The Amazing Transplant

BY : Jeffrey Opstik
Category: +S through Z > Simpsons
Dragon prints: 17899
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.



Chapter 1

Coming Home

Marge Simpson was at home, preparing dinner, when she recieved the call from the hospital that her husband, Homer, had passed out during work earlier that day and was now stabilized in a coma. As soon as she hung up she grabbed her three children and rushed to the hospital without restraint or hesitation. Nothing mattered to Marge more than her family, and despite Homer's faults, she knew from the moment they first met that they were destined to be together, they were soul mates. That was thirteen years ago and in all that time Marge knew, despite all the odds, their union, their love, their lives were lanced together by their likeness in honesty and a shared measure of faithfulness. Unfortunately someone had different plans for Marge. 


Artie Ziff leered over the body of Homer Simpson, the room growing thick with a hate as that hate precipitated from Artie's envy. Artie had known and wanted Marge Bouvier from the first moment he saw her. Of the things he'd wanted in life, he'd had the money and the willpower to take them, and keep them. But Marge was the exception. As she'd slipped away from him and he moved from the foreground of her life to the background the tie which bound Marge to Homer Simpson had grown ever stronger. They had married and had three kids. Their union was bound, at the very least, by the rings on their fingers. Unfortunately there was so much at stake for Marge here, that he couldn't hope to woo her through simple seduction. No he had to take Homer's life over, become him. And that was just what he intended to do. 

Being that money, rather than the chemistry of human persuasion, was the language for which he spoke he started contacting different surgeons about brain transplantation. What, in the beginning fissured chuckles out these strangers, were turned to serious discussion once he mentioned money, and so the research began. That was five years ago. 

'Tomorrow is today', Artie thought to himself as he recalled himself once thinking that Marge could not be his at the time, but perhapps sometime tomorrow. In a few hours he would become Homer Simpson. 


Marge's eyes and all the flesh around them seemed crushed into the moistening holes between her fingertips as she cried. The doctor had told her that Homer had had a seizure earlier and now they were going to need to do some invasive surgery to relieve the pressure. But he should be fine the next morning. Marge wondered how that was even possible. Something felt wrong, more wrong than the facts she was being given. To either side of her now her children sat blank-faced, emotionally unparalleled to the truth, incapable on seeing it. 


The next morning Artie Ziff awoke to a weight on his chest appropriately-sized for a heart condition. He found the weight shifted all across his body as he lifted his arms and then legs as he sat up. He turned and suddenly they were there, beside him, his family, these strangers. These strangers now belonged to him, and suddenly he wasn't sure if he wanted them at all. Suddenly Marge leaned down toward him and he saw Marge's dress drift down the valley between her breasts and the depth and breadth of her looming melons curtailed then swung back and forth before him. He smiled, she smiled. She was all his. 


Marge had noticed a change in her husband over the last couple of days, an insatiable new interest in sex. Even now she felt him rope one arm around her waist, to hold her over the kitchen sink, as the other sought to relieve the top half of her body from the burden of her clothes and the daylight fanning through the windows from waiting for her large breasts, to tan away the pale triangles left by bikini tops. Marge had to admit, there was a certain excitement elicited in moments of such unpredictability, especially with the thrill of being caught beside it. But at the same time, the soft touch she had known was gone. Homer tore at her green dress like an animal, and mauled her bosom like he'd been starved from tasting her forever. He molded and massaged into blushing life and then two enormous balls of flesh the pendulous pillows of her breasts. 

Marge admitted to herself how wrong it felt, the way he treated her when they made love. Because it wasn't love, it was lust. But despite this she felt more and more a heat rising in her, a blushing, a pinkish throbbing of her heart, pushing blood and passion all throughout her body. And each time an intensity and urgency for Marge's body curved his normal behavior. She would find him groping for a peak down her dress, he started discarding her brassieres or cutting out the fabric cups so that all remained was an ecentuated bare tit painted with a thin top. He started groping her in public, at company picnics, ballparks, school recitals, PTA meetings, even at church. He didn't care that his lust for her was becoming contagious amongst all of the men that saw what he was doing. Thinking she was a whore. Staring at her. Unabashedly undressing her with their eyes. Rubbing their cocks whenever she appeared, even with her children. Soon, it seemed all the men in town, even strangers, especially strangers, were assimilating Homer's behavior, staring down the the front of her dress, at her newly bra-less breasts. 

Suddenly there were no secrets, there was no special treatment for a woman who was already married. Life, as she'd known it before, had become a strange life of a single woman, a woman, some men must of supposed, was susceptible to leering strangers and the occasional semi-sexual assault. Marge realized that there was a certain sense of dignity retained when keeping secrets, especially when those secrets retained the fidelity of something as sacred as a marriage. 

Soon Marge saw formed before her a whole new language of behavior she was alien to. Men, especially strangers, seemed to appear around her. Men starving from Marge any memory of her age or creed. Teenagers even. Jocks from high schools ogling her body, particularly her bust with a special satisfaction, that they thought to themselves, the husband, just didn't know. Her body, her privacy, was theirs for the spectating. Homer was no deterent, only a stranger himself eventually. The difference was he was the stranger inside of her each night, touching her, entering her, coming in her again and again without sufficient outcome for him to stop indulging. 

(More Chapters to follow)


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