Adult-FanFiction.org : Cartoons

He's Like The Wind	By : LordKuyohashi Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 7701 -:- 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
- 7
- 8
By the time Bart and Lisa reached Springfield’s residential area, the sun was peeking over the horizon, painting the sky periwinkle and indigo, and the streetlights lining the sidewalk had gone dark. Somewhere in the distance, a train sounded, rattling as it raced down the ancient and poorly maintained track, and a few houses came to life with their lights, the people inside waking slowly, lethargically,
None of them poked their head out their front doors or looked out their windows, it seemed; for if they had, they would have seen little Lisa Simpson, her tummy distended and round, her body bare save for the dried coating of her brother’s seed that stained her naked flesh. She strutted along the pavement, her head held high, a smug smirk on her lips, her brother-husband Bart walking a step behind her, her dress slung over his shoulder and his eyes glued to her swaying asscheeks as she showed off all her glory to the world.
“If I didn’t already know it, Lees, I’d swear you were out of your mind.”
Lisa giggled: the cool morning air tickled as the spring breeze ran over her naked body, sending a naughty shiver up her spine that nearly made her erupt into a small orgasm on the spot. “Oh Bart, relax. Nobody will see us. And if they do, who cares? We own the police, we own the school, I wouldn’t be surprised if Kent Brockman and Joe Quimby were thralls. We have nothing to worry about.”
“Except people wondering why you’re naked, and that leads to wondering why you’re pregnant, and that could lead to wondering why you’re room temperature.
Lisa leaned in against Bart’s chest, her nose touching his slightly as she tilted her head upwards. “You worry too much, Bart. If anyone does see us, we can just compel them to ignore and forget us.” Her yellow eyes flared, a wolfish flash of her fangs as she slipped her hands down Bart’s pants, her fingers finding their way around her brother’s cock. “In fact,” she cooed seductively, “I bet we could fuck like animals right in the bushes and nobody would notice us.”
“I’m not seeing your logic there, Lees, but you are redirecting the blood flow away from my brain, so that might be the reason why. Didn’t you have enough at the prison?”
Lisa’s long, pink tongue swiped up the tip of Bart’s nose, sending a shiver up his spine as she giggled airily. “Silly Bart, when have I ever had enough of you? Haven’t you learned by now that I’m a complete slut for your cock?”
She looked around the street for a bit; nobody was outside, and nobody was looking out their windows. She spotted something a bit further up the sidewalk, and a wicked smile pulled across her face. Pulling Bart after her by the dick, she skipped up to the object of her concern, a mailbox, and turned to her brother, purring softly. “Here. Fuck me here, Bart. In the driveway, in the bushes, on the front step.”
Bart glanced past his sister to the mailbox, reading the name printed on the side.
Skinner.
“Whoa, Lisa, I’m all for shoving things in Skinner’s face - that he’s Mom’s butt monkey, that Krabappel ditched him for Comic Book Guy, that he’s living a life that even Norman Bates would call pathetic and creepy.”
“But you draw the line at defiling his front step with our lovemaking?”
Bart snorted a harsh laugh. “Hell no, I was just listing off some of the ways I like to shine him on. I’m always down to pound your ass, you know that.”
Lisa pulled Bart up Principal Skinner’s driveway by his dick, meandering clumsily towards the salmon-coloured hydrangea bushes planted by the front steps. She released her hold on Bart’s cock, just long enough to push the pink flowers aside and disappear into the heavy shade of the leaves, before Bart sank into the greenery after her.
As Bart pushed his way into the shaded sanctuary of the foliage, his face planted rather unceremoniously into the cleft of his sister’s spread asscheeks, his nose resting just above her butt, his mouth pressed hotly against her crack. Lisa hiccupped at the moment Bart’s lips made contact with her bare anus, then melted back against him, a dumb grin on her face as she began rubbing her ass into his face.
“Oooh Bart, do that, eat my asshole out. Make it nice and wet, make me squeal!”
Bart paused for a moment - he hadn’t planned on mashing his face into Lisa’s ass, and he had hurt his nose when he landed against her, that kind of ache along the bridge of the nose that made you think you had broken the cartilage, only for it to be just fine, and he was busy blinking through the tears that had formed in his eyes - but after he had processed his current situation, he was all too happy to oblige her demands, furtively poking his tongue into her sphincter, slowly working her anus open as he plunged into her depths.
Lisa wriggled against her brother’s invading tongue, feeling it elongate inside her, a slippery pink serpent plumbing her insides, sending wave after wave of ecstatic shivers throughout her body. She shook as he snaked his unnatural appendage into her guts. Just as she felt her brain tense up for the impending explosion of pretty lights and orchestral music that accompanied her every climax, Bart pulled back, his tongue ripping from her hole with such force that her face planted into the woody roots of the bush that had obscured them.
Lisa drooled into the thin scattering of wood chips that lined the Skinner’s front hedges, trying to hold on tightly to the memory of the sensation of Bart’s tongue probing her guts, when she felt her bare ass split open forcefully, a sudden weight drop onto her back, and something silky smooth, stone cold, and deliciously hard as iron fitted against her saliva-soaked anus.
“You might wanna find something to bite down on, Lees,” Bart hissed hotly in her ear, his body squishing her uncomfortably against the branches of the bush, “I’m gonna split you like fucking firewood.”
Lisa bit her lip, eyes clenched shut in anticipation for the momentous event. She nodded, assenting to her impending sodomy, and smiled as Bart raised himself up a few inches, planted a hand on the soil next to her head, and pushed himself into her ass. She grunted as her hole stretched itself open for Bart’s rigid meatpole, the delicious rod spreading her sphincter, the pain running up her spine and transmuting to soul-melting pleasure. She seethed, a long hissing breath that formed a spit-flecked puddle in the mulch and loam as Bart filled her ass, then slowly, then forcefully, began pistoning out of her puckered hole. There was little resistance - her ass had been well-trained in the months since Bart had bred her good and proper - but with some effort and concentration, Lisa was able to flex her muscles and milk her brother’s cock like a good slutwife.
The hydrangea bushes rustled and shook as the two siblings rutted and fucked like minks in a sack, smacking the branches against the side of the Skinner residence. Grunts of amorous effort radiated from the foliage like light, like steam, a small, green heaven for the lovers inside.
If they hadn’t been so focused on one another, they might have heard the clacking of the bicycle chain, the rolling of the rubber tire against the cooled asphalt of the street, as the paperboy zipped by in a blur; they might have heard the newspaper arc through the air - and if they weren’t so enraptured with one another’s bodies, they might ponder at the types of people who, in this day and age, still read actual, physical, printed newspapers - and they may have heard it hit the front door of the house with a turgid “plap!” Perhaps they would have heard the staggered, arthritic footsteps inside the house, fuzzy slippers padding down the stairs to the front door. They might have heard thin, aged fingers creak as they wrapped around the doorknob, the mechanical clicking of the mechanism turning, the rusted whine of the hinges as they were put to work, and the snapping of ancient knees as a withered body bent to pick up the paper from its grave on the front stoop.
They certainly didn’t hear a dry, whining voice call out in shock at the rustling of the bushes, the repeated prompts for whatever wild beast to scram! Shoo! Git out of here, you damned cats, go screw in someone else’s yard! Damned neighbours and their pets, no respect for an old woman’s home; followed by five or six more footsteps, more kneecaps popping, and the squeaking of a water valve, the hissing rumble of a garden hose filling up, or the pained cry of the rusted nozzle trigger being depressed by weak hands.
No, dear reader, alas, Bart was far too focused on destroying his sister’s asshole with his raging fraternal boner, and Lisa far too focused on being destroyed, to pay anything outside their fragrant green universe any mind, and so they heard nothing. Nothing at all, save their own pants, grunts, moans and wet squelches.
And then Bart screamed.
It was an unpleasant sound - what scream isn’t? - and served only to alert the fornicating siblings of the threat they now faced. Bart scrambled backwards out of the bush, cock freshly pulled from Lisa’s ass, screeching like a siren, convulsing as he tried to get away from the searing, impossible pain lancing across his back. Lisa, her ass painfully deprived of its phallic tenant, half-turned in the bush, pushing branches aside to see what had robbed her of her brother’s loving attention, and to see why he was screaming so terribly. The sound made her cold, dead heart freeze, and the sight of Bart writhing on the driveway, scraping long bloody trails on the asphalt as he tried to escape whatever it was that was tormenting him, shocking and horrifying her. She took a step out of the bush towards Bart, when geriatric hands trained the garden hose on the second intruder, the second punk kid to defile her precious hydrangeas.
“Freeze, girlie!” Agnes Skinner squinted at the naked girl emerging from her bushes, leaves sticking to her sweat-glistened skin. Lisa turned to Agnes, still moving towards Bart as he wailed bloody murder. Agnes finally noticed the boy was pantsless, and stiff, and the girl was bare as the day she was born, and she sneered in disgust at the sight. “Good god, you filthy little animals! What were you doing in my flowers, you sick pree-verts!”
Lisa said nothing, only inching out of the bushes, turning his eyes back to Bart, who hadn’t stopped weeping and rasping his back against the ground, apparently hoping to forcibly remove whatever was hurting him from his body, to no avail.
“Don’t you move, you hussy! You Jezebel! My word, what is this world coming to, you can’t be more than a baby yourself! What kind of parents would raise a daughter to fornicate in someone’s bushes like a…like a heathen!”
Bart seemed to realize that laying on his back was only causing himself more pain, and so he had, with a great deal of effort, rolled himself onto his side, still squirming in agony, and upon seeing the festering gash burned across his shoulders, Lisa let out a despairing gasp.
The wound was ruddy brown, the skin boiling at the edges, with blood and what seemed to be pus leaking from deep inside. It looked like no wound Lisa had ever seen before, and she used to read medical texts for fun. Her mind raced as she tried to understand what had happened, even as Agnes Skinner droned on about how in her day, respectable girls wouldn’t be caught dead getting rogered in someone’s roses or buggered in the begonias, never mind getting humped hard like some hedonistic hussy harlot in the hydrangeas.
From the corner of her eye, Lisa finally saw the weapon in Agnes’ hand - a simple garden hose, dusty and faded with age and misuse, the once-chrome pistol now grody with rust and lime, water pissing out the nozzle in a limp arc and puddling on the cold morning pavement, running in dark rivers down to the street and vanishing in thirsty gurgles into the storm drain. The insane parts of Lisa’s mind imagined a small paper boat, a boy in a yellow rain jacket, and red balloons, but the part of her that stayed rational saw only the attacker and her weapon, held out like Dirty Harry was drawing down his .44 Magnum and asking questions about how lucky she felt.
And then it hit her, metaphorically.
Garden hose, she thought; Running water.
And now she knew what running water did to vampires.
The anger boiled from deep within Lisa. Her legs strained, coiled like springs, like cobras ready to strike, but that damned garden hose kept her nailed to the ground. If one blast could scour Bart’s flesh like that, what would happen if Lisa caught a direct shot in the face? Blindness? Worse? No, she’d have to be smart, not savage. Savage would get both of them killed, and what would that obituary even look like? “Local children slain by doddering old woman armed with garden hose, recent Muntz murders solved.”
Fuck that.
Lisa growled at Agnes, but backed down, her red eyes glowing with her hatred. She had to talk her way out of this, Bart needed healing and he needed it soon before his cries alerted more people.
So she pushed.
“Put the fucking hose down and bring him inside.”
Agnes blinked in disbelief. Was this brazen hussy, this slattern, this licentious howler of a harlot, actually giving Agnes Florence Gunderson-Skinner orders on her own property? Like bloody hell she was!
“Oh no, you listen here, Missy-”
“No.” LIsa’s voice was deeper, darker, full of hunger and hate and command, and Agnes’ arm limply fell to her side, her head swimming as if she had been struck. Her eyes, already grey and failing, went blank, her thoughts drowned out by the hammering thrum of the naked girl’s omnivorous will subsuming her own.
“Good.” Lisa bent to grab her dress off the driveway, flaring it into the wind to dust it off and slipping it over her head, covering her nudity. “Now carry him inside and lay him on your couch. Be careful, if you hurt him again, you will pay for it.”
Agnes moved towards Bart like a zombie, like a marionette on frayed strings that would snap at any moment; Lisa glared angrily as the old woman sluggishly bent her arthritic knees, the weathered joints popping loudly at the effort, and lifted Bart from the bloody driveway, slowly turning towards the house and lurching forward. Agnes blinked through her confused tears, her mind screaming as her own body betrayed her.
Lisa followed in after the terrified old woman, closing the door behind her, and watched as Agnes unceremoniously dumped her brother on the hideous taupe couch, onto his stomach. Lisa rushed to Bart’s side, nudging Agnes away, and inspected the wound on his back. It was like a scorch mark lashed across his shoulder blades, the skin bubbling and pale green putrescence seeping from the lacerated flesh. Gingerly, she touched a finger to the reddened skin just below the wound, and let out a seething hiss of disgust as something thick and sallow flowed from the damaged area. Bart let out a pathetic moan, and withdrew her hand as if it had been stung.

Lisa hopped off the couch and looked around the antique-decorated living room of the Skinner home, searching for the phone; she remembered leaving hers on her dresser before the family left for the Flanderses house last night, and hoped that anyone who still had houndstooth wallpaper and physical newspapers on the coffee table would still have a landline phone. Sure enough, on the settee table by the stairs was an old touch tone phone, shaped like a football. Fumbling anxiously with the bulky device, Lisa punched in her mother’s number, and waited for the tone, tapping her foot frantically as she glanced back at Bart.

The phone rang and rattled on its wall-mounted cradle in the Simpson’s kitchen, its cacophonous caterwauling going unanswered. Upstairs, Jessica was in Maggie’s room, playing some sugar-soaked preteen pop drivel on her phone, watching with unbridled glee as her Mistress’ baby sister bobbed and bounced to the music. Maggie cackled and squealed as the two girls danced, not even stopping her euphoric giggling when she stumbled forward and face planted into the carpet. Jessica helped Maggie back up to her feet, and manipulated her stuffed animals to dance along with her, filling the room with more riotous laughter.

They simply couldn’t hear the phone.

In the basement, Marge’s face was buried in the cushions of the old derelict couch the family had been meaning to throw away for years but had never found the time or energy to do so. Behind her, fat fingers digging into the soft, pliant flesh of her hips, Homer was driving into his wife’s pussy like a triphammer, like a piledriver, his fat ass rocking back and forth with a speed, a power, a force of will few would ever believe he was capable of. No, all his energy was earmarked for his wife and her carnal hungers; every beat of his heart, every firing of his neurons, all devoted to fucking Marge like a pair of ermines in a barrel. His grunts turned into roars of conquest, of dominance. Marge tore at the cushion covers as her husband, her blood slave, parted her heart-shaped ass like a fresh peach and squeezed another five inches of his monstrous girth into her. Tears ran freely down her cheeks, sweet, delicious agony splitting her cunt and making her moans melt into a melodious, wailing peal that rattled the windows, made every dog on the block bark their damned fool heads off, and set off every car alarm all up and down the street. Nobody on Evergreen Terrace needed their alarm clock that particular Saturday morning, because Marge Simpson had reached a staggering 8.95 on the Orgasmic Richter scale, and let everyone in the neighbourhood know that her Homie FUCKS. Homer wouldn’t join Marge in getting his nut until he had driven her to at least six more orgasms over the next two and a half hours, his cock hard the entire time, his hips a manic blur of motion as he rutted into his wife, battering at her womb; his fat, heavy, low-hanging balls swinging into her like a wrecking ball, symbolizing her repeated ruinations, until finally he let out a throaty roar that made more than one neighbour question if Godzilla was approaching the generators,

So, no, they didn’t hear the phone, either.

Lisa let out an annoyed grunt as she replaced the phone onto its hook, perhaps with a bit more force and anger than she had intended. Bart was whimpering into the Skinners’ throw pillows, the skin on his back cracking and bubbling. Lisa returned to his side, taking a doily from the nearby coffee table and using it to wick a coating of sweat from her tormented brother’s neck.
“Hold on, Bart; I’ll think of something to help you.”
She caressed Bart’s forehead, the skin feeling oddly warm. Bart hadn’t had any Deadman’s Respite since yesterday, and it never lasted more than a full twenty-four hours. He should be as cold as the walking corpse he was, not burning up with a fever.
A whimper from the corner of the living room caught Lisa’s attention, and she turned to see Agnes, huddled and small, her eyes wide with terror at the naked girl who had intruded into her home, who had somehow dominated her will. Lisa snarled wolfishly, and Agnes flinched, expecting an assault from the strange naked girl.
“Get over here!” Lisa’s tone was cruel and commanding, but Agnes didn’t move, couldn’t move. With a grumbling hiss, Lisa marched to the old woman, snatched her ankle in one small hand, and dragged her towards the couch like she was nothing, stopping only when Agnes had reached the side of the wounded boy. Lisa relinquished her vice grip on Agnes’ ankle, letting the foot drop like a dead weight to the floor; Agnes let out a yelp, and nursed her foot, the skin red-turning-yellow already.
Lisa rolled Bart onto his back, ignoring his wail of pain as the suppurating gash on his back was forcefully pressed against the hideous couch, and propped him up, planting a pillow behind his head.
“Bart, you have to listen to me, okay?” Bart’s head lolled about on his shoulders, his eyes fluttering open. He moaned dreamily, agonizingly, letting Lisa know that he heard her. “You need to feed. It’ll heal you, I think, okay? Can you do that for me? Can you feed?”
Bart forced his eyes open; they were a shade of red that worried Lisa, somewhere between aged blood and glowing embers, and as he dragged his desiccated eyelids open, milky fluid ran in thinning rivulets down his face. A cold chill raced up her spine as Bart nodded slowly, his voice raspy and harsh as he managed to croak out a barely audible, “Yeah.”
Lisa slipped her brother’s arm over her shoulder and hoisted him up from the couch, setting him down next to the whimpering old woman who had scourged him in the first place. Lisa took Agnes' thin, pale arm, pulled it across her withered chest, and lifted Bart’s head, pressing his lips to the sallow, wrinkled skin. Bart sniffed twice, then in a motion as fluid as a viper, sank his teeth into the proffered wrist. Agnes moaned in pain, drowned out by the desperate, famished gulping of her lifeblood down Bart’s parched gullet. Threads of blood pooled at Bart’s lips, running down Agnes’ weathered skin, staining her dress and carpet.

Lisa watched as her brother-groom’s throat bobbed with every swallow, saw the dread in the old woman’s eyes melt into a sort of sleepy panic. Quickly, Lisa pulled Bart away from the narrow, seeping wrist, his chin stained ruddy crimson, and with a snarl, she opened her own wrist with her fangs, and shoved the black-oozing wound into Agnes mouth, forcing her to gulp down the foul ichor flowing from the lesions.

Agnes grimaced weakly at the bitter sludge sweating onto her tongue, but she swallowed all the same. It tasted like ear wax and shoe polish, mixed together and left to curdle in an old cellar, far from human memory, but as her stomach settled, as the puncture marks pocking her wrist knitted themselves closed and her bone marrow began churning out more blood to replace what had been lost, she felt a strange, warming embrace envelope her.

Lisa couldn’t have given less of a shit about the vile old woman; ignoring her almost-orgasmic groans as the vampire’s blood coursed through her geriatric veins, Agnes fluttered somewhere between life and death, between waking and dreaming, all while Lisa fretted over Bart, checking his forehead and back.

The wound had receded, was still receding as Lisa looked upon the angry scorch marks, rotted flesh turning pale lemon-white once more. The bubbling pustules settled and deflated, the fevered flesh cooling and blanching back to its usual slate-white pallor. In seconds, Lisa could hear Bart gasp a sigh of relief as the pain vanished, and as he slowly pushed himself back up into a seated position. The pallor returned to his face, and he wiped the putrescence from his cheeks, making a face when he saw the sickly green fluid running from his eyes, thick and foul on his skin.

“Ugh…h-holy hell, what happened? I never felt anything so painful in my life!”

Lisa glowed happily at the sight of Bart, his suffering ended, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her bare body to his and burying her face in his neck.

“Oh Bart, I was so scared! I didn’t know what was happening, or how to make your pain stop!”

Lisa made a hiccuping sound that made Bart’s cold, still heart drop, and he turned his head towards the old woman writhing in mindless bliss on the carpet.

“What are we going to do about her?”

With one final, pathetic sniffle, Lisa glared at Agnes on the floor, and her mood shifted from relieved grief to sneering disdain.

“We really can’t kill her?” She asked the question with a sinister pout, like a child innocently asking why they have to share the ice cream with a younger sibling.

“Mom would know. She’d just…know.”
With a huff, Lisa disengaged herself from Bart’s body, and slinked over to Agnes, observing the broken woman as she fought against the confused rush of weakness and emotion running through her aged body.

“She was a pain in the–” Lisa started, then looked over to Bart on the couch. She was going to say, “ass,” but given Bart’s recent suffering, though better of discussing any pain whatsoever. Turning back to Agnes, panting and rubbing at herself, Lisa shrugged. “Well, she’s kinda pathetic without her garden hose, I guess. Should we make her a thrall, then?”

Bart stood up on his wobbly legs, arms out to keep his balance. “Think we’ll get much use out of a wrinkly old slave? What would we even do with her?”

Lisa turned to her brother-husband and smiled, fangs flashing in the cozy light of the household.
Without a word, she returned her gaze to Agnes, squatting down and gleefully watching as madness and dread settled into the old woman’s eyes. Suddenly, she understood why Bart enjoyed watching Apu wither away into a nervous wreck every night; insanity was just so fascinating, the clockwork of the mind popping all it’s gears and springs, the world twisting into something unrecognizable and alien, even as thoughts strange and incomprehensibly alien floated to the surface and drowned out all rationality, and part of Lisa wondered if she was nearly half as much fun when she was stark raving mad.

“What do you think, Agnes? It is Agnes, isn’t it? Would you like to become a bloodslave to my brother and I?”

Agnes only moaned, pulling at her nightclothes, sweat beading on her skin, her eyes wide with terror and confusion. Lisa couldn’t see it, but the room around Agnes warped and twisted, and the two siblings had grown into grotesque giants with deformed faces and far, FAR too many eyes.
Agnes’ agony - a phrase that brought Lisa no end of glee when it crossed her mind - made the undead girl smile, and she shifted to the side as Bart slipped in next to her, his wrist at his teeth.

“Don;t tease her, Lees. Just get it done.”

Lisa pouted at being castigated, as Bart sank his fangs into his arm, grunting as the thick black ichor flowed from the wound. He pressed it to Agnes’ thin, bloodless lips, watching the suffering old woman as she messily sucked down the foul, rotted sludge that seeped from his opened wrist. After half a minute, he pulled his arm away, leaving the old woman’s face looking as if she had smeared motor oil around her mouth, thick globs of sludge running down her chin and staining her nose. She gasped for air, swallowing down whatever was left of Bart’s blood, then licked at her lips, the cloud of insanity lifting from her eyes, replaced with a strange slavish devotion. Agnes smiled, struggling to sit up.

“Oh! Hello there, dearies!” Her tone was saccharine and airy, as if she had just been surprised by her grandchildren visiting. “I didn’t hear you come in!”

Bart smiled, pulling himself and Lisa back up to their feet. Lisa cocked her head to the side.

“Do you know who we are?” Bart was clipped and curt in his delivery, but Lisa could see the wheels turning in his depraved, evil head. She may have the penchant for murder, she thought, but Bart was a different kind of monster.

Agnes smiled, nodding as if her head were on a spring. “Oh of course I do, you’re that rascal Bart Simpson, aren’t you? My Seymour is always telling me how willful you are, he talks about you so much.” Her eyes drifted down, and a shocked expression covered her face. “Oh dear, what happened to your pants! You can’t go around in the altogether like that, you’ll catch cold!”

She hurried into the kitchen and around the corner, returning a few seconds later with a pastel blue laundry hamper, laden with folded clothes. “I don’t know if anything will fit, you two are so small, but there has to be something to cover yourselves up with.”

“Stop,” Bart commanded. And like a puppet with it’s strings clipped, she did, her arms falling to her side, the hamper landing next to her with a thud.

“Well, I was only-” She looked as if she had been slapped, tears forming at the edges of her eyes.

“And shut up.” And she did, without a hint of hesitation. “You don’t mind if we’re naked. You don’t even notice, although you do like the idea, don’t you?”

It took a few hard seconds for Agnes’ mind to accept her new reality. Of course she didn’t mind if these sweet, beautiful cherubs went without a stitch - she was blessed to be in the presence of such majesty, and it would be wrong to deny herself their full glory, after all. She shook her head. “N-no sir, I mean, yessir, I…Oh…” She didn’t know what she was saying, or thinking, or doing, except that she was in the presence of pure perfection, two godlike beings that graced her humble home with their arrival. All she knew now was that there were two nude cherubs in her home, and she loved them both so very, very much.

So much, it burned to think of them.

“In fact, I think you should watch me fill my sister’s butt with this cock of mine. How’s that sound?”

Agnes felt her face flush red with embarrassment. “I-I–”

“Bart,” Lisa whispered to her brother-groom, even as he started massaging his dick right in the open, “what are you doing?”

“Finishing what we started in the bushes, Lees. You do still wanna get your nut, don’t you?”

Lisa’s eyes focused on the tip of Bart’s hog, his fingers groping at himself. He leaned in close, hissing in her ear; “You are my good little slave, aren’t you Lees?”

Lisa shivered as his breath ran down the side of her neck, and she swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. Looking her brother in his red, wicked eyes, Lisa could only nod wordlessly, her stomach already tensing in anticipation. She cooed impishly, moving into position, laying against the backrest of the wide couch, her milky thighs slowly parted to reveal her bare, puffy treasure, glistening with her wild, untamed lust.

Bart peered up at Lisa’s burning red face, his mouth hovering just above her weeping mound.

“You don’t mind doing this with an audience, do you?”

Her brow furrowed, and she slipped her ankles over Bart’s shoulders, drawing him so close to her cunny that his breath against her slickened slit made her swoon.

“Mmmf, what are you talking about, Bart?” Lisa’s voice was low and breathy, her eyes hooded with animal lust; “there’s nobody else here but you and me.”

A wicked grin spread across Bart’s face, and he swiped his tongue along Lisa’s cleft, roughly pressing it against her hot, sweet skin, tasting her sopping arousal.

Salt and sex, he thought, a shudder running down his spine in jagged spurts, and all at room temperature.

Her tongue flicked against her exposed teeth, a fang catching the soft pink muscle and gouging a dot of blood from it. Bart slowly raised himself up from the floor, his chest grazing against Lisa’s body as he moved, and he slipped his own tongue into her mouth, licking the roof, the inner cheeks, slowly drilling into her throat as his rigid meatstaff pressed achingly against her cool, soaking cunt. She moaned hungrily into his mouth, her legs spreading wider, her hands lifting the swollen, burdened belly Bart had left her with six months prior. Reaching down, taking his throbbing, hard cock in her hand, she slapped his rod hard against her wet slit, slicking his cock even as she shifted herself lower into the couch, lifting her hips.

“Can’t put it in my pussy,” she hissed in a sort of strange mantra, “gotta have it in my ass.” From the mad glimmer in her eyes, Bart understood that she wasn’t addressing him, but herself, like a child promising themself ice cream if they cleaned up their room, as if wishing it so intently would make it happen.

Once she was satisfied that her favorite toy was adequately lubricated, she pressed it against her tight, puckered asshole, and, biting hard on her lower lip, nodded for Bart to move; he smiled at his fuck-mad sister, and pushed in, grunting as her hole reluctantly spread around the tip of his cock, engulfing the knob before sucking in his shaft.

Agnes’ eyes went as wide as platters at the sight of the two siblings screwing on her couch. The sight of a tight, pink asshole being stretched by a nice fat cock brought back memories of her husband Sheldon, his rigid member gaping her wide on their wedding night. She replayed every sacred, sacrilegious moment in her mind; every grunt, every thrust, every groan, every drop of sweat. The ways her nails raked across his flesh, marking him as hers. The way his sour breath, tinged with the underscent of her pussy, filled her nostrils. And here she was, reliving every second of passion vicariously, in these two naked, cold, gloriously terrifying siblings, these devils made flesh.

“Watch us, you wrinkled old hag.” Lisa’s voice was soaked in disdain for Agnes, but her face was a mask of delighted lust, her face flushed pale pink, teeth sunk into her lower lip as her ring stretched around Bart’s deliciously stiff pecker. “Watch him feed me his hard cock. Mmmf, it’s so fucking good. I bet you want this hard cock, don’t you Agnes?”

A chill ran up Agnes’ spine, one that nearly sent her into a spastic seizure of delight, but she fought it back, mustering up the strength to shake her head in the negative.

“Oh?” Lisa feigned wounded offense. Nobody could have Bart’s dick except her, and maybe, just maybe, Jessica, if she could watch. But she wanted to tease the broken old woman a bit longer. “My Bart’s cock isn’t good enough for you?”

Agnes huffed as her fingers dug into her hungry snatch. “Nnnfffnooo…I like men…gr-groooown men.” She was struggling to form a coherent thought, her mind torn between loving, slavish devotion to her new masters, and the burning want rising from her loins.

Lisa grinned like an evil cat, grunting between cruel thrusts into her anus. “Mmf, when - ah shit, more, yes! - when was the last -gggnk! - time you got laid?”

Agnes thought as hard as she could, no easy feat given how starved for attention her nethers were at the moment. “Years. It-it’s been years. Oh god. My Sheldon…just before he had his accident, that morning. Right…ah no…right at the breakfast table. H-he took me like a whore.”

Bart made a face - he didn’t mind fucking Lisa with an audience, but he wasn’t certain he needed to hear the amazing acrobatic sexcapades of his Principal’s elderly mother. Where was Lisa going with all this?

“And I bet you miss getting a good, fat cock shoved in you, don’t you?”

How was this dark angel so serene while getting her asshole stuffed like a bitch in heat?

Agnes nodded, squeezing her hand between her thighs, memories flashing across her vision of her late husband Sheldon mounting her, slipping into her, riding her like a bull. A seizure of pure electric pleasure ran up her spine, setting every nerve ablaze; her back arched upwards, her head pressed into the backrest of the chair, her legs flailing about with a speed and fluidity that belied her age.

Lisa and Bart smirked at the display, their principal’s mother cumming her brains out in front of them from pure nostalgia. “I think that’s a ‘yes’, Lees.” Bart dipped his head low, nipping at his sister-wife’s neck, grazing her cold pale flesh with his needle-like teeth. “So what do we do now?”

“She’s your pet, Bart. You decide.”

It took only a second for Bart to think of something - his mind was better attuned to the devilish arts than Lisa’s - and he raised himself up, Lisa gasping as his cock angled up higher inside of her.

“Here’s the thing, Agnes.” Bart’s voice had taken on a darkness, a depth that Lisa had only heard in him once, when he raged against Mrs. Muntz the night before, seconds before her life was snuffed out. “You’re so horny, you don’t care who hears you fuck. You’re gonna call your son. You’re gonna tell him to come home, you need him for something, there’s an emergency.”

Agnes wriggled pathetically in the chair, her eyes glassy and vacant, her mouth slack. Stupefied by Bart’s commanding tone and, honestly, less-than-subtle telepathic domination, she slid off the chair, as if she were boneless, and landed on the floor with a soft plop.

“And when he gets here,” Bart continued, “he’s going to find you splayed open like a whore, begging for his dick. Can you do that, Agnes? Can you fuck your son?”

Agnes nodded, her eyes glazed with mindless lust, a stupid smile on her face. “O-oh yes, I can…I can do that. I can call Seymour, and have him-oooh…” Her head rolled back limply as her body shook, a deep orgasm ripping through her.

With Agnes thusly defused and defeated, Bart slumped back onto his butt, his cock popping from Lisa’s tight anal ring. She groaned at the unexpected excision, and leaned against her brother-husband’s chest, curling into him. The house was silent save for Agnes’ light breathing and the ticking of the garish cuckoo clock in the kitchen, before Lisa broke the quiet, turning to kiss Bart’s lips.

“How are you feeling now?”

Bart shifted, as if mentioning the wounds on his back made them flare up again, then settled back into his seat. “Better. I can barely feel where the water hit me.”

“What did it feel like?”

Bart thought for a second. “Remember that time I got a tattoo on my arm and Mom had to blow the Christmas fund on laser removal?”

“I think so, that was the year we got Santa’s Little Helper, right?”

Bart nodded. “Yeah, that’s right. They didn’t even dope me up for the laser, and that garden hose brought back some fond-ass memories, that’s all I’ll say.”

Lisa sighed, shifting her weight against Bart’s body. “What shall we do now?”

“I still vote for plowing your ass.”

She smiled, relishing the light touch of his hands against her swollen belly. “Yeah, but not here. The mood’s shifted, I think.” She pushed herself up, her hand on Bart’s chest as she half-turned to him. “Besides, there’s a wedding present at home I still want to give you.”

An intrigued eyebrow went up. “Oh? Do I get a clue?”

Lisa shook her head, leaning in to kiss his nose. “Nope. But you’ll like it, I promise.”

With a grunt of effort, Lisa moved her pregnant body off of Bart, and stood up, working a kink out of her back. Bart watched her ass, smiling to himself as he remembered the tightness of that particular hole, his cock stiffening at the memory.

“What about her?” He motioned to the snoring Agnes on the floor, half-seated against the easy chair.

“She has her orders. Unless you wanted to watch Skinner plow his mother?”

Bart rose from the couch like a fire had been lit under him. “Oh no, I draw the line at that. You couldn’t pay me in gold, blood and blowjobs to watch Skin-Man bust a nut.”

Lisa wrinkled her nose at the mental image her brother-husband had just planted in her mind, as Bart rose to his feet, offering his sister-wife the crook of his arm.

“Such a gentleman.” She teased, slipping her hand through Bart’s elbow.
“Nah,” he sneered at the idea, “I’m just playing nice so you’ll let me into your pants.”

Lisa felt herself pulled in tight against Bart’s chest, giggling into his ear, moaning as his hand found her ass. “Mmm, but you know you have an open invitation into my pants, baby. Anytime, anyplace, you know that, right?”

A throaty growl rose up from Bart’s lips as the two sibling vampires opened the door.

“Oh I know. Little undead slut, is what you are.”

Lisa giggled, swatting at Bart as she stepped out into the cool late spring air. As she ducked into the bushes to retrieve their abandoned clothes, Bart poked his head back into the house briefly, his eyes locked on the barely-aware Agnes as she fluttered somewhere between dream and consciousness.

“And don’t you forget, Agnes: Call Seymour. You need him so badly, Agnes. Got that?”

Perhaps Agnes nodded in understanding and agreement, or perhaps her head simply dipped down to her chest as she fell deeper into sleep. Bart neither knew, nor especially cared, and he closed the door and the chapter of his life that was his visit to the Skinner house with the same cold detachment.

Lisa handed Bart his bundled up pants, twigs and dirt sticking to the lack material. Quickly, he slipped his legs in, hopping around, tugging his pants into a comfortable fit, making sure his dick was properly secured before zipping up.

Lisa unfurled her wedding dress from the night before, clucking her tongue regretfully when she saw the branches jutting through the material of her mother’s five hundred-year old confirmation gown. “Mom’s gonna have a clowder of kittens when she sees this.”

“Maybe she won’t notice?” Bart offered optimistically, as he slung his dress jacket over his shoulders. “Or we can fix it before she sees it.”

Lisa shook her head as she pulled the gown over her bulging belly. “Bart, it was a gift from Avò.”

“I thought Grampa gave it to her?”

Lisa rolled her eyes. Of course Bart hasn’t bothered to teach himself any Galician, why would he? Lisa had taken the news that Marge was actually from Northern Spain with her usual geeky glee, seeing it as an opportunity to brush up on an entirely new culture and language without being regarded as a ‘tourist.’

She sighed, shaking her head. “Never mind. Let’s just get home. My feet are starting to hurt from all this walking.”

With a churlish smile, Bart offered his arm again, and together, brother and sister, husband and wife, master and thrall, began the long trek home.

“What do we have, Mike?” Doctor Philip Greaves had barely pushed his way into the prison infirmary, finding Doctor Michaela ‘Mike’ du Vreis checking on the patient's vitals. As du Vreis collected herself to respond, Greaves pulled a penlight from his jacket pocket and began glancing it over the patient’s open eyes.

“The patient was found non-responsive in his cell. GCS estimated at eight at the scene by the responding officer. He regained responsiveness in transit, GCS now at thirteen. Pupils asymmetric - left is three millimeters reactive, right is five millimeters sluggish. No signs of basilar skull fracture or CSF rhinorrhea. There’s been some confusion and disorganized speech, with some repetitive questioning, mostly ‘who’s there?’ The patient is also tremulous; pain, or post-ictal”

Greaves stood up, pocketing the penlight. Looking towards the end of the bed, he noticed the vacuum splint strapped around the left foot, cradling the clearly swollen ankle. “And the foot injury? What happened there?”

“I was getting to that. The left ankle has a gross deformity with ecchymosis and crepitus, mechanism unknown. It appears consistent with high energy manual compression. No obvious open fracture but swelling is significant. Compartments tense, distal pulses dopplerable but diminished; full neurovascular check limited by patient cooperation.”

“Hmph.” Greaves frowned, looking at the patient in his glassy, uneven eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but before a sound could be made, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in unison, and he turned to see two figures, tall and thin and wearing black suits, dark glasses hiding their eyes.

“What the hell? Who are you people, you can’t be in here!” Dr. du Vreis stepped towards the intercom, ready to call in the guards. The lesser of the two figures, a pale skinned woman with vibrant red hair, turned her gaze to the good doctor, freezing her in place as if she had stepped into the line of sight of some grand predator.

“It’s alright, doctor. We have permission to be here.” The woman’s voice was light but carried a thick accent. Mike stared at her for a long, pregnant moment, then nodded and stepped back.
The other one, a man with platinum blonde hair and a shaggy moustache, looked to Dr. Greaves, nodding at the broken man in the infirmary bed. “We’d like a moment alone with your patient, if you don’t mind.”

“This man is in no condition to have visitors. You’ll have to leave and come back la-”

The Blonde Man waved his hand, and for a brief moment, Dr. Greaves wanted to laugh in his face - did he think he was a fucking Jedi or something, trying to use some mind tricks to get his way?

He wanted to laugh, but before the Blonde Man’s hand had even finished gliding in the quick arc it had taken, his mind went blank, and like a puppet on a string, he and Dr. du Vries marched out of the room, closing the door behind them.

The Blonde Man grinned wolfishly as the doctors vanished into the hall. In his left pocket, where he had kept his hand, he absently twisted at the red spinel ring that adorned his finger, feeling the warmth it exuded. He lived for these moments, finding assets and twisting the world to his whims.

With a deep sigh, he stepped towards the infirmary bed, the man laid upon it, eyeing him nervously. Bob had been alert the entire time, albeit stifled by some good painkillers and thus unable to respond. But he was awake, and aware, and most importantly, afraid.

The Redheaded Woman grumbled something under her breath, something Bob couldn’t quite make out, but which earned her an unhappy glare from the Blonde Man.

“We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” he snarled at her. Bob had missed her half of the conversation, the throbbing ache in his head and ankle making it difficult to focus on the here and now.

The Blonde Man leaned in over Bob, smiling like a shark, teeth wide and gleaming white. “So you’re the big bad psycho in this town, hm? Heard you were the boogeyman. And look at you know?” The Blonde Man grabbed Bob’s left big toe, giving it a hard tug that made the shards of his shattered ankle grind against one another, electric pulses of agony running in thick threads up his nerves. Bob whined pathetically, wishing for all the world that the doctors had given him something for the pain - they had held off on painkillers for several reasons: wanting him lucid enough to get a statement about his assault, not wanting to risk his safety by giving him something counter-indicated for a concussion, the general bulletproof bureaucracy that is the correctional system’s attitude towards medication.

“You don’t look so bad to me.”

The Redheaded Woman said something again. This time, Bob caught a few words, and a hint of an accent - Russian? Georgian? Something from that part of the world, he was sure.

“Right, right.” The Blonde Man seemed annoyed with her, as if fed up with her nagging. He released Bob’s foot, and the pain slowly ebbed from the broken man’s body, still buzzing in the back of his mind as if to remind him that it would never go away.

“Whatever you are,” the Blonde Man continued, “boogeyman or bullshit artist, you lived through something few ever do. We know what happened to you, Bob. Can I call you Bob? Don’t answer, I’ll do it anyway.”

The Blonde Man hopped his ass onto the bed, making the mattress sag under his added weight. Bob grunted as the shifting bed made his whole body ache anew.

“Bob, we’re glad you’re not dead. Because we need your help to kill the things that did this to you. You got monsters in this town, Bobby-boy, and We’d very much like to put them back in the ground where they belong.”

The Blonde Man leaned in close to Bob; his breath stank of onions and stale coffee and a faint attempt at covering it all up with spearmint. Bob wrinkled his nose, his gaze locked on the barely-visible eyes of the man looming over him.

“You down for some payback, Bob?”

Sideshow Bob’s breathing was wet and ragged, and his body sluggish and heavy, but with tears in his eyes and a grim resolution to his lips, he nodded.

The Blonde Man bolted up off the bed, clapping his hands together once, as if slapping at a mosquito. “Excellent!” he snapped his fingers, and the Redheaded Woman pulled a small cigar shaped case from her pocket, handing it to the Blonde Man without a word.

The Blonde Man licked his lips as he flipped the case open, drawing out a simple syringe.

“Relax, Bobby. You’ll feel a little pinch, then a little warmth, then a lot of sleepy. Can’t have our conversation here, where any old screw can hear us, now can we?”

Bob’s eyes were locked on the needle of the syringe. The Blonde Man tapped out the air bubble, then slipped the metal tube into Bob’s IV line, pressing the plunger in.

“You get some sleep, and when you wake up, you’ll feel like a million bucks, at half the cost.”

It only took seconds for whatever had been administered to him to take effect. Warm comfort spread throughout Bob’s body, starting at his wrist, and by the time it had reached his chest, any concern he had about being given a sedative despite his concussion had melted into fuzzy half-dreamt awareness. Then, the black took him, fell on him like sackcloth.

The Blonde Man tucked the syringe back into the case and casually tossed it back to the Redheaded Woman. “Well that wasn’t so hard.”

The Redheaded Woman moved towards the bed, and began unplugging the equipment - heart monitor, oxygen line, suction for when and if the nausea of his concussion made Bob empty himself - and once the broken man was unfettered by cables and tubes, she hefted him over her shoulder as if he weighed less than nothing. The Blonde Man opened the door to the hallway, ducking his head out to check for anyone passing by; once he was confident the coast was clear, he ducked back inside and nodded to her. “Let’s go. The sooner we’re done here, the sooner we can get the fuck out of this dump of a town.”

Bob dreamed that he was floating in a warm ocean of nothingness, surrounded by menacing red eyes. From the blackness, high-pitched, menacing voices taunted at him, dared him to step into the murk and fight back.

Somewhere, deep in his pain-fogged and drug-dimmed mind, Bob saw flashes of familiar faces, young and sinister and…

(Spikey-haired little hellion.)

…and nothing. The familiarity was gone, the scene shifted to something new but rote, strange and alien environs he had seen a million times, and yet never seen before. Such was the nature of dreams. But the eyes were still there, watching him. The voices still taunted. And beyond them, just on the fringes of his memory, he knew them. And he wept in his sleep.

It took a decent half-hour for Bart and Lisa to walk in through their front door, and when they did, they found the family seated around the breakfast table, Homer digging into a pile of scrambled eggs and hashbrowns, Jessica feeding Maggie a dish of mashed banana and Marge sipping at what may have been a cup of coffee, but from the low, wet earthy scent, was more likely a piping hot mug of Deadman’s Respite. Lisa suddenly, and for the first time in her unlife, rather wished for a mug of the foul concoction herself, her skin feeling oddly itchy as she stepped in out of the naked sunlight.

“We’re home!” Bart loudly and brashly announced as he tugged at his jacket, aimlessly slinging it over the coat hook on the wall. He kicked off his shoes, letting his feet breath, and walked near-imperiously into the kitchen. “Did you miss us?”

The grin on his face told Marge that Bart was being his usual churlish self, but with a smile only a mother can give, she got up and poured a couple of mugs for her children. “It was oddly quiet last night. No bickering or raised voices.” She turned around, setting the two mugs on the table, as Lisa joined the family in the kitchen, taking the seat next to Bart. Marge raised a teasing eyebrow. “Or bedframes banging against the wall.”
“Except for ours,” Homer interjected unbidden. Marge shot him a deathglare, then covered her mouth, an airy giggle escaping her lips. “That’s true, except ours, Homie.” She turned her gaze to the kids, serious Mom mode activated. “You two didn’t get into any trouble last night, did you?”

“Well,” Bart began, somewhat braggingly, “we weren’t exactly saints.”

“But no deaths, right? We had an agreement, you could stay out so long as nobody died.”

“Nobody died, Mom.” Lisa braved her father’s vigilant, fork-wielding hand and snatched a strip of bacon from his plate. Vegetarianism went right to hell when a pregnant vampire wanted bacon. “Bart showed me what he does for fun when the town’s asleep.”

“Fray at Apu’s already fragile mental state?”

“Yep.”

“Did it bore you to tears, too?”

“Oh god yes, it was so lame.”

Marge took another sip. “Alright, so you spent some time playing with Apu. What did you do after that?”

Bart swallowed loudly, his eyes lowered to avoid his mother’s probing stare. She, being a mother, naturally took note of this, her own eyes narrowed to near-invisible slits. “Lisa, what did you and Bart do after you played with Apu?”

Lisa looked to Bart, then to Marge, who was already trying to probe her daughter’s mind with her glare. It didn’t take long for Lisa to crack - they hadn’t done anything…terribly unethical, she supposed, so there was no point in hiding it.

“We visited Sideshow Bob in prison and scared the hell out of him.”

Marge hurmured disapprovingly. “Kids…” her tone was cold and admonishing.

“No, Mom, it’s alright, he lived. We were just playing, is all. We scared him. He didn't even know it was us, he never saw us.”

Marge didn’t say a word, only draining her mug, then rising from the table to wash it in the sink.

“Well,” she finally said, clipped and curt in that cruel way all mothers know, “I think you two should stay in until we’re certain he’ll be alright. Humans are much less durable than we are. You could have done serious damage to him without ever meaning to, and we can’t have that.”

Ignoring this line of discussion, Bart blew the head of steam off his mug, wrinkling his nose at the smell, like wet dirt and rotted leaves. He suspected that wasn’t far off from the truth, as far as the secret ingredients went. Beside him, Lisa pinched her nose shut and tipped the hot mug down her throat, emptying it in five loud gulps. She set the mug down, made a face, and took a cringing gasp of air.

“Gah, Mom! Can’t you add something to that to make it taste better? Cinnamon, or honey maybe? A twist of lemon, something?”

Marge shook her head. “The recipe hasn’t been changed in thousands of years, sweetie. Adding something new would change the magic in ways we can’t predict: instead of protecting you from sunlight or hiding your undead scent from dogs or making your pregnancy viable, it could make you burst into flames or accelerate your bloodthirst to uncontrollable levels. Alchemy is more a precise science than even regular chemistry, and you don’t futz with perfection.”

“Still,” Bart took a furtive sip, wincing at the foul, sour taste, “they didn’t have to make it so bad, did they? What’s even in this stuff? Dirt? Twigs?”

“A bit of both.” Marge sucked down a mouthful from her own mug, ignoring the taste. She had had centuries to get used to it, but even she had to admit, it was hands down the worst part of being a vampire. “It’s gravesoil, walnut root, nightshade leaves, some holly berries. And chicory for flavouring. You kids should learn the recipe, so you can make it for yourself someday.”

Lisa looked into her empty mug, tongue out in disgust. “You had your pregnant daughter drinking holly berries and nightshade? Is that safe for the baby?”

“It never did you three any harm. Lisa, you’re still thinking in terms of science and logic. You’re a walking, talking bloodsucking corpse, science doesn’t affect us anymore.”

Lisa made a face. She didn’t like not having answers, real concrete answers, to her questions and concerns. It elt wrong to her. Even all these months later, long after Bart had broken her, taken her, claimed and turned her, she still knew rather little about being what she was, and part of her rankled at that enforced ignorance.
“Relax, Lees.” Bart placed a hand on her thigh, and suddenly her worries were gone - he always made her feel right and safe, she noticed. “Mom wouldn’t make us drink anything dangerous, would she?”

Lisa thought for a second, and shook her head, agreeing. Their mother was the sort of woman who would go to war for her kids, so it seemed unlikely that she would endanger them on purpose.

It was Maggie fussing over breakfast that broke the mood. Apparently she had grown tired of mashed bananas and, in her fidgeting, had gotten some in her hair. Jessica tried to daub it out with a wet washcloth at hand, but Maggie was being her fussy self, so with a sympathetic coo, Marge took over baby duty. Seeing Jessica fret over her baby sister reminded Lisa of something, and quickly she pushed away from the chair, chewing one last mouthful of stolen bacon as she stood.

“Jessica, come with me. I need you for something.”

The raven-haired girl beamed with pride at being useful to her mistress, and dropped the plastic spoon of mashed banana without any worry. Lisa leaned into Bart, her cold breath at his ear, whispering.

“Give me a few minutes, then come upstairs, I’ll have that wedding gift ready for you.” Bart swallowed nervously, and Lisa kissed him softly on the cheek, before leading her giddy bloodslave upstairs.

Bart wriggled in his seat while Lisa and Jessica sprinted upstairs, wanting more than anything to follow after them to see what those two hens were conspiring. He sat, taking brief, furtive sips of his Deadman’s Respite, watching Maggie swat away Marge’s attempts to clean her hair and listening to Homer’s near-mindless chewing of his breakfast.

“Relax, boy,” Homer offered, in between thick mouthfuls of scrambled eggs. “You’ve already done the hard part - the whole wedding thing. I was nervous as a Congressman in court when I married your mother. You did alright by yourself.”

Bart didn’t know what to say - his father didn’t have the best record when it came to offering up sage advice, to be completely honest, not that he had the best record for taking it.

“So…Dad, what was it like, when you married Mom? Like…did you already know what she was?”

Homer smiled, his eyes drifting out the window as the memory came back to him. He couldn’t recall the precise moment - he was Hadvar then, and Hadvar’s memories were always hazy and just out of reach - but he did still get silhouettes of sensation, splashes of colour and scent and music, distant and out of focus though they might be.

“I think I did. It was so long ago, you know. But I think there was fire and screaming and a war going on somewhere. None of that bothered me nearly as much as the thought of marrying your mother, though.”

Marge smiled, humming to Maggie, calming the fussy child. “Hmm, the British bombing of Copenhagen. I remember it fondly. The smell of the smoke, the screams of the damned. I fed like a queen on the Red Coats that year.” She frowned distantly, as if part of the memory disappointed her. “I would have liked to have had a few Frenchmen, if I could; French blood has always been my favorite. But Napoleon was too busy in Prussia and Poland to send his forces into Denmark.”

Bart was confused - but that was par the course when it came to impromptu history lessons, and with both of his parents being multiple centuries old, it was like talking to a more coherent Grampa sometimes.

“Oh!” Marge suddenly remembered the point of Homer’s conversation with Bart, and set Maggie down on the floor to chase after the cat. “But when I saw your father there, saber in one hand, wheelock in the other, cutting down the British where they stood, it was so…so…” She shivered, humming to herself. “There’s nothing quite like the sight of a man in uniform, and your father filled his out nicely.”

“Heh,” Homer chuckled, “wasn’t even my uniform. I got it off some Danish soldier I brained with a ship’s anchor.”

Marge slinked around the table, sliding into Homer’s lap, wrapping an arm around her husband’s shoulder. “Well you were still very handsome. I knew right then and there that I had made the right choice in making you my thrall, Homie.”

The two kissed, lightly, a puckered smooch, and Bart suddenly felt uneasy. “And then you asked for my hand…”

“And you gave me someone else’s.”

“Well, my eyes were bigger than my stomach, and you looked hungry.”

“Is there a point to all this, guys?” Bart shifted in his seat, and somewhere, the cat wailed and crashed into a wall and Maggie giggled.

“My point,” Homer continued, rubbing the small of Marge’s back gently, “is that marriage is a funny thing. At first, you’re scared out of your wits. Then you can’t imagine life without your other half, and you’d do anything to keep them. You’d walk through cannonfire and heaps of the dead just to fall into their arms. But you gotta make sure they want you, need you, as badly as you do them, boy. You can’t go taking her for granted, thinking she’ll always be there or that you’re done winning her just because you have her. A woman like your mother only comes around once in a lifetime, and I always have to earn the right to even look at her.”

Homer gazed into Marge’s eyes, and they shared another kiss.

Bart felt a familiar tickle in the back of his skull, Lisa’s thoughts pulling at his - We’re ready for you Bart - and without a word, without interrupting his parents’ smooch-fest, he slipped away from the table, and climbed the stairs.

Bart found the girls in Lisa’s room - their room, now, the marriage suite. Both were naked, Lisa’s swollen, baby-burdened belly on full display, sitting on the edge of the bed, while Jessica was laying on her back, watching as he entered the room. Lisa lit up at his arrival.

“Hmm, here you go, baby,” Lisa cooed as she bounced over to her newlywed brother-husband. “I promised you a special treat, and there she is.”

Bart eyed the naked Jessica, uncertain. He still had raw feelings about the reverend’s daughter, still hadn’t quite forgiven her for that bullshit she pulled with the collection plate.

“I know you’ve been missing pussy ever since I got too big to take you in mine.” Her breath was soft and oddly warm on his ear. “And I know boys like virgin cunt when they can get it. So Jessica volunteered to give you her cherry as a wedding gift. Isn’t that nice of her?”

Jessica looked up from the bed, pulling her legs up to her chest and letting Bart see every inch of her naked form.

“Please Master, take me if you want.” Her eyes were wide and pleading, and Bart could smell her arousal from across the room. “I want to be useful to you and Mistress.”

Lisa’s hand roamed down Bart’s body, slipping into his pants and wrapping her fingers around his cock, goading it to full mast. “Think of it as revenge, Bart. You can finally take out all your frustration on her. You can punish her for what she did to you.”

Bart licked his dry lips, his eyes locked on the smooth, pink slit displayed before him. Between the sight of his tormentor’s bare quim, his sister’s diligent digital manipulation of his member and the heady scent of tight, warm virgin pussy, he was responding precisely the way Lisa had intended him to, his cock stiffening in her grip. He tugged at his pants, quickly letting them fall to the floor, his hands rapidly undoing every button. Jessica moaned at the sight of her Master’s bare body, and with a grunt of minimal effort, Bart climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between the thrall’s thighs.

Jessica’s flesh was warm and soft and smelled subtly of lavender and soap, and much less subtly of hot, raw pussy. She writhed as Bart pressed his cold skin against hers, his rigid cock sliding between the cleft of her perfect cunny, her breathing quickened at the chilling sensation of his weight upon her most sensitive parts.

A soft weight pressed against Bart’s back as he watched Jessica’s eyes flash with cowed awe at her Master. Lisa cooed in his ear, her hand finding his stiff prick, and slowly, lovingly, massaging it into her thrall’s slippery slit.

“Look at her, Bart,” Lisa said breathily. “How weak and pathetic she is. She sure as hell doesn’t smell like red Froot Loops now, does she?”

Bart made a sound, deep in his throat, almost a growl or a purr, something low and predatory, and in response, Jessica shivered under him. Lisa pressed his fat glans against the other girl’s soaken slit, pushing her netherlips open just enough to accept the bulbous tip.

“Now she smells like prey, doesn’t she? Small and terrified, offering herself up to the Big. Bad. Wolf.” With each word, Lisa slapped Bart’s cock against Jessica’s pussy, making him groan in anguished anticipation and her whimper in fearful lust. “Imagine how good it will feel to push yourself into her tight, virgin pussy. To rip into her flesh with that big, nasty cock, making her squeal and scream in ways you’ve always wanted her to.”

Bart chewed on his lip, watching the fear in Jessica’s eyes, the want, the base subservience.

Jessica pulled herself up onto her elbows, spreading her legs wider, almost a full horizontal split. “Please, Master, please do it. Mistress commanded me to pleasure you, use me as you will.”

Her tone was meek and pathetic and Bart honestly didn’t think his cock could get any harder. With a growl that shook the windows, he raised himself up, cockhead aimed right at her creamy pink center, and with all the mercy of a raging fire, pushed himself down and into her.

Flesh tore and Jessica gasped, grunted, and finally let out a squeal of pain, as her maidenhead died the only death it ever could. Lisa watched as Bart slowly sank into her toy, the raven-haired girl’s belly bulging out ever so slightly.

Bart gasped at the tightness of Jessica’s cunt - he had forgotten how nice and firm a virgin pussy could be. He watched the tears running down her pale cheeks, and felt a warm measure of justice.

Fucking bitch. Framed me for stealing the church collection plate. Fucking humiliated me. Give her what she fucking deserves!

He started to move, pulling himself out of Jessica’s tight clutch, before ramming himself back in, making her jump in pain as he bottomed out inside her. Lisa’s eyes narrowed, her grin widened, her fangs flashing devilishly. She relished watching her new husband claim her thrall, thrilled at Jessica's pain and usage. She licked along her lips, hooded eyes darkening, hyperfocused on the red streaks staining Bart’s cock as he withdrew, the wet slapping sound as he pushed back in. “Do it, Bart. Fucking take her. Break her. Do it to her like you did it to me. Fuck the little bitch good.” Her voice was deep and dark, like the growl of a wolf, and foam formed at the corners of her mouth.

Bart didn’t say a word, only grunting as her fucked into Jessica over and over, pummeling her tight cunt. The bed rocked and squeaked and thumped into the wall, the three occupants swaying along with the ride. Jessica whimpered and wept as her flesh gave way to her Master’s whim, and under the burning pain, the fear of those wicked teeth, came a cold, sharp thrill that he would use them, that he would take everything she had and everything she was. Her virginity, her blood, her very life, all of it offered up to the growling fiend riding her cunt like a maniac, her mistress behind him whispering obscenities into his ear.
“Fuck her, Bart. Fuck the pathetic little slut. Stretch her out, fill her up, make sure she never forgets that she’s just meat to us, prey.” As Lisa chanted her litany of filth to her groom, her free hand slid down around her heavy belly, and pressed against her sloppy, sticky cunt lips, fingers probing inside, her thumb pushing against her stiff love button.

Bart pushed in harder, faster, deeper, ignoring all resistance, plowing into Jessica like a demon, like a force of nature. The bed beneath the three of them creaked and rattled under the assault, and Jessica made sounds somewhere between a hiccup and a yelp with every inward thrust, Bart’s heavy ballsack slapping against her upraised ass as he fucked into her with the fury of a typhoon.

Lisa moved position, laying on her side next to Jessica, watching her husband’s cock vanish into the girl’s formerly cherry twat, flesh stretched around hot, throbbing dickmeat, fluids soaking into the bedsheets. With wicked delight, she watched the pained lust in her thrall’s eyes, caught the anxious flare of Jessica’s throat as a wanting wail stopped itself short, unable to escape just as Bart slammed his full weight down onto her slender body.

“Mm, fuck yes.” Lisa purred cruelly. “How does it feel, Jessica? How does it feel to get fucked like a bitch?”

Jessica’s eyes darted to Lisa’s, rimmed with tears, and despite herself, she smiled weakly. “It feels - ooh! - so good, Mi-Mistress! Master’s cock is - ungh! - so good inside me!”

Suddenly, she lurched upwards, arching herself back as Bart picked up the pace. Jessica reached for her Master, her legs reflexively clamping around his waist, her head thrashing about chaotically. Finding her voice, the walls rang with her moans and screams of utter pleasure, The dam broke, and it broke hard.

Jessica pulled herself up, clinging to Bart, weeping and hiccuping as joy at being useful, ecstasy at being used, racked every inch of her body. It wasn’t just that she was getting fucked, it was who was fucking her - her god, her master, the wellspring of her entire universe and holder of her very soul. And the simple thought of being Bart’s bitch, the idea that he would reward one so unworthy with a prize as fucking glorious as his cock, made her want to die from pure bliss.

“M-m-master!” She sobbed, clutching at Bart, burying her face against his neck, trying to spread herself as wide as she could, to grant him deeper access to her body. Lisa smirked, running a finger along Bart’s forearm.

“Give it to her, Bart. Make this little bitch squeal. Make her fucking feel it, right in her fucking core.”

Bart shot a murderous glare at his sister-wife, his mind subsumed entirely by the beast within him, his instincts driving him to rut into Jessica without a dram of mercy. He snarled, eyes red and glowing, his fangs flashing like drawn daggers, and in a moment of savage want, Lisa pressed her lips to his hungrily. In a final push of animalism, Jessica erupted, shaking as her orgasm tore through the broken girl’s body.

It took forever for Jessica’s breathing to settle down back to normal, for her to find the strength to even open her eyes. And when she finally did, she found herself crushed under Bart’s cold torso, thick threads of black ichor icing her skin, her Master and Mistress moaning into one another’s mouth. Their lips were stained with their bitter black blood, and Jessica let out a fluttering sigh, relaxing her body as Bart slipped from her battered, aching cunt.

Lisa pulled away from Bart, licking at the traces of blood ringing her lips. Looking down at Jessica with a reptilian smile, she cozied up to her thrall, brushing aside her unkempt hair, and gave her a loving peck on the nose.

“He’s really good, isn’t he?”

Jessica nodded weakly, ignoring the spot of ichor on the tip of her nose left by Lisa’s kiss, and sighed, pulling him closer onto herself with her legs.

“I knew you’d like him. When he really gets going, it hurts in such a wonderful way.”

Sitting up, Lisa gave Bart’s bare ass a playful slap, rousing him back to consciousness. He muttered something, and Jessica could feel him harden again against her.

“And just think, Bart darling, she has another virgin hole for you to take.”

Bart rose up, smiling like the devil, and Jessica swallowed nervously, before rolling over onto her stomach for the next phase inf her defilement.

Seymour Skinner threw open the front door to the house he shared with his mother, barely stopping to take off his shoes or jacket, not even taking the time to breathe. The tone in her voice on the phone had been so odd, so urgent, that he was sure he had racked up several speeding tickets and demerit points trying to get home. He had been relieved to see no ambulances or fire trucks outside his home, but it was small comfort; so it hadn’t been a medical- or fire-related emergency, but what, then could it be?

“Mother?” He called out. The living room was empty, although there were smudges and wrinkles and peculiar stains on the plastic sheeting wrapped over the couch. No answer. “Mother, I’m home!”

He slipped off his shoes, sliding into the crocheted slippers his mother had made for him some years ago. “Is everything alright?”

“Spanky?” The response was tremulous but warm, coming from upstairs. Seymour raced to the stairwell and began climbing.

“Mother, is something wrong?”

The door to Agnes’ bedroom was opened only a sliver, just enough for a faint glow of daylight or a hushed voice to creep through.

“Spanky, in here. Mother’s in here, darling.”

With panicked courage, Seymour turned the doorknob, took a breath, and froze at the sight of his mother, laying in bed in her altogether, splayed out invitingly for him.

Agnes smiled, reaching out for her son with one hand, the other massaging her left tit.

“Spanky, come to mother. She wants to hold you so.”

Seymour swallowed, took in the sight before him, and without a word, stepped inside, letting the door close behind him.
- 7
- 8
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

He's Like The Wind