suitcases piled on the floor, only barely planting her hand against the door frame to save herself.
“Dammit, Homer, do you ever not half-ass things?”
A moan of pure bliss reminded Marge of her purpose upstairs, and she turned around to the source of the noise.
Her bedroom, not Bart’s. Not Lisa’s. Hers.
A cold dread washed over her as her trembling hand pressed against the door. She only needed to push for it to open, and she only had to open it a sliver, just enough to let in a wisp of light from the hallway, to see Homer, hunched and fucking away into someone underneath him, someone who sounded very similar to Marge herself, but someone who had also forgotten how to shave their legs. Marge’s eyes went wide, and she staggered back silently, a hand to her mouth. She wanted to kick the door in, pull her husband off of her sister, and banish Selma from her life forever. She wanted to be angry, to scream.
But mostly she wanted to suck Homer’s cock clean after he seeded Selma. And that thought confused her.
She pressed her eye against the crack in the door again, careful not to make a sound, and watched as Homer’s ass rose and dropped into Selma’s pelvis, her hairy legs wrapped around his ample waist. Homer’s breathing was haggard and shallow, and Marge could see a sheen of sweat coating his body. The bed jumped and shook under their assault, and Marge was afraid that it would buckle under their weight the way Lisa’s bed had under the rutting fury of Bart and the girls. Marge pressed her hand between her legs, her thighs sticky with her own heat, her eyes glued on the vulgar scene playing out before her.
“Oooh yes, right there! Take that pussy, baby, fucking take it! I need to be fucked, I need your fat fucking cock! Give me every fucking inch of that dick, baby!”
Selma’s words shocked Marge, but she couldn’t tear herself away. Her outrage and anger was dissolving like seafoam, leaving only lust and arousal behind.
“Yes, Homie,” she whispered in hushed tones that even she could barely hear, “take that fucking pussy. Breed that bitch, honey, make her squeal on your cock.”
Marge hiked up the hem of her dress, pulled her panties aside, and teased a finger along the lips of her own pussy, furtively dipping into her honeypot, then licking her oils off the slickened digit. As Homer’s downward plunging into Selma’s cunt hastened, so too did Marge’s strumming of her wet pussy, her fingers drilling in and out of her hole. Her thumb rubbing against her clit in a manic frenzy.
“Fuck her, baby; fuck my fat-assed sister and bring her off…oh god yes, fucking fill her up, give it all to her…ffffffuck.”
The fuse in Marge’s twat was lit and burning down to nothing. She wouldn’t have long. Homer’s thrusts had slowed down but grown deeper, harder, more intense. Marge could see her husband’s back flex as he prepared to fill Selma’s belly with his load. A fluttering sigh escaped Marge’s lips, as she drove herself to the edge. She slid a finger between her teeth to silence herself, but it was too late; she must have been heard, because Selma lifted her head, the sisters locking eyes with one another. Selma's face froze in a mask of horror as she realised where she was, and who the man on top of her was, but any disgust or disdain she might have felt at having a man she hated fucking her brains out melted away as her pussy clamped down hard, and her brain exploded into shower of orgasmic fireworks. Marge fell to her knees as her pussy erupted next, her whining orgasm drowned out by the savage bellow rising up from Homer as Selma’s womb was splattered with the thickest, heaviest load she could ever remember receiving.
Homer collapsed on top of Selma, trapping her under his girth, his eyes closed and his breathing rapidly slowing to a gentle snore. Selma tried to push him off of her, but his weight and the slickness of his sweat-covered skin made it impossible. She looked to Marge for help, but her younger sister had stepped away, the hallway going dark. Laying there, under her brother-in-law, his raw, thick sperm seeping into her womb, Selma’s mind raced with a thousand thoughts, beginning with the horrified and disgusted, but eventually turning to the contented and satiated.
Her last thoughts, before she drifted to sleep and dreamed of Homer’s massive cock taking her in all positions, was, I need more of this.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++Twelve And A Half Hours Later+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Mom, what are you doing?”
Ling watched as her mother removed stacks of folded clothes from the suitcases she had brought down to the living room.
“Oh, I just thought maybe we’d extend our visit here. I don’t see your cousins or your Aunt nearly as much as I’d like to. I miss them, sometimes.”
“Uh-huh.” Ling sounded suspicious, and sat on the couch behind her mother, shovelling another spoonful of Sugar-Flavoured Krusty-O’s into her mouth, milk running down her chin.
“Did you and Aunt Patty have another fight again? Is it because she puts her dildos in the washing machine, because I tried to tell her you didn’t like it when she did that.”
Selma paused, turned to her daughter, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “No, I had no idea she even…ugh, so that’s why the steam from the dry cycle smelled like the seafood section at Safeway.”
Ling made a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a choke, nearly inhaling a jagged metal Krusty-O, before she spat it into her hand and slipped it into her pocket.
“No, I just thought it’d be nice to visit family for a bit. With your Aunt Patty having Ruth in her life now, and Grandma Bouvier being gone, I feel like we should connect a bit more with Auntie Marge and her family.”
“But you hate Uncle Homer.”
“I…yes, I do find him…disgusting. Fat-headed, fat-assed, low-brow, lazy, drunken, no-good–”
“I never did get that.”
“Hmm?”
“Well, you and Aunt Patty used to always rag on Uncle Homer for being overweight, but you’re both big, and I’m what can charitably be called “fluffy.” And let’s be honest here, maybe aside from Lisa, ain’t none of us geniuses. So why single Uncle Homer out? Seems unfair to me.”
Selma opened her mouth to respond, but stopped short, realising that she had no response. She turned to her daughter, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, kissing the top of her head.
“Now how’d you get so smart, kiddo?”
“I ‘unno, riddle for the ages, I guess.”
Selma resumed stacking shirts on the coffee table, Ling noisily eating behind her.
“Speaking of family, where are Bart and Lisa? I haven’t seen them yet?”
“I dunno, Auntie Marge said they went out yesterday and hadn’t come back yet. I guess they do that sometimes.”
“Hrmm.” Was Selma’s only response. The front door opened, and Selma turned to see Homer, dejected and depressed, trudging into the house. Homer lifted his head, and, seeing Selma, could barely hide the nervous shudder that racked his body. Selma turned back to Ling, patting her on the leg.
“Hey, Maggie was pretty messed up last night, would you go make sure she’s alright hon? She went to sleep it off in the treehouse.”
Ling drank down the last of the milk in the cereal bowl, and nodded. “Yeah, sure Mom.”
The girl rose up from the couch and turned to see Homer slipping his shoes off.
“‘Morning, Uncle Homer.”
“Yeah…good morning, sweetie.”
Ling paused for a moment; something was weird here, she could sense it in the air, but she shrugged and skipped to the kitchen, dropping the bowl and spoon into the sink, then ducking out the back door.
Homer moved to the stairs, calling up. “Marge? You home, honey?”
Selma appeared behind him, fidgeting with her hands uncertainly.
“She’s in the basement, washing the bedsheets.”
Homer didn’t say anything, instead moving towards the kitchen, to the basement. Selma reached for him, stopping him in his tracks.
“Homer, wait, please.”
A phantom memory of the night before, of Selma pleading and begging for Homer to make her cum, floated unbidden to the surface of Homer’s mind, and he shivered.
“Ugh….”
“Homer, we need to talk about what happened.”
“Selma, please, my day has been wall-to-wall shit. As if finding out that I played hide-the-schnitzel with you of all people wasn’t painful enough, I couldn’t even drink that trauma away; Moe’s Bar was closed, Moe had to bail Barney out of jail for impersonating a pilot again. So why don’t we just forget that it ever happened, okay? We’ll both save face that way.”
“I don’t want to forget last night, Homer.”
Confused, Homer turned to his sister-in-law, his jaw stuttering like a broken garage door.
“Wh-what? Why? Why would you ever want to forget that we…what we did?”
A surge of courage swept through Selma, and she took Homer’s hand, massaging it coquettishly like a shy school girl. The sight only served to confuse and disturb Homer even more.
“Because you…*sigh!* Homer, this isn’t easy for me to say, really. The thought of what happened still…it sickens me. You’re still a fat, selfish asshole, you’re a millstone around my sister’s neck, and we both know that you married way out of your league. But even despite all that, you…you were hands-down the greatest goddamned fuck I have ever had in my entire fucking life.”
Homer tried to parse what Selma was telling him, when she shocked him further by pulling him close, their noses touching, her hand clutching his ass tightly.
“And I want more.”
Homer pushed Selma away, panicked. “Selma, no! Marge-”
“Marge saw us, Homer. She watched you fuck me like an animal, and she let it happen. She was in the hallway petting her bunny while you were making me glad I was born a woman.”
“No, that’s not…watching is Lisa’s thing, not Marge’s.”
“What does Lisa have to do with-”
“I now what you’re playing at, Selma. You’re just trying to split me and Marge up because you’ve always hated me.”
Selma blanched, shrinking down in shame. She blinked, and wiped away at her eyes.
“Yeah, I deserved that. But…” she paused, staring beyond Homer for a moment. Homer followed her gaze, turning around to see Marge, a basket of laundry under her arm. She beamed a welcoming smile to Homer and her sister, and moved in to kiss Homer’s cheek.
“You’re back. Was Moe fumigating for snakes again?”
“He was out paying Barney’s bail. Um…honey?”
“Yes?” Her tone was almost cheerful, as she set the laundry down in the living room and began folding the linens. Homer gingerly stepped behind her, and slipped his arms around her waist, pressing his face into the back of her neck.
“Marge, honey, I’m so sorry, I-”
“Homie, what did I tell you yesterday before you destroyed my ass? I’m not upset.”
She half-turned to Homer, her eyes soft and forgiving; she reached up to wipe the tears from Homer’s eyes, and wicked them away on her dress. “Well, I am, sort of. I’m upset that I owe Lisa an apology. I thought her voyeuristic streak was a bit odd. Then I go and find out I kind of like this…what was the word again? ‘Cuckquean?’ Yes, I think I might be a bit of a cuckquean after all.”
“Marge, what are you saying?”
She thought for a second, tapping her finger against her chin.
“Well, first of all, I’m saying that you were beautiful last night, pushing into Selma like a wild animal. Mmmm, Homer, sweetie, the sounds you made…and the way Selma fucked you just as hard as you fucked her...she’s was telling the truth, you know. When I saw you riding her cunt, I couldn’t keep my fingers out of my pussy. Watching you screw my own sister was the hottest thing I’d ever seen. Never mind that that was the first time you two had been in a room without arguing or fighting, just seeing how passionate you two can be together was…mmmmfff… inspiring.”
Selma stood at the door frame, saying nothing, only watching and listening to her sister appeal to her husband.
“I don’t know, Marge, it still feels…weird.”
“So does taking your donkey-dick up my ass. So does knowing that my grandchildren will be their own cousins. So does hearing Rod and Todd fantasise about our son while they violate each other.”
Slelma perked her head up, cocking an eye in confused fascination. Just what the hell has been happening in this neighbourhood?
“It all feels weird. And then, the weirdness passes, and we get used to it, and what’s left is love, and passion, and the best fucking sex anyone in this house has ever had. You got used to Bart and Lisa and Terri, right?”
“Ye-e-e-ah, I guess”
Marge dropped a folded bed sheet onto the couch, and slipped her arms around Homer’s neck, kissing his nose.
“And you did enjoy yourself, didn’t you?”
Homer turned red, and cleared his throat nervously. He looked at Selma from the corner of his eye, suddenly very embarrassed to be there. Selma, for her part, was leaning against the wall, arms crossed. She had no idea where Marge was going with this, but it was so much fun watching Homer squirm like a worm on a hook, almost as much fun as she had had last night.
“Marge, you know I can’t…”
“Did. You. Enjoy.” She leaned in close, her lips brushing against his ear, her breath hot and dripping wet with seductive menace “Fffffffucking. My. Sister?”
As a capper, she reached down and squeezed Homer’s cock through his pants, massaging it to semi-hardness. Homer gulped nervously, and felt fat fingers goose his plump ass from behind playfully, as Selma walked up behind him, sandwiching his balding head between the two sister’s hot, sultry voices.
“Think about it, big boy. How many guys are lucky enough to get a hallpass from their wife to fuck her sister? Once again, Homer, you stumbled ass-fucking-backwards into good fortune, and you’re too dumb to grab it.”
Selma took Homer’s left hand, and planted it on her tit, slipping it under her dress so he felt bare skin.
“You know, Selma, I don’t think insulting Homer’s intelligence is the way to win him over. He’s not dumb, he’s just shy, aren’t you Homie.”
“Right now I’m confused, and scared, and hungry, and I kinda have to pee. But yeah, there’s some shyness in there, too, underneath all the other stuff.”
Marge stepped back, flashing a gentle, motherly smile. “Well then, you help Selma with her things, and I’ll get lunch started, okay? That should at least take care of you being hungry.”
Taking up the bed sheets she had folded, Marge headed upstairs to put them away, leaving Homer and Selma alone in the living room. Homer spun to keep Selma in his sights, nervously taking a step backward and stumbling over her bags. Selma shook her head in exasperation, massaging the bridge of her nose as Homer tried to clumsily clean up the staggered luggage and scattered clothes.
“Oh for crying out loud, you donkey-dicked dumbass, I’m not about to jump your bones where our kids could see us. Ling and Maggie are still underfoot somewhere.”
“You promise?”
“Yes, for fuck’s sake. What do you think I am, some brainless slut that can’t keep her legs closed? There’s a time and a place for that sort of thing, Homer, and the living room in the middle of the day isn’t it.”
She sat down on the couch, and began picking through the suitcases, stacking clothes neatly on the floor. “Now help me sort my girdles. And don't go peeking at my lingerie, I think I want some of those to be a surprise for you tonight.”
Homer groaned in despair, and planted his ass on the couch and began half-heartedly picking through suitcases, barely paying attention to what Selma was saying. After a while, Homer sighed, relaxed and warm, the air sweet and comforting. He forgot why he had been worried, and without thinking about it, planted a hand on Selma’s thigh. She cooed at the touch, smiling slightly as she folded a pair of her black lace panties.
“Later, stud. Get the kids out of the house first and you can drag me to any room you want and make me swing from your vine.”
Homer chuckled, and picked up the first stack of clothes, carrying them upstairs to the spare bedroom, his cock thickening in his pants in anticipation.
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Love Is In The Air