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Property of the Original Owners	By : TENEBRE Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 17436 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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5

            Marge was afraid to go to sleep; afraid that her dreams encroached upon not her own desires but the desires of wanton men's minds. When she found herself excited at the thought of such debasement it was hard to gauge these hallucinations, these visitations as anything other than fantasy. Since she'd come here she'd lived two lives. There was a side of her that lived outside the satisfaction of love now. There was a side that when she slept returned to the man she hated, the man that wanted her only for her body, only for the sake of conquest and who, despite his cruelty, fascinated her intensely. She was reluctant to acknowledge why she kept going back to this man that she told herself she hated, that she told herself caused only pain, that sought only his own satisfaction. A man who she was equally reluctant to admit served as a reprieve from the notion of sex without responsibility. A reminder of the power and pride she equated to in the eyes of her husband. The shame and its weight if she so chose to pursue extramarital endeavors. The way that men, not just her husband, so enjoyed to look at her. Maybe even the satisfaction of knowing that even the times when Homer was away, when she slept alone, men throttled their wives and pumped their cocks in their fists with the image of her beneath them instead.
            Four years ago her and Homer went to a couples retreat, and the topic of role playing came up. Sometimes couples would take on the role of someone else in order to escape any feelings of routine in their lovemaking. Similarly, and maybe for the same reason, sometimes a husband or wife would imagine making love to someone other their their significant other and not telling them. At one point during Homer's employment under Josh, Homer asked that she imagine he was a powerful and influential business man and she was a woman who would do anything to save her husband's job. It was not outside of Marge's reasoning that he could've meant his own boss and was shrugging off any anxiety that similar circumstances would one day find Marge in the arms of another man, more particularly the one he hated most. Maybe it was his way of pretending that it didn't worry him. Be it as it may, Marge's timid husband became his confident cuckolding boss. Despite the discrepancies between he man she'd met and Homer's interpretation, Marge could do little else than borrow characteristics and personality traits from the man she was sure inspired this fantasy.
            Lying beside him, when the ordeal was over, Homer returned to his normal self, and her mind returned to the differences between them. Homer lacked the confidence of a man who didn't have her, hadn't married her, hadn't bedded her. The whole idea of what she'd just put herself through, of what her own husband put her through, she found humiliating, sexually and psychologically.
            She remember the moment of apathy where she unzipped him and said, "You're so much bigger than my husband."
            But he didn't budge from his sexual tenacity, so she took it further when he referred to her as Mrs Steven.
            She said, "Oh, please. Its Marge, Marge Simpson."
            He tried to turn the powerplay, "Your husband is a lucky man."
            But Marge was relentless, "Maybe I should divorce him and marry you."
            Perspiration beaded off his chin as he pumped his organ into her.
            She went on, "Mrs Perry" using Josh's real last name, and then, growing bold she pushed it further, 'Mrs. Josh Perry. I like the sound of that.'
            'We should go to my husband's parents' house', Marge was only getting started, "and you could fuck me right in front of him and his family. Embarrass the fuck out of him." She felt herself go weak-kneed, her legs turned to rubber, her body her blushing pink pulp of unraveling sanity, wavering reality, shrinking anemic inches of the last of her dignity.
            She heard her words go on, long after she was cognizant of their meaning, "I saw you at the party, staring at me. Sometimes, even the most virtuous woman needs a little taste of variety. Even Marge Simpson. I saw you staring at my tits during my anniversary party. If youÕd stayed a little longer I would've given you a proper send-off. My husband, it isn't within his means to make men like you feel completely welcome. But it's in mine. Truth be told, sometimes I go out with my husband and dress for someone other than him, often everyone except him."
            Like lights, the words slowly dimmed until they were gone. Marge was now lying beside her husband, formerly her husband's boss, Josh Perry. Homer lightly kissed her stomach and held her. She felt like a child who had just endured abuse at the hands of an adult. The words she'd said, the words she remembered were now distorted. Still they were heavy with loathing, just words she'd never spoken before. Where had she come up with such horrible things to say? Then she remembered all of the same horrible things coming out of Josh's mouth. He'd used it to hurt her, and eventually her husband, and now she'd had gone and fulfilled the prophecy, or at least tried to. If his only intention was to try and use Marge's indiscretions to discredit or belittle Homer, then Marge had tried the same thing. If he intended to implant such images, such phantasms in Marge's brain he'd succeeded in that too.
            That lustful, pitiless monster lay dormant in her too. She only brought it out for special occasions. Now she tried to force the lucid images from her mind. In them, Homer cried and Josh beamed with the look of a child who'd finally found the upper hand. He'd stolen away that one thing that someone else deserved. No. He'd been given it by a woman who was grateful for the opportunity to settle a score. Marge thought it was the worst thing of which she was capable.
            She knew better now. The dreams haunted her, even going so far as interrupting the hours she was awake.
            Marge looked beside her, confident when she saw him that she hadn't drifted off to sleep yet. She was still safe beside her husband.
            Homer had still been a virgin the first time he'd become intimate with Marge. He'd believed that she too was a virgin when they first made love during their honeymoon. But when Bart turned five Artie Ziff came to visit. Artie was sure Bart was his son. Married out of high school and not weeks after the prom something had happened between Marge and Artie. Artie had her in his car at the time.
            The prom had ended and Artie was intent on popping the cherry of who was at the time the cheerleader with the biggest rack in Springfield High history.
            Marge was a wanted woman through most of her high school career. While Homer was lucky enough to be the one who married her even until their ten year reunion other claimed to have some carnal knowledge of Homer's wife.
            Topless photos.
            Upskirts from cheerleading practice.
            A drama teacher who at the time of the reunion was in his sixties claimed to have had an affair with Marge before graduation.
            No actual evidence seemed to exist to support these claims. It didn't make it hurt any less though. So many men claiming to have been the one to delouse his wife of her innocence. Relieve her of it like a masseuse or chiropractor relieves neck pain. Like they performed a service and wanted credit where credit was due.
            It was important for Homer to institute some means to prove to them that she was his. She belonged to him. Her heart and her body.
            Homer had never been wanted by anyone but Marge, and up until he was with Marge didn't feel like he belonged anywhere. As much as he felt like he owed Marge for feeling so important now he felt worthless at this time in his life. He wanted to blame the jerks at the reunion, but if they weren't lying he wondered if then he should've blamed her too.
            He only had one reason to go to the prom and that was to see Marge Bouvier. When he found out her family counted on Artie Ziff taking her out instead his heart was broken. Later when he realized she chose him over Artie his heart was mended. This time he wasn't going to wait to be fixed. He intended on fixing himself.
            That was when he met Josh and things took a turn for the worse.
            Josh wanted Marge and for a while Homer didn't know it, or at least thought somehow that it was something small that he could use to his advantage.
            But Homer couldn't Josh, and he also couldn't control his own need to boast that he'd married a woman that everyone wanted. Homer wanted to feel important. But he knew he wasn't. Marge was.
            When Josh was gone Mr. Burns replaced him. Marge was for a while employed
under Mr. Burns. She refused to reiterate on the form in which her harassment took place or how far Mr. Burns took it. The stipulations of her job changed quickly once Mr. Burns seemed to realize what he had in Marge. She' never spent so much time out of town and business dinners every other night. Homer remembered the dress she was wearing the night she decided to quit. She'd come home from one of Burns' business dinners. The outfits she'd worn had evolved over the weeks. The skirts had grown shorter, the heels higher and the dignity as minimized as the amount of dress material.
            Lying in bed beside her his mind drifted to those places. To those memories.
            He forced his eyes open. He was awake. And he was alone. Marge wasn't in the bed beside him anymore

            In her own dream, Marge was remembering her first intimate night with Homer. The nights of his stumbling hands and crude caresses had led up to this. Marge thought he was the first genuinely kind man she'd met up to that point.
            Growing up in family of only women, never having met her father, she had been fairly isolated from men up until her preteens where most first started ignoring her and she started pursuing them. That pursuit would come to an end when she reached womanhood or at least her bust-line did. Men changed overnight. Distractions and pursuits had grown into pain social malignancies.
            The night of their honeymoon Homer was too nervous to take off his clothes, so Marge took them off for him. She didn't need time to decide where to start. She remembered the night of her prom, sitting in her car with Artie before he pounced on her. He cuffed his hand over her wrist and pulled at her hand. A moment later she could feel the shaft of Artie's penis lurch in her hand from inside his pants.
            She'd felt one, now she wanted to see one. Homer was shaking out of fear when he saw her kneel down and reach for his zipper. Marge bit her lip and tried her best to steady her hands. She closed her eyes, then opened them.
            The dream was over.
            She now knelt in front of the statue of the African warrior. Her hands rested on the statues thighs and then suddenly moved up under the loincloth. She didn't stop herself in time before she realized the statue was anatomically correct.
            "Oh god!" she stumbled backward, fell on her ass, "No. No., NO!"
            Images arrested her, her hand down Artie's pants. Artie's hands pulled her gown away from her body. His eager mouth engulfing one of her breasts through the new slit on the front of her gown. The residue of his suckling lingering later as Homer held her in his arms. The memory of her folds moistening as Artie pulled at her as she screamed and fought.
            She would tell herself much later that she didn't want it. That Artie's tenacity, ambition and dedication couldn't distract her from the fact he was a jerk, and almost a rapist. She told herself that it didn't matter that Artie's own girth impressed her so and Homer's was below her original expectations.
            She blamed herself for not making Homer hard, the way she'd made Artie so hard. What had she done wrong? What had she done differently?
            She wanted to feel it the same way. She wanted to see it long and rigid. She wanted to feel it lurch in her hand. She wanted to be intimidated. She hoped she would be terrified. She hoped she would have to face it like it were some engrained fear. It became some strange entity separate from the body, brooding and singular in its purpose.
            She reached behind her for the door knob, and then she turned it and could hear the door somehow lock itself. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the penis beneath the loincloth begin to raise the rest of the figurine's skirt and suddenly it stood long, erect and eyelevel with her.
            She turned back and saw the head poking out of the bottom of the loincloth, pre-cum oozing from the tip.
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