BY : Jeffrey Opstik
Category: +S through Z > Simpsons
Dragon prints: 4373
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.

"Homer, turn off the television." Marge could barely whisper, she wondered as she drifted slowly to sleep whether the sound of her voice was anywhere else but inside her own head.

Homer glared at his wife, the look of unease on her face that came with sleep. He'd so hoped they would make love that night, now he felt blue-balled and the sight of her lithe body beside him made him hard again. As the unease of her pinched expression faded he shifted on bed, moving his back up against the pillow, ninety degrees so he was at eye level with the light of the television screen.

"Okay, let's see what's on." he said, reaching to the remote control.

Marge could still hear the sounds of the television, even the faintness of the static beneath the picture and sound. She could feel but not totally appreciate the world of dreams materializing around her.

Homer pressed the channel up button on the remote control, the light of the television flickered and he could see some police show.

Marge was in the back seat of a squad car, her eyes moved around to survey the city outside the glass of the car, Chicago it seemed, and the faces of the two officers in the front seat.

The sight of the fencing separating her from the driver and front passenger startled her, she tried to speak but when her lips moved words would not come. She twisted in her seat, feeling the metal of handcuffs grating at the flesh of her wrists.

"Yep," the driver's eyes moved to the rear view mirror to take in his prisoner, "they'll just love you at the holding cell. You meet the definition of jailbait."

Marge felt like crying but couldn't hear her own sobbing, nothing would come, not her voice or any physical manifestation of her emotions. 

"Women, the kinds we arrest" the officer in the passenger seat started to speak, "they come in all kinds-drug addicts, drug pushers, whores, sometimes even pimps!"

Marge looked down at what she was wearing, a wifebeater and slit skirt. At last she could feel herself smirk, and knew then that her countenance said little in the way of her actual emotional state.

Suddenly the world flickered.

The car was gone and Marge could feel something alive move ben0eath her. She looked down and saw that she was riding a horse. The horse was creeping out of a meadow and onto a vast treeless prairie. It was beautiful and Marge watched her mind make sense of the sounds she heard outside her own head. There were birds, and like the inverse of lightning, their sound came long before before they physically would appear. They wove in and out of the lowest clouds.

And then while once she was alone, the sound of a deep voice beside her made materialize a man dressed like a pirate, on a horse twice the size of her own. 

He smiled at her lecherously and she could feel his intimidating eyes bend her will until she too was smiling back at him as he spoke, "I was not charged with just protecting you, Madam, but making you knowledgeable of what you should be afraid of."

Marge could gather the inuendo from his words, still, he didn't frighten her in the slightest, and could hear herself saying "Should I be afraid of you, Misseur?"

He smiled coyly. 

She couldn't sense how she was emoting on the outside, though suddenly she could feel something whorish inside of her oozing out of the host body she was occupying and into her own mind. She looked down and could see what she was wearing. Had she will over her host body she would've gasped, she could only do this inside as her mind vexed over knowing what her protector had so enjoyed seeing, the rising and falling of her heaving bosom, so well revealed in her skimpy gown. 

Is this woman a peasant, she wondered to herself, or a princess, maybe even a queen.

As much as she tried she couldn't reason a woman of anything more than ill-repuit wearing such a thing, and yet there she was, dressed as a common whore. Was she some important person's wife or daughter? Why was this man charged with protecting her and from what? Who would hurt her and why?

With some ease, her bodyguard's eyes pulled her own toward the dark castle just shy of the horizon. She stared at its peculiar shape, something equally repugnant and alluring about its strangeness. She thought of an ugly poet who could seduce a woman with the most beautiful words. She wished she was not just mute, but blind, so she could be seduced by its soft sound, ignoring all the ugliness of its appearance. And though she hadn't forgotten her husband, sleeping beside her, beneath the veil of the dream, her mind would still pour over the rising eroticism of this moment. 

She couldn't hear her own voice, as in her mind she would remind herself, of her husband, calling out his name, as she was led closer and closer toward the castle throughout the night.

As she watched the charcoal silhouette of the castle grow closer she could feel the pirate glaring at her, glaring at her body, and so too could she sense in time her breasts bobbing into and out of the moonlight as the horse softly galloped. It felt as if her every inch of integrity could slip in and out of her clothing with such fluidity it could be the only purpose of what she wore. She was an innocent nymph in this body, but innocence felt baneful in this strange world.

The castle walls, from even the front entrance quite instantly sprung up from the mountain, there was no gate or wall to mote off the world beneath the mountain. So the monolithic fortress simply appeared before them, where the fog would dawn and then dissipate suddenly. Dismounting from his horse and then helping Marge from her own, he pulled the two doors wide open and stared into the vast darkness of the first gallery they could see inside. Beyond it, past where darkness had blackened the reds and golds of the furniture inside there was a dining hall and above that the wide arch of twin staircases. 

Marge stared deeply into the dusk that had emaciated the world behind the doors and wondered what evil did this man intend to protect her from if it wasn't already here?

"We need light." he said and she watched as he disappeared down the side of castle, reappearing in an instant with a lit torch. She wanted to ask from where could he have even found fire, yet it was pointless to ask, if she couldn't still speak.

With the torch in hand, he led her into the castle, watching the darkness move to avoid the splitting light of the fire. As it retreated the room came into better view. Inside the darkness was hidden the beautiful treasures of a dynasty that had conceited itself to extinction. Again she felt some winsomeness, once subversive, rising to the surface, above the ugliness of the castle's outside and seducing her chaste innocence.

"So beautiful" she heard herself say, and suddenly from the light of her bodyguard's torch another torch was lit on the wall and then another, and another, all until the room was filled with every detail the space could afford to encapsulate. The vastness of the space made Marge feel as if she'd been somehow jailed in the most beautiful place imaginable. 

"You'll have four nights to contemplate its beauty." he said, smiling so she could see his straight white teeth. She saw how handsome he was despite his occupation, the musculature of his body wove in and out of his costume much as her voluptuousness did for her own. She thought of those harlequin novels she'd read to pass the time, the pictures on the cover, someone who looked like this, too pretty to be a pirate, and yet just the illusion was enough to spark the flame of her fantasies.

Though often she would dream Homer was the pirate or the pirate had Homer's face and voice, the residue of the man who her faithful heart had hid Homer inside was still standing before her, boasting and somewhat bestial in his sexual charisma. He took in her provocative dress and the voluptuous body beneath it with no sign of shame to show he cared what she thought of his lusting gaze.

"Well, should we retire?" he asked.

"Together?" Marge couldn't believe she heard her own voice say the words. There was nothing remotely innocent in the mind of this woman she occupied.

"Is that what Misseur Simpson's wife would wish?" the man said with a laugh.

Oh no, Marge thought to herself. She was married, and even in this world, it was to Homer. She was kept woman and yet knew the destiny of her host body was to give into this man and conceit to his lusting eyes.

"No, never!" she heard herself say, though she could not sense her own heart beating in this woman's body, she sensed it skip a beat and then settle to its normal rhythm. 

She tried again to say the name of her husband, yet even in her own head, his name couldn't separate her hearing from the sound of the castle and her bodyguard's laughter.

Say it, she heard herself say, but the words were never spoken so the man could hear. 

Just say it. 

"Always the invalid, Madam?" she heard him say.

What? the sound of her own voice in her head, and could feel even the face of her host body twist in confusion.

"An invalid to your wickedness." he said, trying to reassure her she had a heart guilty of adultery but not a body that would coincide, not willingly.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"I mean your body wants what your heart condemns."

Marge didn't hear herself speak, not the host body and not a thought in her head to dissuade her from feelings of her own physical attraction to this man. 

He stopped smiling, and then moving his eyes away from her, perhaps distracted by her beauty, and retreating to collect his thoughts, his eyes returned and with a smile, "I only meant I wouldn't want to burden your conscience, Madam."

Marge could not imagine a reason to feel guilty. She knew, somehow, these were not her own feelings, but the woman whose body she occupied in this dream. It was Madam Simpson, not Marge Simpson, who felt these feelings for this bastard. 

"There's nothing to apologize for, Misseur" she said, trying to reassure him of something though Marge couldn't think of a reason for her to want to make this man feel better. He made her feel so uncomfortable. Why should she save him from the same experience?

"Then let's find you a room." he said, taking her hand and leading her toward the staircase in the next room.


The deeper into the castle they went more distinct the hypnotic power of its rooms and corridors became. Marge felt not just around her, but inside of her, some coalescing thoughts of her courtship when she first met her husband, and then thoughts of sex, of her husband's fearing her infidelity and then of cheating itself, all expressed in the most heavy-handed of recreations.

She wasn't alone until long into this sexual inquisition, she saw how fortified Madam Simpson's mind was with sex, how the castle had so effortlessly inflated her appetites and imagination. Closing the door so her bodyguard disappeared behind it, she moved toward the bed which waited where some already lit candle had been put on an end table. She stretched her body across it, her host body thinking of the strange power the castle had over her, and Marge of what a dream inside a dream may look like.

Looking down at her body and dress, Marge wondered what else was there room for her to wear under so little. Though she wasn't even a bit curious to see what Madam Simpson would wear to bed, some wicked part of her own enticed imagination wondered what Madam Simpson's body looked like naked. She was familiar with her own, yet there was some raunchy want in herself now to satisfy any curiosity as to what Misseur Simpson came home to every night.

Though she stumbled upon the notion, early, that this in itself was Madam Simpson cheating on her husband with Marge, she watched and wondered, no, hoped she would show herself to her. She was curious, and from the influence of castle, anticipating seeing this woman's body naked.

Let me see, she tried to say, but it wouldn't be spoken. Her host body was quiet, searching the room, and Marge wondered for what?

Let me see you-she said again, the words there but unspoken, the waiting making Marge absorbed in what was to come, if it was to come at all.

When she did finally disrobe she could sense somewhere close by a voyeur. She knew her host could sense this too and screamed when with the knowledge she still did not heed in undressing. Madam Simpson took some strange delight in having this knowledge but ignoring it. Marge could feel her own hands tugging at the strings which kept her gown to her chest and as they sunk down her shoulders she felt her nerve unravel. Her own modest sensibilities only further exaggerated the eroticism of her body's unveiling. In the moment she felt the last of her clothing pool at her feet her body and Madam's became one in the same. The watcher, whomever he may have been, had been watching Marge Simpson also undress this whole time.

Though she sensed the watcher was the castle itself no revelation of the kind could distract from her own nudity and the twisted sense that she'd accomplished something by divulging this to a stranger.

"Look at me" she heard her own voice whisper, in the mirror she saw her own naked body and knew someone else could see it too.

Her host body began to imagine the pirate, her bodyguard, naked and Marge could see him too. How Madam had so grossly exaggerated the appearance of his phallus, Marge felt ill as Madam pictured the reflection of his man, naked, in the mirror masturbating to Marge's nudity, not Madam's.

How could you?! she finally heard herself scream inside her head, still the words never occurred to Madam.

You deceitful cheating whore! she screamed hoping Madam would hear.

Marge watched her bodyguard finally cum and felt her own arms reach to a nightgown stretched across an armoire. She slid it on and stepped toward the bed.

Marge felt hate seething out her soul, and the guilt of avowing her nudity to this castle rushing to the surface of her non-complacent face. It seemed as though, conscience or no, she was going to live out the sins of her adulterous doppelganger. 

She felt herself stretch across the bed, now dressed, some of her embarrassment receded. She didn't feel the pang of self-consciousness that her nudity or last gown brought. She felt Madam look up back at herself in the mirror. Marge wondered before seeing the reflection how often she would see only herself when doing these horrible things.

Madam stared back at her, and despite the spectacular resemblance in face and hair, her body was different, inflated back to her previous proportion, and this settled Marge's mind for a moment.

Marge swore inside her head as Madam wondered how much her bodyguard would enjoy seeing her naked, and all the things he'd do to her to please himself. She tried to move these thoughts from the foreground of her mind yet her anger could only seethe out from beneath or behind it as Madam imagined how she might satisfy her protector's every appetite, how he'd degrade her and make her his wench, his pirate whore. The thought made Madam's legs shake and Marge's conscience shrink back to make room for the wickedness of seeing herself undress for her bodyguard.

The feeling that she'd so satisfied a man with her body, a man not her husband, prickled Marge's skin and forced a moan of submission from the voice in her head and voice in the waking world.


Homer turned his head when Marge moaned. He watched her seductively writhe and could only think of touching her body. For the last few minutes he'd been caught up in an old vampire movie, though the busty actress on the screen and how her innocence was being preyed upon by her bodyguard and the castle wherein she stayed had further engrossed Homer's mind with sex. 

He stared at Marge, some unsatisfied want of her own moving her body to some erotic rhythm, he couldn't stop himself from reaching to her nightgown and untying the string which concealed her cleavage.


Marge was no less invalid as she watched some apparition untie the strings of her gown. Madam, though writhing in sync with Marge's sexual fever, did nothing to stay the hand and his occupation.

Marge worried again that it was her own body that waited beneath to engross and entertain the apparition. She was Homer's wife and not Misseur Simpson's who would satisfying the castle's lustful appetite.

When the strings were finally lose she felt some invisible hand pull open the front of her gown and then at the emergence of her own small left breast felt a mouth, like a man's, hot and sucking, engulf the pert dome.

The sensation went beyond the limitations of sensation that dreams had, she could feel moisture against her skin, a mouth pulling at her hungrily.

The other hand was first felt at  her lap and slid down to move the gown up her hips. Soon she felt it between her legs, searching for her femininity. She thought to herself, it was no wonder Madam felt no guilt at letting herself be overcome by this evil, it was Marge it wanted, not Madam at all. 

When the fingers were inside her, and Marge could feel her body react as Madam's would've she was asked to revisit her episode in front of the mirror, the avowing and unveiling of her body to Madam's fantasy man. The permission Madam had given the apparition to look upon her and take in her nudity. The way Marge was not asked but told she would reveal herself to satisfy Madam's adulterous appetite. 

All along Marge had resisted what her host body had wanted. With every retreat from her lecher her body stepped closer, until now she was to be physically overcome by Madam's cheating heart, and forced to submit to her own starved immorality.

Madam allowed her invisible lover to undress Marge and slowly conquer her every curve. Marge couldn't make herself move away from what the invisible cuckold wanted of her. In writhing Madam would only move Marge's supple body closer. No sign of Marge's retreat would show in the language of squirming nudity, only submission. Madam thought of the pirate and Marge could see the man's sculpted body across the room, throttling her own body, his muscles rippling as he forces her still with his tight embrace, right before he enters her.

She sees herself fighting the pirate's advances, even as her own body moves so the invisible lover can feast on more of her writhing sensuality. She feels her legs moving apart. Sees herself admitting what she knows, though she can't see, what must be there, between them. He enters her not softly but with a bucking thrust, as he moves his hands to her breasts for leverage.


Homer had retied the strings so quickly as they were undone. He could feel guilt still his hands before he could touch her exposed cleavage. He turned his head back to the television, wishing he hadn't done anything at all. He hadn't.

He continued to watch the movie as he saw a vampire ravaging the bride on a bed.He slowly overcame what of her still resisted and soon they were moving together as one.

The sight of the woman, who Homer knew now was married, cheating on her husband with the vampire, made him ill. Even being just a movie, even being a lame unbelievable one about a woman and a vampire, it made him feel nauseous to watch it.


Madam watched from across the room as Marge laid naked across the bed, still squirming, her soul still non-complacent with her visitor who, by now, had taken her for the fifth time.

The voice Madam had heard, from the castle, said it so much more wanted to see Marge Simpson naked, than Madam. Now Madam smiled, knowing she had stayed faithful and some other weaker woman had been made to submit.

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