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He's Like The Wind	By : LordKuyohashi Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 6265 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
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
- 6
- 7
Lisa had no notion of time when she stirred back to her senses. It was dark out still, and there were voices and music coming from upstairs, so she couldn’t have been asleep for too long, if she even had been asleep. She was pretty sure that the proper term for when a person who neither breathed nor had a heartbeat fell unconscious was, “dead.”
She shifted slightly, and a yummy little tingle in her depths glanced across her core, making her shiver. She was sitting on Bart’s bare lap, curled against him, his hardness still buried deep inside her. She could feel her brother-husband’s seed sloshing about inside her, and she sighed airily, watching Bart’s eyes dart back and forth beneath his closed eyelids.
What is he dreaming about, I wonder?
Lisa smiled softly, and leaned in to kiss his nose, only to pull back, her face a mask of disgust. Something smelled off about Bart. She leaned in for another sniff, recoiled again, and realised that the smell wasn’t just from him, it had clung to her as well. In fact, the entire room stank of something foul and stale, and looking around at the patina of drying blood coating the plastic covering every inch of Ned Flanders’ storage room, she had a pretty good idea of what it was.
In the corner, torn open like a Thanksgiving turkey, chest ripped asunder and heart messily torn out, sat what once was Nadine Muntz, prostitute, stripper, connoisseur of fine wood varnishes and finishers, mother of one troubled son, and now, hollowed out wreck of a human corpse. Her jaw, torn free from her skull by Bart’s rage, lay in a fleshy heap across the room, the smell of raw meat beginning to fill the cold air of the storage room, almost stifled by the sour scent of cold, stale blood.
“Whew!” Lisa whistled out in disgust, and pulled herself staggeringly to her feet. Her swollen belly wobbled as she stabilised herself, Bart’s cock slipping from her cunt with a wet pop.. Bart stirred awake, his cock suddenly cold and lonely, and slowly and dumbly flashed his sleepiest smile to his pregnant sister-wife.
“Hey, Lees. What’s going on?”
Lisa almost stumbled a bit on the slick, slippery plastic sheeting covering the floor, only for Bart to rise to his feet and hold her steady with such speed that she barely saw him move. “I think we should get cleaned up, babe.” Lisa’s voice was a soft,velvety purr, as she slung an arm over Bart’s shoulder. Bart looked around, taking in the carnage he and Lisa had wrought in their anger, and nodded in agreement. “Yeah, this scene is a bit played out, I think. C’mon, let’s get us into some warm water and wash that white trash junkie slut’s gore off of us.”
The wedding guests had been chatting busily in the parlour when a very naked and very bloody Bart and Lisa tiptoed up out of the basement, trying to sneak upstairs without drawing any attention to themselves. It was a vain hope, however, as Marge, eagle-eyed as any mother should be, spotted her children, painted deep red with rusting gore, trying to sneak upstairs to the bathroom.
“You two all done down there?”
The two newly wedded siblings froze in their tracks, with Bart slowly turning to his mother, his sly, charming smile beaming through the bloody facepaint he wore.
“Uh…yeah, everyone’s eaten.” He chuckled at his own joke, then belched, then winced, deciding that Mrs. Muntz had a terrible aftertaste.
“Well, I hope you didn’t leave too much of a mess. You know the thralls will have to clean that up for us.”
“Well…” Lisa hummed, standing closely behind Bart to hide her nudity. For some reason she felt shy at that particular moment, not wanting Principal Skinner or Chief Wiggum to see her naked. “We may have - sort of - vivisected Mrs. Muntz.”
Marge frowned, motioning for the menfolk thralls, Homer and Ned, Seymour, Clancy and Doctor Hibbard - to go downstairs for the cleanup effort. “You did kill her, though? We can’t have any mistakes here, kids. There’s no chance she was embraced or enthralled by accident, like Lisa did with Jessica?”
Bart shook his head. “Nope. We completely-” A loud, long wail of disgust rose up from downstairs, clearly Homer’s voice. “Ah crap, they fucking hollowed her out like a fucking jack-o’lantern!”
“Aaaaand we ate her heart. “ Bart added, grinning mischievously.
Marge stifled a laugh. “Yeah, that’s one way to make sure the bitch is dead. How did she taste?”
“Horrible. Like…like that smell you get from new wood furniture. You know when you smell something, and it gets, like, in the back of your throat and you can taste the smell? Yeah, like you inhaled whatever new wood furniture smell is, and you can taste it. Only, if you made a soup out of that taste.”
Marge nodded in comprehension. “That’s what happens when we feed from junkies. I would have selected a better source for your first kill, but there aren’t too many people in Springfield who could go missing and not be missed. The only people that will care that Mrs. Muntz is gone are the meth dealers and the patrons of her particular street corner. Your next kill will be better, I promise.”
Lisa spoke up, as the men downstairs grumbled and grunted trying to clean up the storage room, Doctor Hibbard coming up to fetch garbage bags and a mop.
“Um…about that, Mom - when will we get to do that again?”
Marge strode across the Flanders parlour as if she were gliding on mist, and placed her hand on her daughter’s bloody shoulder, gently prodding them upstairs. .
“We have to space out our feedings, Lisa, and try not to kill. Sometimes it’s unavoidable, sometimes it’s even necessary, to protect the family from enemies or discovery. Hopefully, you two won’t need to kill again for a good long time, but now that you have, you know what to do, and you know what to avoid. Junkies and addicts might seem like easy prey, but their blood is contaminated and foul-tasting. The drugs in their blood won’t affect us - only very particular things can impair a vampire the way chemicals can a human - but they taste horrid. Healthy humans are more difficult to hunt, but their blood is both tastier and more nourishing for us. And they won’t all be delivered to you rolled up in a rug. I promise I’ll take you kids out to Shelbyville or North Haverbrook for a proper hunt before the year is out, so you can have some good blood. But now, I had Maude run you a bath, and you both sorely need it.”
A spark of wicked brilliance flashed in Lisa’s eyes.
“Well, that does sound nice, Mom. We probably smell about as bad as she tasted.”
Lisa slipped her hand into Bart’s, and led the two of them upstairs. “Jessica,” Lisa’s voice was commanding and stern, as if calling a puppy to heel, “come along.”
Jessica Lovejoy had been talking with Ned Flanders at length about her father - by now she giddily described how she had blown the Rev’s brains all over the Lovejoy family kitchen in order to be with Lisa, and Ned, just as broken, nodded along understandingly - after all, any obstacle to serving such a great family as the Simpsons simply had to be removed - when Lisa had called for her, and without a moment’s hesitation, she jumped up off Ned’s lap, unentangled her thin fingers from his erect cock, and skipped after her darling Masters, licking the flustered man’s cream from her naughty fingers. She trailed after Bart and Lisa up the Flanders’ stairs humming to herself tunelessly.

The Flanders’ bathroom was an ungodly shade of fluffy-duck pastel yellow, with matching accoutrements, and made Lisa shudder in revulsion. She knew the Flanderses were some of the chirpiest people to ever grace the waking world, but seeing the colour scheme of their lavatory only made her glad that her family had straightened them out a bit by enthralling them.
The bathtub, the same shade of yellow as the walls and throw rug, was almost-filled with steaming hot water, and Bart slid in, relaxing against the back of the tub, offering a hand to help Lisa in. Jessica held onto Lisa’s plump ass as the pregnant girl stepped into the water, and sat against her brother-husband’s chest, the water already turning pinkish cloudy from the blood caking both siblings. Settling in against Bart’s body, Lisa let out a wispy sigh, letting herself relax against him. Bart slipped an arm around Lisa’s belly, and began scooping handfuls of warm water over her stained skin. Lisa hummed as Bart rinsed her clean, turning her head up to kiss his cheek, before the stench of Mrs. Muntz’ remains made her recoil in disgust.
“Jessica, darling, come here. I need something to wash the taste of shoe-polish-huffing skank out of my mouth.”
Jessica, who had been kneeling obediently by the bathtub with a stack of folded towels, inched herself closer to the spooning siblings, and rolled up her sleeve, offering her bare right arm to her Mistress. Lisa grabbed her thrall by the arm, and lurched forward, sinking her teeth into the girl’s wrist and taking in three deep gulps. As she drank, she fumbled for a shaving razor resting in the shower caddy on the side of the tub, and quickly glanced it against her hand, shoving the bleeding palm into Jessica’s face. Releasing her thrall’s arm from her bite, Lisa leaned back, sharing a mouthful of young blood with her brother as Jessica lapped at her bleeding palm, the wounds on the young girl’s wrist sealing closed quickly. Her duty fulfilled, Jessica limply slumped against the side of the tub, her hand dipping into the cloudy bathwater, her eyes fluttering dreamily as she struggled to catch her breath.
Lisa hummed and wiggled herself into Bart’s body, relishing his cool skin contrasted to the warm bathwater. She smiled as she felt his cock stiffen under her, and parted her legs, letting his erection crest the water and rise to the surface like the periscope of an especially delicious looking submarine.
Oh no! Cockzilla is approaching the generator!
She let out a small cackle of laughter at that bizarre thought, only to stuff it into a locker and abandon it as quickly as it had come to her. Once Bart’s penis had reached full rigidity, she clamped her thighs on the delightful dick, and cooed perversely to herself.
Wrapping her fingers around her brother’s cock, she slowly, gently began stroking it. Bart groaned, somewhere between arousal and fatigue. “Fuck, Lisa, didn’t I give you enough dick? Fucking nympho.”
Lisa smirked back to Bart, “Hey, you never complain when I drag you into the boiler room, or your classroom, or the library, or Willie’s shack, or the cafeteria after lunch.”
She returned her gaze to his cock, her hands strangling it tightly, her eyes half-manic with lust.
“Besides, I’m just stroking my cock, see?”
Bart raised his head a few inches off the bathtub, trying to see past his sister’s body. “What?”
“I said, I’m stroking my dick. Look, I grew a cock between my legs.” Lisa had shifted a few inches to the side so Bart could see that, it did indeed look as if Lisa had grown a cock just under the swell of her baby bump.
“Mmmm, it feels so nice to jack my cock off, Bart. I think I get why boys do this all the time.”
She began pumping the turgid meat more quickly, watching the glans glisten with a mixture of bathwater and precum, her tongue running along her lips as she stared, mesmerised by the length of hard meat in her hands.
“Lisa, fuck! It feels so fucking good, keep jacking my cock!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Bart; I’m jacking my cock off. See, it’s sticking up between my legs, so it must be mine .” To punctuate her point, Lisa tapped a slender finger against the slippery slit of her new toy, watching Bart’s baby grease thread at her touch.
“Mmmffuck, Bart, I want to blow a fat fucking load all over my big, pregnant titties.” She quickened her movements on Bart’s cock, her brother-husband squirming and writhing underneath her. “Yessssss, gonna blast a thick load of cum right onto my big, milky tits and rub it into my skin! Shit!” She slightly bucked her hips as she stroked the engorged cock rising up from the water, letting the touch of Bart’s shaft against her cleft tease her with sudden electric jolts of pleasure up her spine.
Bart bit into his lip softly, eyes clenched, as his stomach muscles tightened up and his nuts churned and boiled inside his sack, trying to hold back the eruption he knew was inevitable.
Lisa could feel Bart tense up underneath her as she tugged and massaged his magnificent babymaker, a seemingly endless flow of precum running from his slit down over her soapy fingers. With a wicked smirk befitting such an evil girl, she reached down with her other hand, dipping it into the cloudy pink bath water, and firmly squeezed her brother’s nuts, gently but firmly, almost cruelly, massaging them, coaxing his will to break and his burden to gush forth and cover her with it’s bounty.. She leaned down, as much as she could with her full, round belly, and whispered in a lustful, almost seductive hiss, “Oh god, give it to me fucking spray that hot fucking cum all over my brother-fucking face I need it I need to be painted like the bloodsucking whore I am!”
Somewhere between Lisa’s iron grip, her perverse begging and the warmth of her body against his, Bart found his momentary limit, and with a low grunt, he surrendered himself to the small, trembling death that racked his body as his seed erupted like a geyser. Lisa squealed, reflexively shielding her eyes as her beloved treasure splattered all over her swollen tummy and slightly sagging tits, painting her in its hot stickiness.
Lisa seemed mesmerised, spellbound by the sight of her brother’s thick, viscous pearlessence smeared on her skin. She ran her fingers through thick ski trails of gooey cum draped over her belly, scooping a dollop into her mouth and melting into the heady, bitter flavour.
Bart pulled her back to lay against his chest, kissing his cock-crazed sister’s sweat-soaked hair.
“Fuck, Lees…how do you do it? My balls should be inside-out, from how much you’ve drained them; but you always seem to find another load to squeeze out.”
Lisa purred, a warm, resonating sound that made her vibrate against Bart’s chest. “What can I say, Bart; your undead sister is just that fucking magical.”
Bart dipped his fingers under the water, slowly strumming Lisa’s pussy lips like a harp, relishing her lustful writhings against his chest as she tweaked her swollen,, puffed-out nipples.
“Mmmf…Bart…nnnnooo, stoooopppp.” She mashed her face into his neck, wriggling against his teasing fingers. “M’pussy’s soooore, you fucked it too haaaaard.”
“Bullshit.” Bart’s voice was terse and cold and authoritative, reminding Lisa that for all her playing, it was her brother-husband who was really in control. “You don’t get to jack me off without getting your slit frigged. Now lay back and take my fingers fucking you like a good girl.”
It was probably the usage of the phrase ‘good girl’ that made Lisa swoon and gasp, although one could always make the argument that it was her brother-husband’s thumb pressing against her swollen, aching clitoris. Either way, she surrendered to the pleasure, her body shaking as Bart sank two fingers into her warm, tight sleeve. He bit his lip as he worked her tunnel open, watching her eyes flutter, her lip quiver. He watched her intently, and just as her pussy convulsed and tightened up, her orgasm impending, he snatched his hand away from her cunt, sending her crashing down without release.
Lisa groaned at her brother’s denial, wriggling against his chest like a petulant child. “Ohhh, no, Bart, you shouldn’t tease me like that! I was so close to cumming!”
Bart squeezed his pregnant sister-bride to his chest, his arm slung over her swollen belly.
“Want to save something for the wedding bed, Lees. I don’t think either of us will be getting any sleep tonight.”
Lisa nestled against Bart, cooing to herself, her fingers running small, soft circles around her distended bellybutton. “Well, as long as you promise to fuck me until my legs stop working, I suppose.” She leaned up, pushing her tongue into her brother-husband’s mouth and rubbing her ass against his stiff cock, relishing in the feeling of his steely-soft girth against her plump hocks.

It was with great effort that Bart and Lisa were able to pull themselves apart and out of the Flanders’ bathtub, helped along by Jessica’s slavish eagerness to serve her masters. The newlywed siblings took turns licking the dripping bathwater from each other’s naked bodies before getting dressed and descending the stairs to their wedding party. Chief Wiggum and Principal Skinner were missing, as were Rod and Todd, but Lisa could infer where the Flanders boys had wandered off to from the muffled grunting and squeaking bedsprings coming from upstairs. The adults that remained were gathered in the parlour of the Flanders’ house, having coffee and a mosaic of conversations, their voices a buzzing melange that neither Simpson child had any interest in unravelling.
Marge was talking with her sisters - Lisa paused for a second and realised something she would have to bring up with her mother later, if she could remember - when she saw her heavily pregnant daughter waddling down the stairs. As Patty made some snide remark Lisa hadn’t paid any mind to, Marge faked a laugh and hastily excused herself to attend to her newlywed children. As her mother pulled herself away from a conversation she clearly had no interest in, Lisa could see Marge’s eyes flare dull red, and her aunts’ faces going slack as new and alien thoughts were forcefully pushed into their mushy brains. Once Marge was certain Patty and Selma had accepted their new thoughts and memories, she strode over to Lisa’s side, a hand on the girl's shoulder.
“I hope you and Bart didn’t make too large a mess in the Flanders’ bathroom, honey.” There was a wry smile in the tone of Marge’s voice, making the mood light and loving.
“Nah, we kept most of the water in the tub this time.”
“Well that’s good. Your father and I were about to head home, were you and Bart going to join us?”
Lisa looked up at her mother, confused. “Um…I guess? Why wouldn’t we?”
“Because it’s your wedding night, sweetie. According to vampiric tradition, you’re not a fledgling anymore. When a vampire feeds on a human and kills them, they’re considered fully blooded, and able to survive on their own without their sire’s supervision.”
Lisa’s eyes went wide. “Wait, what? What does that even mean?”
“It means, honey, that your survival is now your responsibility. It will be up to you to hunt and feed responsibly, to avoid being found out, and to keep our family secret. It’s a huge responsibility; do you think you and Bart can live up to it?”
Lisa nodded self-assuredly. “Of course, Mom. I can keep Bart on a tight leash, he won’t get into any trouble.”
“Hrmm.” Marge grumbled. “Well, if you’re sure, then I suppose you and Bart can stay out late tonight. Just remember the rules - no killing, no doing anything to risk exposing yourselves to people who aren’t in the know.”
Lisa rolled her eyes, trying to hide her glee at being given free reign to explore the town at night, something she hadn’t been able to do once in all the months since she had become a vampire. “I know, Mom. I’m not stupid, you know.”
She passed the snack table, where Bart was stuffing his cheeks with cold cuts, and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him towards the front door, much to his garbled surprise.
As Lisa dragged Bart out the front door, Marge called after her two wayward children, barely audible over the din of conversation and whatever god-awful music Ned Flanders had thought appropriate for a party. “I’ll have Principal Skinner give you a few days off school! Just don’t stay out too late, okay?”
“Hey, Lees, what the fuck?”
Bart had been enjoying the rolls of cold cuts Ned had laid out for his spread, and didn’t appreciate being pulled away from the first bit of food he had had all night that didn’t flow out of some old junkie’s veins.
Lisa pushed Bart against the front door of the Flanders home, her face scandalously close to his own. “Mom said we can stay out tonight, Bart. No supervision, no curfew, and all we have to do is not slaughter anyone.”
She pulled away, her fangs glistening in the glow cast by the porchlight, turning down the sidewalk teasingly. “We can go wherever we want, do whatever we want. I wanna finally explore this town at night, I want to finally feel like a fucking creature of the night!”
Bart hopped off the front step, his fingers entwining with his sister-bride’s.
“Alright, so where do you want to go, then?”
Lisa stopped in her tracks. She hadn’t thought about that. She was still buzzing with possibilities when she yanked Bart out of the house.
“Shit, I don’t know. What did you do while you were out exploring your new undead self?”
Bart exhaled, the wedded siblings walking down the sidewalk, street lamps lighting their way.
“Sleeping at the zoo, breaking into peoples’ houses, loiter around the Kwik-E-Mart and watch Apu slowly go insane from a combination of the long hours, the stress of the job, and the fact that the weird pale kid who stands around staring at him doesn’t show up on the security cameras. You know, basic stuff.”
Lisa covered her mouth, giggling mischievously. “Oh god, Bart, I don’t know if that’s cool or creepy, or both.”
He brushed his hair back, putting on his most self-assured, suave grin, his ego sufficiently fellated by his sister’s words. “I’m so cool, Lees, I’m room temperature.”
Bart pulled his sister to his chest, his lips only just grazing hers, their eyes locked.
“So, what kind of trouble would my little sister-wife like to get into tonight?”
Lisa grinned, dark and sinister and flashing far too much gum-to-tooth ratio, her red eyes narrowing with glee.

Apu stared at the pallid figure standing at the end of the snack aisle, his upper lip twitching reflexively. He had been staring for five minutes, his wide, weary eyes glued to the pale, corpse-like image of a young boy, a boy he was all too familiar with; neither of them moved, or spoke, or acknowledged that they saw one another. Bart simply…stood there, staring at Apu, and Apu simply stood there, staring at Bart. There was no sound in the Kwik-E-Mart tonight - the usual customers had already stopped by to pick up their Skittle-Brau and lottery tickets and he had been looking forward to the peace and quiet of the graveyard shift. But tonight, an imp, a phantom, his own personal demon, had returned from Hell to torment him with its creepy, silent gaze.
Lisa watched as Bart and Apu stared one another down from behind a rack of potato chips. She had carefully opened a bag of sour cream and onion chips, and was trying to snack on them as silently as she could, taking in the long, fairly boring show of Bart gaslighting a family friend. From her vantage point, she could see the security monitor Apu used to watch the farther section of the store, the camera locked onto the spot where Bart was standing; and sure enough, on the monitor, Bart did not appear, only empty space where he should have been.
Apu’s eyes darted to the monitor. It wasn’t possible. He could see the weird pale boy. He could feel the burning hellish eyes, boring holes into his poor soul. But on the screen, there was nothing. No boy, pale or otherwise; no haunting red eyes. Nothing.
Bart had done this for kicks back when he was newly sired, wasting his nights just standing there, staring at Apu, watching as the poor clerk checked the security feeds for the strange pale boy that only glared at him, his mind beginning to crack under the horror that the monitors showed nothing. Even his brother Sanjay offered no insight, thanks to Bart using his unnatural speed to hide whenever Apu would fetch his brother to assuage his fraying mental state. Once, Bart had even reduced Apu to a wretched, sobbing wreck, curled up under the counter and clutching the statue of Ganesh, all in only two minutes.
Tonight, Apu seemed especially on edge, as if the pallid apparition before him had caught him on a particularly rough night. His eyes, wide and ragged from lack of sleep, stared in ashen horror as Bart cocked his head to the side, wicked red eyes glaring up at him. Apu’s lips twitched, as if he were about to scream, or break into song, or begin laughing uncontrollably. He had decided that his response to tonight’s haunting would be to wet himself and faint into the puddle when Bart curled his mouth into a soulless grimace, revealing the shark-like teeth hidden behind his bloodless lips.
The sight of a grown man ragdolling into a terrified heap into his own piss struck Bart as classic comedy,.and he couldn’t help by guffaw cruelly at Apu’s plight, slapping his knee in hysterics. As he snorted apoplectically, Lisa emerged from her hiding place, munching on a handful of chips.
“Bart, what was the point of scaring Apu out of his wits?”
Wiping tears of pure, cruel bliss from his eyes, Bart wheezed the last trace of laughter out and caught his breath. “I don’t understand the question, Lees. Scaring Apu is the point. Gotta amuse myself somehow.”
Lisa wiped her greasy hands on her thin jacket, shaking her head as she peered over the checkout counter to see Apu, face first in a swamp of his own piss, kicking like a dog in his sleep.
“Well, having seen it, I think I’ve decided that watching you break Apu’s brain is neither creepy or cool, it’s…boring. All he did was faint. No running out of the store screaming, no insane laughing. If I wanted to see a grown man wet himself and then fall asleep, I’d have gone to the old folks’ home and given Grampa liquids after six.”
Bart reached towards the display on the counter, and snatched a fistful of beef jerky, tearing one open with his teeth and spitting out the plastic wrapper. “Aw come on, Lees, it’s not all bad. After he passes out, we can shoplift all we want.”
“Yay, petty larceny. Bart, honey, you know I love you, but for a so-called ‘bad boy’, you have a lot to learn about actually being bad.”
“Oh?” Bart slipped an arm around Lisa’s shoulder, hugging her from behind, kissing at her neck as he massaged her left tit. “And you could do better at being evil, I suppose?”
Lisa closed her eyes, melting into her brother’s molestation of her aching breast, squirming against his lewd groping. “Nnf…noooo, I don’t want it to turn into a competition, baby. You know you’re the Master here. I just mean, you could be doing so much more than just…teasing poor Apu into a nervous breakdown.”
“Mmm…and what do you have in mind, my twisted little sister?” Bart tapped a rod of beef jerky against Lisa’s nose, punctuating his question impishly.
Lisa grinned, snapping a few inches off of the proffered jerky, her red eyes flashing brightly as her wicked mind settled on its new game.

Inmate 78432-092 laid his head back onto the flattened prison pillow, wincing in the dull ache still lingering behind his eyes. Earlier, Inmate 54987-017, one Chester ‘Snake’ Turley, had taken umbrage with 092’s derisive characterization of his sainted mother, and responded with a mess tray upside 092’s head, resulting in a trip to the infirmary and fifty-eight stitches across the crown of 092’s head. Snake was currently pacing around the solitary cell four floors below 092, muttering to himself angrily and swearing revenge when he gets out in two months time, but for now, a throbbing migraine aside, 092 was sitting pretty.
The lights in the hall had gone off without much fanfare, as usual, and 092, or just Bob to his friends, stared out the window of his cell at the blinking tail-light of some distant airplane, wondering to which exotic locale it was headed, and wishing he could go, too.
Instead, he mused with a heavy sigh, I’m left to coagulate in this fetid cesspit of a town for another - he shuddered reflexively - fifteen years!
Bob heaved himself onto this left side, resting his sore head against the cool plaster of his cell wall.
Can’t even kill a ten-year old boy properly. Oh what would my professors at Princeton say if they could only see me now?
Images raced in Bob’s mind of his most recent attempt to quash the hollow, drab life of a particular tow-headed Springfield boy - there was a boat, and a machete, and naturally some Gilbert and Sullivan and far too many fucking elephants - and inside, he marvelled that he hadn’t been killed by being dragged through a field of cacti, or by repeated blows from oddly-placed rakes, or from all those fucking elephants. Really, elephants. One of them should have killed him, and he was stepped on by six of the damned things, and a twenty-man marching band before them. And yet, despite all that, here he was, laid up from a fucking dinner tray to the head. The universe was a finicky thing, Bob decided, rendering a man immune to multiple elephants one day, and susceptible to a simple flatware assault the next.
Well, at least I have time to plan my revenge, he mused darkly, shifting on his cot as he prepared to fall asleep.
Bob slept. Or at least, he thought he had slept. He had closed his eyes, had set his mind adrift, he might even have dreamt, he couldn’t be certain. All he was sure of, was that his eyes were now open, his mind felt sluggish and hazy, and his cell was unseasonably warm for this time of year. Cascades of sweat pooled at his neck and down his back, and as he rolled over, he sneered at the slick, gross sensation of cooling perspiration pressing against his skin, plastering his prison jumpsuit to his body.
The least they could do is put a water fountain in here, he pondered; something to keep myself hydrated in case of an Indian summer.
He sat up, fumbling for the zipper of his jumpsuit in the dark, wrestling to pull his arms free, then peeling off the damp white shirt he wore underneath, tossing it into a heap on the floor. The night air on his sweat-soaked skin made him shudder, relishing the cool respite from the ungodly warmth, and he settled back down onto the cot, reaching for the thin blanket the county had given him and pulling it just under his arm.
With a sigh, Bob closed his eyes, and let his mind float off into the warm, familiar oblivion of sleep.
He didn’t know how long he had been asleep - he didn’t remember dreaming, so it couldn’t have been long, nor did he remember opening his eyes. But there he was, again, suddenly, bolted upright on his cot, blanket crumpled by the door, his eyes locked on the thick shadows of the corner of his cell. Something had woken him…what was it? A sound? A bit of motion? A presence he had sensed even in his sleep?
He scanned the darkness, waiting for something to jump out at him, to make some sign that he hadn’t imagined…whatever it was he had imagined. Sitting, staring, waiting.
Nothing.
For a minute, two, five, he had no idea, he sat and watched the nothingness in his cell, weary eyes fixed on the corner. He shifted uncomfortably in his cot, before cursing at himself and settling back in to sleep.
“It’s nothing.” he muttered to himself as he tugged the blanket up to his chin. “Bad dream, that’s all it is.”
He huffed, lips flapping comically as he relaxed into a new restful fit, trying to focus his mind on something bright and cheery and pleasant.
Children in coffins and clowns hung from rafters
Hallways a-ringing with psychotic laughter
Chainsaws and axes and bullets that zing,
These are a few of my favourite things!
Bob giggled to himself in the darkness, picturing the next time he’d see Bart, machete in hand, murder in his eyes, and just for the fun of it all, Modern Major General on his lips, but without all the distracting theatrics that got him nicked the last time.
scritch scritch scritch .
There. A sound, just beyond the shadows of the cell. Bob heard it, he knew he had, and without a second thought or a heartbeat’s hesitation, he bolted upright, eyes locked on the gloom, scanning for any little thing that could make the sound.
A rat? No, for all of Springfield Penitentary’s myriad code violations, they were thankfully rat free, not so much as a single rat pellet in the prison gelatin dessert.
Perhaps someone in the next cell over was digging through? But the walls were concrete, they’d never get through that.
Bob cleared his throat, the sound stuttering and wet with phlegm. “Hello? Is someone there?”
Bob counted five heartbeats before he let himself breathe again.
“Get a grip, Bob,” he admonished himself, “or you’re going to wind up in solitary right next to Snake.”
He didn’t even get the luxury of lying back down this time, before it happened again.
scritch scritch scritch.
Bob threw his leg over the side of the cot hastily, cursing at the cold floor, and stomped into the murk of the cell corner, feeling around with his feet for anything that could be making that infernal noise. A rat, a simple mouse, bloody hell, a fucking mongoose, anything that could explain that blasted gadfly of a sound!
His probing yielded… Fuck! ...nothing. Sweet Fanny Adams fuck all.
scritch scritch scritch.
This time, it came from behind him. Bob spun on his heels, finding only his dishevelled cot, barely visible in the faint silver light of the moon through the small window of his cell.
“What the hell is going on here?” He wiped at the mire of sweat on his forehead, wicking it off to the side with a sharp motion. It had gotten hotter in the cell, or he had imagined that it had, and his vision had started to play tricks on him, the room seeming lighter, or his eyes adjusting to the dark. Strange colours filed his sight, and in a panic, Bob reached for the cot to steady himself, sitting on the thin, worn mattress for stability.
His eyes darting around in the vague light of the cell, Bob bit his tongue, the pain reminding him that he was, in fact, still awake. So whatever this was, it was real, and not some fevered dream brought about by the day’s earlier bout with head trauma.
“Perfect,” Bob sneered, “so I’m not imagining things, I’m just being haunted by phantom rats.”
The darkness took Bob’s snideness in offence, and in response, something jagged and sharp raked against his exposed left foot, causing him to jump in shock, smacking his head against the wall and making the murk swim in a kaleidoscope of colours.
“Nng! Lucifer’s distended sphincter, that hurt!”
The pain hadn’t been given time to subside when the foul, hot breath of some stygian creature wafted past Bob’s ear, his nostrils burning and his eyes watering at the acrid smell. It was as if a charnel pit had been uncovered in the sweltering desert, foetid and sweet and heavy with rot, and Bob, in a panic, threw himself onto the floor, letting out a shriek as he tried to scramble away from the phantasmic emanation.
Bob stared wide-eyed at the darkness surrounding him, watchful for any sign that his enigmatic intruder would make themselves known. He didn’t hear the heavy footsteps outside his cell over the tremorous drumming of his heart, and when the observational slot in his door slid open, he jumped a foot up and two feet back, slamming into the far wall and nearly losing bladder control.
A pair of hard, grey eyes peered into the cell from the slot, scanning the dark concrete box.
“We got a problem here, Sideshow?”
Bob stammered, trying to calm his heart rate down enough that he could hear the guard.
“Where you at, Bob? You better be in that bed, or you’re going to be in a world of trouble, you hear?”
The light came on in the cell, and Bob blinked out the blinding glare, staggering away from the wall towards his cot. The mechanism to the door opened with a loud thunk! and the guard stepped in, baton at the ready.
“On the cot, Bob, nice and easy.”
Bob nodded, rubbing his eyes. He took furtive glances around the room, and…saw nothing. No rats, no intruders, just…nothing.
He sat on the cot, reaching for the blanket, as the guard - Steve, Bob was certain - looked around the room.
“So what in the good goddamn is wrong with you, Bob? Other inmates know what lights out means. It means, shut your trap and go to sleep. You got a problem with that, you gotta be screaming bloody fucking murder?”
Bob stammered stupidly, trying to collect his thoughts. “S-something was in here. Something touched me, there was a sound.”
Steve the Guard cocked an eyebrow at Bob, who by now was fidgeting manically at the corners of his blanket, face thin and withdrawn.
“We got this hallway on surveillance, Bob, and you’re in the Max wing; you don’t get visitors, you don’t even get mail. So how would someone get past all our cameras and guards to play spook games with a chronic loser like you?”
Bob set his jaw. He wanted to speak up, to defend himself, but he knew just how unpopular he truly was amongst the guards - child killers face a hard time in prison, but incompetent, would-be child killers face arguably more humiliation - and didn’t relish a sound thrashing he knew he would face if he got ‘uppity.’ So instead, he grumbled his disdain, and looked away from Steve the Guard’s burning glare.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Steve the Guard’s slimy grin practically stank of arrogance, and the baton he jutted under Bob’s chin only added to the stark menace. “I don’t care if the fucking Time Bandits pop out from under your bed and steal your froofroo, Gilbert and Sullivan-loving pansy ass to goddamned Narnia, I hear one more peep out of this cell, and you’re gonna have a bad time; got it, ‘Sideshow’? “ Bob winced at the mention of his reviled nickname. When he got out of here, first it would be Bart Simpson, then that infernal Krusty to face his vengeance, for saddling him with that ridiculous nom de scene.
“Yeah, I got it. If I get eaten by CHUDs, I’ll make sure to keep it down, thanks a lot.”
Steve the Guard tapped his baton against his hand, clearly sending a warning, and backed out of the cell. The door locked with a mechanical thunk, and the lights went off with a click, the humming of the filaments dropping to dead silence. Bob sat there, in the thick, smothering dark, shaking with rage and anxiety. He added Steve the Guard’s name to the growing list of people he would have to disembowel when he was finally free from these confines.
Bob gave the darkness a long, intense stare, watchful of the phantasmic things he knew were hiding just beyond reason.
A few hours , he muttered to himself, the heat making his mouth itch and his skin prickle. I only need to stay awake a few hours. I can do that. I’ve done it before. This is nothing.
Within minutes, and despite the suffocating temperature of the cell, Bob was snoring comfortably. All thoughts of fear and the unknown had been banished, replaced with a happy, carnal reunion with his estranged wife, Francesca, laying together in a sun-dappled hayloft at their Tuscan villa.
Reality, dear reader, holds little care for the dreams of madmen; or anyone, really. And as Bob fantasised about his wife’s long legs wrapped around his waist, thin, pale fingers ending in jagged black nails reached up from beneath Bob’s bed, and took hold of his bony ankle, giving it a solid and jarring tug.
And by ‘tug,’ naturally it is meant that it was a fucking yeet across the blackened room, sending the sleeping Bob into a scrambling pile in the far corner of the cell, banging his head roughly against the floor and dissolving his dreamworld into the inky terror of his surroundings once more.
Bob made a sound somewhere between a whimpering puppy being kicked and a squeaky toy being crushed repeatedly underfoot, a wet, thick crunch pulling all the breath out of his lungs and setting his side on fire. Lights dazzled before his eyes, his head rolling limply along his shoulders as his brain struggled to understand what had just happened, where Francesca had gone and why his lungs were burning.
Opening his eyes again to the darkness, Bob tried to push himself up to his knees, the stabbing ache in his side stopping him in his tracks. His hand found the source of his pain, holding it in as he shifted his weight, staggered to position himself in something vaguely resembling upright. His side felt like a dagger of broken glass had been shoved inside him and tore him open like a bag of chips, and he gasped in long, ragged hiccups to breathe. Stabbing fire shot through his body, and he coughed wetly into the floor, more pain searing through him, copper on his tongue as he spat onto the cold concrete of the cell.
A brief memory of skiing in Vale with his brother and parents as a teenager flashed in Bob’s mind, the bracing chill of the winter air as he caught a facefull of powder, before stumbling ass-over-tea kettle-over-cartoonishly-large-feet into a grove of pine trees, two ribs bending the wrong way and requiring an emergency helicopter ride to the hospital for repairs. He knew what broken ribs felt like. And if he had to hazard a guess, he was now the proud owner of three such ribs, and some internal damage to boot, if the taste of blood meant what he thought it did.
Light footsteps approached Bob’s wheezing, weeping self in the darkness, and if Bob had been able to pay attention beyond the agony in his side, he might have heard it. Instead, it wasn’t until thin, stubby claws grabbed at the impossible cascade of hair jutting out of his scalp and yanked his head back, that he was even aware of his house guests.
“Sideshow.” The voice was light yet raspy, like a devil had gotten its Stygian claws on a canister of helium and sucked it all down. “Not even ‘Sideshow Bob.’ Now that’s just sad.”
“Yeah, it’s like they don’t even respect you enough to use your name, Bob.” A second voice, a second set of small footsteps orbiting him, this one slightly deeper, but somehow nastier, angrier. “And you don’t get mail? Not from your parents, not from your wife? Not even from Cecil ?”
The first voice chuckled. “Oh no, not even your own brother cares enough to write to you? I can’t imagine that.”
The laughter from the darkness was cold and cruel, and Bob almost thought it seemed oddly familiar.
“Who’s there? Snake? Old Man Murkens from the haunted amusement park? Big Hungry Joe? The guards won’t like-”
“To fuck with what the guards like, Sideshow Bob.” The deeper, more masculine of the voices interrupted him, a sudden slap across the face making Bob see fireworks even in the dark. “We’re in charge here, not some police academy drop-outs high on a power trip.”
Bob wheezed as he tried to catch his breath, his side on fire, the bones grinding against one another like the gears of a broken clock. “Pl-please, I think I need a doctor! Something’s wrong with me!”
“No shit something’s wrong with you.” The lighter, more pixie-ish voice, this time. “What was the first clue? Was it when you tried to frame Krusty for armed robbery?”
“Or when you tried to murder your wife?” The voices were circling him, keeping him disoriented, keeping his head turning to face whichever direction the new sound was coming from.
“Or the how-many-times you tried to kill a ten-year-old boy and couldn’t quite cut it?”
“I think it was the thing with the nuke. Remember that, Bob? When you promoted yourself from incompetent child-killer to incompetent terrorist?”
“Can you do anything right? Anything?”
“He did run a successful mayoral campaign.”
“Yeah, by cheating. Couldn’t even do that right, though. You still got caught, didn’t you Bob?”
“No, I-” Bob’s voice pulled back, a sharp jab in his ribs making him wince in pain. He swooned, and leaned against the wall. “Please, I think my ribs are broken. I don’t know what you want, but I need a doctor, please!”
Small fingers found Bob’s throat in the dark, and squeezed so hard Bob was certain his windpipe was being torn out. A cold, stinking wind hit him in the face, the breath of one of the voices, and the feminine one piped up derisively, dripping with disdain.
“You couldn't even handle being second banana to a local TV clown. All you had to do was take a pie to the face and blow into a slide whistle, and even that was too fucking hard for you.”
“My god, you suck so bad, Bob. What did you do before Krusty found you in the gutter? Did you suck at that job, too?”
“Probably.” Bob couldn’t see it, but he simply knew that the feminine voice smiled cruelly at him; he could practically feel the gleam of wicked fangs smirking at him in the darkness. “Maybe that’s how Krusty found him - trolling the men’s room in Springfield Park for some cock to suck. Is that it, Bob? Did your cocksucking skills get you on TV?”
“Who are- who are you?” Bob pushed himself forward, trying to scamper away from the voices; he made it a few inches, maybe a whole foot, when fire shot up his chest and he face-planted into the cement, hot copper rushing into his mouth.
“Smell that? Mmm, fresh blood. I wonder what he would taste like, my darling husband.”
Bob swallowed, a thousand daggers of molten glass sliding down his throat, the taste of blood filling his mouth.
“Probably high-class champagne, caviar, and failure, my blushing bride. He’s not worth the effort. Besides, we promised not to leave any bodies.”
Bob flailed at the darkness blindly, coughing up a thick gout of warm and salted copper, something hot tickling his lip as it ran out his nose.

“P’eashe! Leaffe me a’one!” Bob snorted wetly, a wad of bloody phlegm making him choke and sputter. He spat onto the floor, and wiped the unseen blood from his face, his nose whistling as he struggled to breath.
“Oh my fucking god.” The male voice was rancid with disgust and disdain. “You used to be a terror, Bob; do you know the nightmares you used to give children? ‘ Eat your vegetables or Sideshow Bob will come and get you!’ And now look at you - whimpering like a kicked dog, spazzing out at shadows in the dark.”
“Maybe that boy he keeps trying to kill finally got the better of him. What was his name again? Bert? Bort?” There was a sly grin in the tone of the feminine voice that made Bob uneasy, but he was more focused on trying to breathe, trying to stay conscious.
“Mmm, Bart, I think. Yes, I’m sure it was Bart. Bart Simpson. The boy who made the big scary master criminal into his little bitch.”
Bob reached out for the floor, pulling himself along the cool concrete cell towards the faint light bleeding through the observation slot in the door, hoping to reach it before the wave of agony in his sides made him pass out. His hand slapped clumsily into the hard floor, flesh stinging, the cold sweat pooling in his palm making the concrete slick and slimy, only for something gard to crush down on his fingers in a sudden surge of torment, a wet crack and a rush of electric heat running up his arm. He tried to pull his arm to his chest, only for something to rush hard into his side, antagonising the fire in his side and nudging him half a foot towards the door with a pathetic yelp of pain.
“Where do you think you’re going, Sideshow? We’re not done with you yet.”
Bob clenched his eyes, his head swimming, his mind floating away into the darkness as he struggled to stay awake, to stay conscious against this phantom assault. He hadn’t heard the female voice taunt him, or the male after, somehow the calmer of the two, yet suffused with the most stone cold hate.
“Lees, wait.” Bart reached out to his sister, holding her back from shoving her foot under Sideshow Bob’s chin.
“What? You can’t tell me you don’t want to-”

Lisa could see Bart put a finger to his lips to shush her, and pointed to the door. Lisa turned, and in the eternity of a heartbeat, heard the observation slot slide open, spilling light into the dark crypt of a cell.

“I already told you, Bob, you know what happens next!”

The door opened with a cold thunk, and the light came on, assassinating the cover of dark. Steve the Guard stepped into the cell like a stormcloud, baton out and ready to play, ignoring the wisps of heavy fog that snaked around his ankles and into the ventilation grate down the hall, almost as if it were alive.

Bart and Lisa didn’t hear the guard call for help upon seeing the battered Sideshow Bob, didn’t hear the storm of footsteps or the call for a doctor. They were too busy fucking their undead brains out in the laundry room far below Bob’s cell, Lisa bent over, bracing herself against a water pipe and pushing back against Bart’s brutal thrusts into her hungry asshole.

Plap! Plap! Plap! Plap! Plap!

The sound of cold flesh slapping against cold flesh rang through the darkened laundry room, echoing off the white brickwork, underscored by the exhausted, wheezing hiccups of breath escaping Lisa’s lips, her hand clasped over her mouth to prevent the orgiastic moans she could feel welling up in her depths from drawing unwanted attention.
Bart felt no such restraint, as he gripped his sister-wife’s shoulders and battered her scalding hot anus with his throbbing erection.
“God! Fucking! Dammit! Lees!” Bart spat each word in rhythm to his forward thrusts, as if he were trying to emboss his invective onto the tender, bruised flesh of Lisa’s ass with the steely hammer that was his cock. “Who knew! That tormenting assholes! Like Sideshow Bob! Would be so fucking fun!?”
Lisa tried to speak, tried to say anything, make any sound that wasn’t a yelping whine as her anal ring stretched around Bart’s girthy root, each delicious withdrawal made better only by each barbaric slam into her guts, but her lungs couldn’t find the breath, her mind couldn’t grab onto an inch of space to form a thought more coherent than it’s ravenous hunger for more cock. Her pussy wept in jealous anticipation as it’s neighbour was turned inside out by Bart’s manic rutting, her clit aching for a touch, a tongue, a hard and cruel encounter with someone’s teeth, anything to set off the smouldering fireworks threatening to explode into one apocalyptic pyroclasm of ecstasy.
It wasn’t until Bart clumsily pulled at her top, exposing her grapefruit sized tits, that Lisa’s mind focused enough to form words.
“Mmmf! Ffffuck, Bart, we gotta find someone I hate and do the same thing to them!”
Lisa pulled herself away from her brother-husband, grabbing a nearby laundry cart and pushing it’s freshly cleaned load down to make a cushioned nest for herself. Hopping up into the bundle of soft, clean towels and blankets, she parted her thighs, her slit glistening in the murk of the laundry room, visible only thanks to the eyes of the two vampire lovers. Bart shuffled towards Lisa, pulled along by animal instinct and the divining rod that was his dick, the scent of raw, hungry pussy guiding him to his sister’s weeping cleft. He knelt, drawing his tongue roughly against her sopping sex, and smirked as she shivered in pleasure.
“Sure, Lees, but who do you hate? You’re little Miss Loves Everyone.”
“Nnf, not everyone. That little cunt Alison who got first chair in band, I hate her guts. Well, I find her…um…vexing, at least. I do want to brain her father with a fucking ice pick, though. Pretentious, condescending asshole.”
“Uh-huh.” Bart wasn’t really listening, he was more focused on eating his sister out, something which he found infinitely more enjoyable than hearing her rattle off her enemies list.
“Oh, or that shaved sasquatch Francine! I bet I’m way stronger than she is now! I’d love to teach her what real fear is!”
Lisa’s mind drifted away from her fantasies of vengeance the moment Bart’s lips made contact with her humming clit, sending shockwaves of electric joy racing up her spine. She arched up with a yelp, grinding her pelvis into Bart’s probing mouth, his tongue making wide, broad circles against her drenched cunny.
“Mmf, c’mere, Bart.” Her fingers coiled in his hair and drew his head up to hers, her tongue extended outwards to lick her flavour from his lips. With a giggle, she pulled him closer, on top of her, her arms wrapped around his neck as she slipped her tongue into his mouth. This time, it was Bart who moaned, as Lisa’s tongue slid along the roof of his mouth, entwined with his own wriggling pink muscle, before slipping down his throat, her feet sliding around his waist and locking themselves together at the ankle. With a sudden pull against his body, Lisa pressed Bart’s hard, throbbing dick against her belly.
“Baaaart,” Lisa whined, gyrating her hips up at her brother’s prong, teasing him, enticing him, daring him to claim her as his property, despite his ownership of her already being apparent. “I want you to paint me like a whore. Spray your hot cum all over me, Bart, make me all sticky and messy with your hot fucking load, please!”
Bart chewed his lower lip, his nostrils flared at the depravity of Lisa’s request. He reached down, gripping his hard cock, slowly stroking it, occasionally slapping it against Lisa’s moist slit, making her shudder at the sensation. “Mmf, yeah, Lees, I’ll fucking splatter you. Talk to me, baby, tell me what my slut of a little sister wants me to do.”
Lisa giggled, reaching down between her legs and gently cupping Bart’s heavy, full nutsack, gently massaging his marbles, feeling the torrent of jism building up inside. Her breathing was reedy and ragged, her teeth sunk into her lip and her eyes burning brilliant yellow in the omnivorous murk of the laundry room, an unholy heat radiating from her slippery quim as she fidgeted under Bart in starved anticipation.
“Oh god Bart, I want you to pump that fat, sister-fucking pole, nice and slow. Let me see how you skin that cock for me, honey. Mm, get that thick, creamy load ready to splash all over my swollen, pregnant tummy, Bart.”
Bart grunted, his chokehold on his dick intensifying, his knuckles flexing as his hand moved up his turgid shaft, eyes locked on Lisa’s lustful gaze. Heat spilled from her cleft, the air thick with the musk of her arousal, her pale skin almost glowing from her internal ardour.
“Mmm, look at me, Bart. Look at what you did. I know you can see me, I know you can see in the dark, so look at how well you fucked your little sister. You made me so pregnant, Bart. You stuck your big, hard cock into my wet cunt and fucked a baby into me. You depraved little bastard, you fucked me good and proper. You broke me and you bred me, Bart.”

The rhythmic slapping of Bart’s hand along his cockshaft increased in tempo, his knuckles a blur of superhuman motion, the friction threatening to light his dick on fire.
“M-mmmore, Lisa; tell me more - oh fuck!”
Lisa’s red-lit eyes narrowed in the darkness; the predator within her had awoken, her lips curling into a hungry snarl.. “Beat that fat fucking cock for me, Bart. Stroke it, fuck that monster for your little sister. Make those big, tasty balls tighten up and shoot all that hot, thick boy-gravy all over my whore body. Paint your sister-wife, honey, coat me in all that yummy spunk! I want the whole fucking town to see me wear your load on my naked body! To see how fucking hot and swollen you made me, to let them know what I am for you, Bart!”
“And what are you, Lees? Tell me, help me get there baby!”
“Hnf!” Lisa’s fingers spread her cunt wide, a rush of pheromones filling the nostrils of both siblings, her heat radiating off of her like a volcano. A wet, sticky sound arose from the darkness as she massaged her needy, burning twat, fluids slickening her hand as she moved it in deep, penetrating circles around the entrance to her lovetunnel. “I’m yours, Bart! Your toy, your slave, your wife, your slut! Fuck me, breed me, feed from me and then do it all over again until I’m a gibbering wreck! Make me your cock-crazed thrall again, baby! Fuck me in the streets like a fucking animal, please!”
Bart bit down hard on his lip, and with a choked gurgle, arching himself backwards, his fingers locked up in an ironclad strangle on his piece, as his balls tightened against his body and the first rush of seed exploded out of him, loud enough to be heard, and finding shelter on Lisa’s body. She felt hot rain splatter between her milky tits, tasted the distinct tang of cum, smelled it as it smeared up her forehead, alongside her nose and off her chin. More spurts came in the darkness, drenching her chest and belly, pooling in her distended navel and running down her sides as she heaved in raw anticipation. The scent of her brother’s load, the taste as she lapped it from her lips, and felt it running in thick, sluggish rivulets down her body, made Lisa convulse in the laundry hamper, and with a cry in the darkness that startled even her, she felt her cunt tense up, a cascade of her oils spraying against Bart’s legs, her soul ejected out of her pussy in a stuttering deluge that seemed to go on forever.
When Lisa opened her eyes, it was to the sounds of wet slurping, a tight, enjoyable pressure on her left nipple. The hamper was soaked with their juices and sweat and the scent of their mating, and with her keen, undead eyes, she could see Bart, beautiful, godly Bart, his head nestled against her left tit, his lips wrapped around her engorged nipple, her sweet, warm milk flowing around his mouth and running down her flesh. Her body was hot and heavy and tingled distantly, as if she had been struck by lightning and the sensation was only now starting to fade.
“Baaaart, that’s for the baaaaaby.”
Bart smiled - where once his sister whining would have annoyed him, now every sound she made, made him want to bend her over and fuck her until she broke again. He pulled his lips off her tit, her nipple swollen and erect from the suction, a spurt of milk escaping before disappearing into the ocean of blackness, and smiled, his eyes burning yellow. “She’s still three months away, honey. There will be plenty of mommy’s milk for our little one by the time she gets here.”
Lisa’s head dropped back into the pile of clothes, sighing softly. She clasped Bart’s head gently to his chest, closing her eyes as he resumed his sucking.
“Mmmf…that feels good, Bart. So much better than when I have Jessica drain my tits.”
In response, Bart slid his tongue against her areola, making his sister shiver in delight under him, his thick fingers fumbling at her convulsing cunny, strumming her sodden labia like an expert guitarist. She shifted on the pile of clothes, pulling herself up onto her elbow, and moved her leg a few inches to the left, letting Bart have better access.
“Mm, I wanna play more, Bart, but let’s do it at home. I want to spend my wedding night in my marriage bed.”
Bart didn’t say anything for a while, he just slurped and sucked at Lisa’s breast, before finally pulling himself away from her tit and helping her to her feet. As Lisa hopped out of the hamper and worked a kink out of her neck, Bart licked her juices from his cunt-stained fingers, sucking Lisa’s tang from each digit.
“Mm, fuck the Colonel, Lees, you’re pussy is finger-licking good.”
She giggled, and nudged him playfully in the ribs. “Gawd Bart, how did I marry such a dork?”
Something velvety hard and hot slapped against her leg a few times. “It must have been my amazing hog that made you love me, Lees.”
Ah, Lisa thought, it was his dick slapping me. Cheeky, Bart.
“Must have been ‘Cause you got fuck-all for a personality.” She teased him, her hand reaching down in the darkness to give his cock a gentle squeeze, before she slipped her hand into his, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Take us home, Bart. Where our bed and loving blood-slave await us.”
The two siblings cuddled briefly in the darkness, Bart kissing his sister’s head gently, squeezing her close to his body, as they snuck through the darkness towards a hidden air vent, their bodies melting into a thick grey fog that wafted through the vent.

Springfield Public Library’s service hours in the spring were from 10 Am to 5 PM, and as the clocks on the wall in the main study would attest, it was now well passed midnight, meaning that nobody had walked the lacquered tile floor or explored the labyrinth of stacks in over seven hours. So the pair of intruders slinking like black eels through the shadows, blades of light bleeding from their flashlights, were most definitely an anomaly.
“This place isn’t so spooky in the dark.” The boy hid his fear well, although his companion could smell it all the same. The boy had always been afraid of the dark, and even his current status did little to bolster his courage. But he wasn’t alone, and his companion gave him the mask of confidence to walk undeterred through the weirdly-shaped shadows of the library.
“It had better be here, boy.” The other voice was harsher, older - much older - and cold as a long-abandoned grave. A flashlight’s beam fell upon the boy, chasing the darkness away from his features, revealing a round, bulbous nose, short-cropped blueberry hair, and a pair of black eyes blinking from behind a thick pair of glasses. “I am in no mood for a midnight stroll to Waste-My-Time-Ville.”
“It’s here,” Milhouse turned towards the murky stacks of books that lined the main room, searching the sea of shadows for anything recognizable. “The school donated all sorts of old books to the town library last October, and that whole section was cleaned right out. So unless someone checked it out, it should still be here.”
Thin, bony fingers dug into Milhouse’s shoulder like fishhooks, spinning him around forcefully, a pair of dim, dead embers staring at him from the shadow’s occluding the old man’s face.
“Have you actually seen it here, boy? Have you personally seen the book in this library?”
Pinpricks of nervous heat swept over Milhouse’s neck, and he suddenly wanted to run and hide under a table, or under his bed, or in the cold, cold ground, for all the good it would do him. He scratched at the prickling heat running along his neck, and shivered in panic at the thick atmosphere of dread filling the shadows. “Um…no, not me, personally. But it has to be here! Where else could it be?”
The embers flared hot and bright in anger, and Milhouse shrank back in fear. The old man growled, low and savage, sounding everything like a hungry wolf, and not a damned thing like a man of any sort, and in the backwash of light from the torch in his hand, Milhouse could make out the pale white gleam of fangs, exposed and menacing.
“If it is not here, I will be most unhappy, boy. That book could very well be the thing I have been looking for to undo that hell-damned harridan Marguerite de Lara.”
“You mean Bart’s mom?”
The old man snarled, and Milhouse could see the shape of him pointing authoritatively, wordlessly commanding the boy to begin searching the shelves for their prize.
Milhouse trundled through the darkness, deftly weaving around the tables and stray carts towards the reference books. It was here. It had to be. He knew it was…but as always, he wasn’t certain if what he knew was necessarily what was real .
Stooping in the dark alone, Milhouse began pulling at the books on the shelves, drawing his flashlight over each spine in turn, returning the books when he didn’t find the title he was looking for.
“Have you found it yet, boy?”
“No, I just started looking.” He refused to even think what he wanted to think about the old man - he wasn’t suicidal, and he knew that his Master could read his thoughts with little effort - and instead, continued pouring through the books, taking them from the shelves, scanning the spines, and returning them to their proper place when they weren’t what he wanted.
“Master, sorry for asking such a silly question, but why do we need-”
“Because!” The old man’s voice rang throughout the empty library, and Milhouse was certain that it had awoken some foul spirits hiding away in the rafters. Old places like this always had ghosts, he was sure of it. “The de Lara bitch must pay for what she did to me! And if that book, that wonderful, dreadful, horrifying treasure of a book, if it is truly here, then I must have it! It will seal that trollop's fate and finally earn me my revenge, after so many years!”
“No,” Milhouse piped up, having waited long enough for his master to finish talking so as to not interrupt him and thus earn his ire. “What I wanted to know is, why are we using flashlights?”
“What.” The old man’s voice flattened dully.
“Well, we’re vampires, we can see in the dark. So really, having flashlights just makes it easier for someone outside the library to notice that we’re in here doing things we shouldn’t. It doesn’t make sense.”
The old man was quiet for a while, save for the grinding of his teeth. Finally, his voice, curt and cold, sprang up again from out of the darkness.

“I know that! Of course I know that we’re vampires, I’m not stupid! I made you into a vampire, did you think I forgot that?”
“No, I didn’t-”
“Of course we can see in the dark, every ninny knows that vampires can see in the dark! But…w-we can’t see colour, can we? We still need light to see colours, so…we have flashlights so we can identify the book by the colour of the cover! Everyone knows that darkvision is only in black and white, haven’t you ever played Dungeons and Dragons? You look the type.”
Milhouse shrank back towards the bookshelf, trying to will himself invisible to escape the old man’s dagger-sharp gaze. “No, that’s a social thing, and I only have the one friend.”
“Ah yes.” The old man sounded warmer now, almost wistful. “The de Lara boy. Brad.”
“Bart, actually.”
“Really? No, I’m sure it’s Brad. He looks like a Brad.”
“It’s Bart. We’ve been friends since kindergarten, I would know his name.”
“Well his name doesn’t bloody well matter, unless it gets me that blasted book, now does it!”
Milhouse buried himself back into his task, checking the books for the right title, trying not to antagonise the old man further.
The hours passed at an agonising pace as Milhouse fumbled in the dark, checking books, finding nothing. The old man was off muttering to himself about something, Milhouse wasn’t paying him any mind, only focusing on his task.
It was just after dawn when Milhouse found it. The sun had only started to paint the sky streaks of orange and purple, and the town was still snuggled away in their warm beds, like sane people or something, when his small hand pulled a black leather bound tome from the shelf, when his beady black eyes scanned the cover and saw the terrifying sigil of a demon’s face and the gilt print title hanging like a cobweb over the front.
Magicks Most Fowelle and Damnded .
With a chirp of self-satisfaction, Milhouse rose off his haunches, his knees popping back into place, and turned to find the old man, sleeping on the table. Only now did Milhouse realise the lateness of the hour - or the earliness, one might suppose. It wouldn’t be long before the librarians arrived to begin getting the library ready for the public, so they had to leave quickly.
With his chest puffed up, Milhouse trudged over to the table where the old man had opted to sleep while his assistant did all the work, and in a moment of devil-may-care he wasn’t aware he was capable of, he smugly dropped the book onto the tabletop, shocking the old man awake with a start.
The old man screamed briefly as his slumber was brutally murdered so suddenly, and after a few seconds of humming and hawing and trying to remember where he was and why, he looked down and saw the book, and with speed his aged body should never have had within it, he grabbed the dusty old tome, leapt to his feet, and let out a jubilant cheer. He held the book over his head as if it were a trophy, or as if he were presenting Baby Simba to the rest of the Pridelands, and danced around the library, hooting and whooping like an idiot child, when Milhouse threw water on his ancient joy.
“I don’t wanna spoil your breakdown, Master, but the librarians just pulled up. Unless you wanna risk killing them…
“Oh?” The old man blinked at Milhouse, as if he had forgotten that the boy existed. “Ah. Yes, yes, let us be well on our way then, boy. Leave the flashlights, we’ll leave by the air vents, they won’t see us that way!”
The old man and his boy raced to get out of sight, even as the library’s front door opened, the keys scraping against the lock, the librarians stepping into the entrance hall. As he focused, shifted his body into soft, grey mist, letting his vapour slip through the tin slats of the air vent, he chuckled to himself. His plan was coming together; in due time, Marguerite de Lara would see what she had brought upon herself. And then…then, just as regret and despair settled upon her, only then would she know the depths of his true revenge!
- 6
- 7
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He's Like The Wind