A House in the Hills

BY : Jeffrey Opstik
Category: +S through Z > Simpsons
Dragon prints: 10179
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.



            "Oh, Homie, its beautiful." from the passenger side front seat Marge could make out the small cabin that pegged the top of the hill.

            Every element of it, aside from the windows of course, were wooden. Though even taking into the consideration how unpractical the canvas or the placed they choice to hang this work of art they hadn't chanced the notion of taking the word humble too literally. Small yes, but it certainly wasn't the definition of modesty. Being the only house on the hill, the only house for miles, no doubt, the Simpsons' requisite property was the hill itself, reaching down to the edge of the highway and then back behind the house and toward the lake.

            The car came to a stop at the edge of the driveway, the passenger side seat belt clicked and the door opened. Marge took off, even without the incentive of immediately entering the house she was quick to walk its circumference and surmise its elegant anatomy.

            Homer was less entranced, feeling alien to the romanticism around them that intrigued his wife. He walked with the reluctance of someone who know began to suspect he'd spent too much, driven too long and been too idealistic in his precognition about this place. He wanted to make Marge and the kids happy but wondered if he'd gone too far just this once. And could've perhaps settled for less than he got.

            He turned and saw his three kids resigning to the same conclusion, but then of course it wasn't their money, only their time. Then he went back to Marge, who had disappeared around the corner of the house. Her long shadow was all that was left of her. He watched it pacing its way down to the edge of the lake, growing longer and more jittery in its movement. He slid his hand behind the back of Bart and Lisa, Lisa holding their youngest, Maggie and led them to the back to retrieve Marge.

            The lake was vast, too vast for even the most ambitious and peripheral gaze he gave it. In the distance the lake forked and disappeared between a few miniature peninsulas reaching from the edges of their neighbor's property. From the one edge to the water opposite them there was a small house, it windows dark and unlit though facing them. The house was seemingly unoccupied. It was alone, and just like theirs locked into the edge of the land by dozens of maple trees.

            At the edge of their property here, there was a small dock to divide the first few feet of the lake. At its edge a short set of stairs descended into lake. As Marge began to study the lake and in particular the house at the outer edge of it she walked its length.

            Homer turned toward the back door and retrieved the keys he'd been given at the real estate office. A quick click of the mechanism and the door opened. The creaking of the door tore Marge's attention from the lake and she began back down toward the land to meet her family.

            Unlike the outside everything inside felt new and even smelled the part. The smell of varnish choked some of the clean air and made some of the rooms a bit claustrophobic. The room where the walls glowed with the red brush strokes and every mixture of red and brown imaginable coloring every inch of every wall. Another compromise on their way to the best lot for miles. They were the first ones here since its renovation . If they wanted the house at all they had to take what the other bidders wouldn't a new house that wouldn't be ready for another two weeks.

            The aromas of different brands of insulating chemical coats gave each room a different personality, each a distinctly obnoxious odor. The least offensive of the rooms, two of the ten became their two bedrooms. One for the children and the other for Marge and Homer. The drawback for both rooms though being the preoccupations of the house's architect. Both had been studies and both, Marge's in particular, featured a panoramic view of the neighbor's property. It was Homer's fear that if Marge wanted to get friendly this night or any night of  this week there wouldn't be enough linen in the house to turn the window from its invasive view to a modest peak. Fortunately there weren't neighbors for miles, aside from the other cabin by the lake.

            As trifle unpredictable as the well water had been Homer still managed a sizable dinner. This was unlike him, he hadn't before the talent or the capacity for cooking. He hadn't before cared enough, even when Marge hadn't the time to cook herself, he refused, going so far as to plead ignorance. He didn't know how to cook. The meal wasn't bad despite Homer's inexperience. It was times like this that Homer's own faults, in light of moments like these, had made him so unpredictable and captivating to Marge. Thirteen years of marriage and he still managed to surprise her. There was something intensely erotic to Marge about the moments that Homer deviated from routine. However simple and even banal it would've been to any other woman didn't bother her. It was the times when she felt as if Homer shared bodies and traded personalities with a stranger, a man that she'd still fallen in love with but could never be entirely sure of his next thought, his next idea, the very motives of his every action, if at all alternative to what she assumed enthralled her.

            As inconsistent as the meal had been in its preparation, uncooked and uneven in the sum of its parts, she still enjoyed it. Her eyes watched Homer from across the table, his own eyes so much more honest and unkind in disclosing his own displeasure with the meal. But Marge stared on adoringly.

            So unlike him, she thought, so wonderful.

            Marge, hoping to take advantage of Homer's own preconceived notions followed him, quietly from the kitchen to the bedroom. As he turned, assuming Marge was in another room, she leapt into his arms. Captivation had contorted the features of her face and transformed her into a woman screaming for Homer's attention, screaming for his hands, eyes and mouth to scale every inch of her lonely anatomy. She undressed him and then he undressed her. She slid down from his arms and draped her nude taut body across the bed, pulling him on top of her. As their curves mingled and Marge crawled beneath him, and Homer over her, she feigned reluctance teasingly. Reasserting his dominance he reached down and took her large breasts in his hands and squeezed them with the meticulous touch of a man that understood her every pressure point with its every explicit detail. Heat rose from the places where he penetrated her until the heat spread to her bosom and the bud of one nipple stood along side the nervous center of his tongue, waiting to feed his every sensation with the taste of her warm naked body.

            Time had passed for some insane but unknown length since they'd drifted to sleep. And half waking Marge pulled herself out from the place where Homer had pinned her to the bed and stepped into the bathroom adjacent from the bed. Less than fully aware of the what the moments before she'd drifted to sleep had told her of her situation Marge had immersed her every inch in a thick lather before the shower conked out. Searching the house the other faucets brought her to the same conclusion. A towel knotted at her collarbone and drifting down to her hips her mind went to the same place, stumbled upon the same conclusion she'd had since leaving the bathroom. Her eyes, from the standpoint of the kitchen sink drifted to the lake outside.


            Joe Bob had followed the sound of four tread-worn tires scaling the dirt road up into the old Bishop Property. Earlier in the day when the last customer at his garage's credit card had been rejected he parked it on the lot, unserviced and clocked out from work to go home. Driving home he passed a small car with an Illinois license plate. Out of sheer boredom and lack of any other agenda for the day he found himself turning and following the car for the sake of his baited curiosity. He parked his own pickup at the side of the turned and climbed the hill himself to get a look at the out-of-towners.

            It wasn't until after he realized he'd missed a passenger of the car that he'd gone back to take a better look at the suburbanites. He didn't recall anyone coming out of the front passenger side door and naturally assumed, seeing no luggage that someone had escaped his peripheral vision. By that time it was late and his own preconceived mental picture of an older daughter were dashed when he saw a woman of his own age throttling some faceless partner in the study window of the cabin's west end. Her partner's hands, much like Joe Bob's eyes, clung to her heavy pendulous breasts. As she heaved, moaned and even occasionally sobbed above her lover her perfect curves glistened with perspiration as she twitched and resigned in her every ecstatic inch to the sensation of being penetrated. Rocking back and forth, sawing her pelvis over her lover's excited inches she was a vision of beauty stripped down to the most vulnerable and wonderful detail.

            It was at the very edge of her making love that he realized what her partner didn't, she hadn't been brought to orgasm at all, barely to its brink. She collapsed into the bed and disappeared beneath the lower lip of the window.

            Joe Bob wished he had brought his camera. He wished he'd had a camera. As minutes drifted into an hour the light didn't fade in the room but again there was no more movement. Joe Bob decided they had fallen asleep, he approached the house.

            Curious if any of the doors were unlocked.

            Curious if he could gain entry to the house.

            Curious if he could gain access to the blue haired woman he'd watched through the window.


            It was cold outside, but not unreasonably so. Her eyes were never fully open, her whole body seemed in some sort of lucid sleepwalk as she made her way to the shore. Wet maple leaves matted her feet as she pinned the towel to her chest with her fist. The water was warmer than the air itself and relieved her of any reluctance to cast off the towel once her eyes had searched the perimeter. She reached down into the ankle deep water and scooping up two handfuls rinsed the length of her forelegs up to her hips. The suds peeled away revealing the lithe stems of her long spread legs. The next lifted puddle arrogated the sparse hairs that decorated the lips between those legs, the cold lake water slipping inside her, stimulating her inner workings, bringing about a shudder and moan from the bathing beauty.

            Marge felt crippled temporarily by the notion of tickling the itch that Homer hadn't scratched earlier. The unstimulated void lingered between her hips, waiting  and gaining momentum in its persuasion over Marge's every gesture. Marge finished with her hair, chest and back, but in stimulating to stiffness her nipples found herself stumbling back to erotic musings. She reached down and fully submerged herself into the lake. As the cold water combed her nudity her hands drifted from the skin of the water down to the starved center of unstimulated fixation. Her thin finger crawling through the pink folds she pumped her digits with irrattic rhythm to the places that she knew, still to this moment, she couldn't reach with her fingers alone. She needed a cock, she needed her husband, she needed him inside of her now.

            As her legs kicked and her head shifted unevenly above and below the water she shifted the rows formed by her fingers into a blunt tool for penetration. Stabbing with increasingly erratic recurrence her lips peeled back to display a look of insane discouragement. Eyes pink and hurting from what little light of the moon, her face and neck and back strained in preparation for a sensation that never came.


            "Honey, where's the camera?" Homer could hear his own voice, but not Marge's answer.

            He stepped out of the living room into the backyard where he found Marge with the kids. She'd found a hammock in the crawl space and was now draping it across the space between two maple trees. Marge had her back to Homer as she fastened one end of the hammock to a hook on the trunk of a tree. She was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt.

            Well, Homer thought, can't get much more casual than that.

            Homer was used to Marge in her stock of green dresses, as form fitting as they been he'd gotten lost in the routine and it too lost any sense of character or personality. Marge had made it her own, but the look had grown dull and sort of ugly in its plainness. Homer too felt a certain frustration with routine.

            He put his hand on her shoulder, the hammock clicked inside the hook and she turned toward him. He looked down and saw where she'd haphazardly placed the wrong buttons inside the wrong holes. He looked up into her eyes and she smiled back at him.

            "Have you seen the camera?" he asked.

            Marge stopped to think for a moment, "Have you checked suitcase with your electric shaver?"

            "Not there."

            "What about the still camera."

            "Got the batteries but no film."

            "I'll stop in town for a look."

            "You sure?"

            "Yeah, you stay here and try to ventilate the house. Maybe call the realtor and see if they can do anything with the plumbing."

            There was the sound of straining rope and Homer looked over Marge's shoulder to see Bart propped up in the hammock. Bart gave him a look of 'Don't expect me to help'. Homer nodded, he wasn't used to sharing responsibilities so evenly with Marge, but then this was their anniversary. Their thirteen as a matter of fact. He figured, change no matter how painful, if at all noble would pay him back at the end. However unlike himself he'd been for the last two days Marge seemed to enjoy the new Homer.

            He kissed Marge and headed back to the house. She headed toward the car. Granted, they were being a trifle productive for a weekend they were supposed to be taking it easy, but the more time they spent taking care of this, the more free time they would have later. As he was about to close the door, he turned to Marge in the drive.

            "Oh, Marge check the buttons on your blouse."

            As Marge opened the door and climbed inside the car she looked down and saw where the hastily buttoned edges of her blouse gaped open, eliciting the occasional peek at the deep cleavage beneath. She raised one eyebrow and lowered the other as she pulled out. One hand on the steering wheel, the other re-buttoning her blouse. Where the driveway breached the highway the honk ofstyle="mso-spacerun: yes">  a horn jolted her senses and both hands went to the steering wheel. She stomped the brake and the car skidded to a stop.


            Shepp's Bait & Tackle. New Castle Italian Cuisine. New Castle One Stop. There it is. Marge pulled out in front of a store that reminded her of what she'd seen of the makeshiff homes in the commercialized ghettos in New Dehli. Discover Channel.

            Though early, the parking was still not shallow by any means. Every car seemed built from the same template. The same model of pickup truck, but varying in faded colors. Marge pulled into park and stepped out into the parking lot. Passing two old timers on her to the One Stop they gave her the once over. She supposed that what little indication her garb gave them to any knowledge of her curves could be left to the imagination. As she walked their eyes hung onto the body that shaped the clinging set of jeans, the material practically painted on where it met the meat of her ass.

            Pulling open the glass doors of One Stop she stepped inside and found thestyle="mso-spacerun: yes">  studious gazes of more locals. No women to speak of.

The trend of surveying Marge had caught onto the occupants of the One Stop. The outer left rim of the store was assembled into the counter of a malt shop. Seven or eight stools outlining polished wooden counter, the stools below the seat of five or six pairs of pants. Men in overalls and coveralls and outfits for marshland scavenging. Black rubber boots up over the kneepads of long white pants. The complete wardrobe of the working man lining the runway of one side of the store, eyes belonging to stubbled and course faces with yellow grins followed Marge into the aisles of supplies beside them. Marge tossed a openly disconcerting glance back at them, hoping they would get the ticket. She pulled her hands from her pockets, dropping the car keys into the pit of one pocket and then turned so they could make out the wedding ring on her finger. Even had she the capacity to amuse herself with their company they were thirteen years too late. Turning again, she faced away from them and began, subconsciously, to crabwalk down one aisle. Then looking saw too that the other side of the store was also infested with customers and their crawling inconsiderate gazes.

            A kid, maybe nineteen or twenty appeared opposite her in the next aisle. Hair matted and crawled up in curls from up under the rim of his ballcap. It looked like at the corner of his mouth residue lingered from a pinch of chewing tobacco. He smiled back at her, the shallow, even gaunt features beneath his round cheekbones forcing a dumb grin.

            "May I help you miss?" his eyes seemed to be contemplating Marge's flannel shirt, watching her feign normalcy or regularity. He knew as well as she did it didn't suit her, maybe fifteen years down the road it would.

            "I'm looking for camera film." she felt her neck cords shutter, the soft subtle heave of her chest and she tried to not her eyes stray to what his eyes were searching for. They deviated from her own eyes every once in a while. He was having trouble keeping eye contact.

            She wondered if she had a stain. Sure there was always her top-heavy proportion but the loose formless convexity of the flannel shirt should've made the difference between her oversized wardrobe and the curves beneath it impossible to discern. She hadn't meant her outfit to be flattering at the time she put it on.

            The boy looked down for a moment, "What brand?"

            Marge turned and went down the next aisle to see where he was looking. She stopped in front of him, he was crouching down. She crouched down beside him, she seemed adament to stand when he saw her crouching.

            "Doesn't matter."

            The boy went through two or three boxes. His eyes stopped as if he was suddenly off somewhere else, he looked back at her crouching not three feet from him.

            "Well, different brands for different cameras. Different film for different models. Take this one for example."

            He picked up one and held it down toward her feet. Marge crouched down more, ready to fall on her face at this point. Putting her arms down to either side of her she began to feel uneasy. With her eyes on the box of film and not him his eyes were free to roam the wealth of details from her neck down into the opening of her flannel shirt where she had neglected to finish buttoning it shut.

            Marge drew a blank when she thought back to the camera model in her suitcase. She grabbed all three and went up to counter. The boy followed her but could only stand beside the man already at the cash register. The man at the cash register was old and a cynical look had carved and recreated the stiff incapabity to shift his expression from impatience and ingratitude, anger and hostility. His eyes were gray but not at all as ambitious as the customers' had been in their speculation over the visitor to their                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               quiet hick town.

            He took the boxes from Marge's hand, the boy standing behind him as if interning, some sort of apprentice program. Marge fished into her pocket, the one without the keys, and for the first time contemplated how she had really grown into the jeans after that last meal. They must've looked positively skin-tight. She had never grown entirely comfortable with her own body, its ambition and erratic curviature had suredly remained unimpeded by the scant proportion of her pants. Undersized they may have been but she doubted the limited length of their fabric had at all reassessed what nature had handed her in the way of curves. Her lean but thick hips curling at their ascent back into themselves just beneath the pout of her pussy. She pictured one of those thin string thong panties that looked like someone had attached a small eyepath over their privates by two scant lengths of yarn. She could feel the place where the precise placement and breadth of every curve that formed her ass and the front of her pelvis met the bilayer of her panties and jeans. The zipper of her jeans crawling through the front of her panties like the sensation of an undersized chinguard.

            Marge felt flushed, she handed the old man the money, took the boxes and walked out the front door. She wished she'd brought some cargo pants. She wished she owned some cargo pants.


            "Alex, can I borrow your VCR?" Joe Bob was standing behind Alex's screendoor, the spring between the frame and the door itself dancing loudly.

            Alex was not sixteen himself, he sat in the foyer putting away comic books and pulp magazines into giant yellow envelopes and stationary boxes. He stood up and stared at his uncle. Joe Bob was caked in perspiration, hair high in cowlick it looked like he'd sprinted here from the highway.

            "Its the only thing my mom is letting me keep."

            "You'll get it back." Joe Bob reached into his pocket pulled out a twenty. "Here, I'll pay you for your time."

            "This better be important."

            "Believe me, it is!"

            Alex turned and disappeared back behind a bend in the foyer. Joe Bob waited outside for a moment, seven minutes left on his lunchbreak. He'd balled the sleeves of his coveralls up his arms to each elbow and done with same with his pants up to just below each knee. Alex returned holding an ancient black box. He handed it to Joe Bob.

            Joe Bob turned the thing in his hands, "Now, how do you hook a camera up to this thing?"



            "Yeah. For what?"

            "Recording to tape."

            "You makin' a movie?"

            "More like makin' money."

            "Can I have a piece of the action?"

            "You already have it. How about I give you a preview screening?"

            "I'll send you a tape, you send me a copy."

            "You got blank tapes?"

            "No I have mom's tapes, scrotch tape over the hole in the front and you can tape over anything."

            "Give me some."

            "How many?"

            "How about ten."

            "I get one back."

            "Of course you do."

            Alex left and reappeared with a stationary box filled with tapes. Steel Magnolias. Terms of Endearment. Remains of the Day. For Water Like Chocolate. Mystic Pizza. A Walk in the Clouds. Meet Joe Black. Beaches. American President. Pretty Woman.

            Joe Bob wished he had driven here. He turned and began down the hill, toward the highway.

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