Naked Playthings: A PREQUEL TO BART THE RIPPER

BY : Jeffrey Opstik
Category: +S through Z > Simpsons
Dragon prints: 20494
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons and make no money from the writing/online publication of this.



Lisa


Lisa Simpson was still an innocent when she noticed from her bedroom window the enormous crate being heaved over the fence into the Flanders' backyard. The Simpson family had been drifting further and further away from Ned since Maude's death. It'd gotten to a point where Homer had seemingly forgotten about his neighbor and unwitting arch nemesis, so Lisa was at a loss as for what precisely the crate contained.

In time though, five enormous men opened the crate and began to assemble a hot tub in Ned's backyard.

Lisa starred, more perplexed by this particular object's entrance into her life.

Coincidence or serendipity?

It was not two days ago she'd heard Sherri and Terri talking about the massage setting on their own hot tub and Terri's first orgasm. The explicitness of Terri's confession to Sherri had made Lisa's skin crawl as she eavesdropped from behind a nearby tree. And though it'd made her skin crawl then, Lisa wondered how long she was to wait before being equally well versed in those same sensations. How long before boys couldn't keep their eyes or hands off her body? How long before she wouldn't mind sharing her body with a man?

The tub's basin was violet, and it sat in a pinewood shell at the far end of Ned's back porch.

Lisa had to wonder what Ned had in mind for the thing. He didn't strike her as the type of person who'd even own swimming trunks. She couldn't imagine him at the beach, even with his wife. The sort of immodesty Lisa and her family had required to don swimsuits at the beach, or her mom the occassional string bikini, they'd taken for granted. But no doubt Ned wouldn't and couldn't wear something like trunks or go shirtless anywhere outside.

Watching Ned exit the house and stop to glare at the tub from his backdoor Lisa had stumbled upon the mental image of Ned shirtless. Lisa stopped herself and laughed. She was turning into her mother. Since catching Marge and Homer reenacting some scenes from a European movie they'd rented, Malena, Lisa got her first real sense of how often her mother thought about sex, let alone how elaborate her fantasies. Watching her father, throttle and molest her mom in the kitchen was pentamount to watching a home invasion and staged rape fantasy.

Lisa never wanted to think of love in the sense her mother had conceived it, or confuse violence for passion. She suspected Homer wasn't entirely into it anyway. Perhaps Marge's time teaching male inmates had imprinted on her some of her students' own fantasies, with Marge the star.

The day was almost over when the moving men left and the lights from the bottom of the tub glowed hypnotically behind the fence. Lisa stared, the prospect of some, if even, momentary gratification in the back of her mind. Everyone else in the world seemed obsessed with, but her and her brother.

Why not indulge?

Lisa felt, as though by reflex, her fingers squeeze at the sides of the window frame are she gazed past the glass to the glowing yellow light of the tub.


A few minutes later and Lisa's small hairless pussy hovered over the center jet of water. She could feel the reverse whirlpool of bubbles turning inside her body. Driven by some basest instinct her hovering pelvis began to rock back and forth, allowing the bubbles to drift back and forth. Sensations more elaborate and strange filled her from between her legs, the opening of the jet was a mouth, the fluttering torrent of water a spinning tongue in her privates. 

She felt like a man was giving mouth-to-mouth to her pussy. The strange sensation lifted higher and higher, into her stomach. The muscles braced in her back and groin. Her hips cramped but she pushed through the pain and kept swaying, her crotch closer and closer to the gaping mouth and whirling tongue. 

The water splashed around her as she shook. Her insides, the tunnel the water was ebbing into growing smaller, tighter and suddenly slick. Her small body bucked as the feeling in her pussy grew more intense and specific. It was indeed pleasure. It stretched her mind, exposing nerves she didn't know she had as it climbed higher and higher.

She felt as though she could even taste it. High up inside her the feeling she was experiencing was akin to savoring a sugary sweetness, the velvety richness of dark chocolate or a heavy cream. But the sensation was not on her tongue, it was deep inside her. A calling, a homing from some deeper, more biological need. 

Then, as though the nerves that ran the length of the shrinking tunnel had awoken from a faintness of sensation, the heaviness of the sensation dawned completely and she cried out. The water wound all the way up inside her. The tongue was long and reptilian, a full foot up inside her. She could feel it up behind her hymen, in her very womb. Her pussy shrunk around it, but the pressure was too much for her young body, the water tested her own body's resolve, stretching the inside of her small torso.

It was as though the elaborate technique of the jet's tongue had dulled and there was only a thick muscle within her. She could feel it, tearing, her hymen crowning like the shell of an egg.

Lisa gasped and her cherry shattered. Her hips landed flat against the basin of the tub. The lip of the jets touching the lips of her pussy as she'd done the splits in her submission.

Pain echoed up from her groin but was too faint beneath the high tide of her climax. Looking down she could see her clitoris not quite an inch long and the pink mixture of her blood and wet pussy like oil, too thick to dissolve in the water. 

The realization that she'd popped her cherry in her neighbor's hot tub dawned on her. She wondered if Mr Flanders would find some evidence of that fact the next morning. Had she dispelled some viscous red mass in  shattering her hymen? 

Deep inside her the newest nerves, the ones hidden behind that film of her innocence were awake and filling her brain, redefining pleasure, showing there was no limit to the reach of any one sensation if erotic. 

She made her way back to her room after midnight, her first orgasm transformed from a shout to a whisper. It reshaped the way she walked, her hips swayed with sensuality and confidence, the gait of a lolita and not Marge's little girl. 

To Be Continued....


Marge

Three Weeks Earlier


Who was Bunny Bouvier, Marge wondered when she glared at the name on the package.

Someone else. Maybe a cousin, aunt or uncle.

When she opened the package she found a note in the pile of styrofoam peanuts.


Marge-

Heard your husband was out of town for the week. Thought I'd introduce you to a friend of mine. He's gotten me through some long lonely nights.

Sincerely, your favorite stranger, 

Bunny


Reaching into the packing material Marge hadn't the slightest what she would find. 

Homer had been out looking for a new job since Mr Burns had laid him off. His search had taken him to Capital City where now all but her and Maggie kept him company.

Though Marge missed Homer terribly, the rush to maintain the house was gone, as was any incentive to keep herself occupied until he returned from work. There was no work and time, whether made use of or wasted. had become trivial after a while.

Moving her hand around a cylindrical object she pulled it free from the box and stumbled back in shock. She let go in the instant she recognized it, and watched it bounce off the table and land in her open purse.

It was a giant rubber cock.

She bent over to have a closer look at it, the back end of its length hung out from the top of her purse. She could see a switch and place for batteries.

It was a vibrator.

"Jesus!" she said, "Who is this woman to send me something like this? Doesn't she know I'm a happily married woman?"

She reached down to remove it from her purse and shivered in seeing it was difficult to wrap her fingers around it.

Lifting it, she noticed a name stenciled in italics on its side.

Jacques

She put the vibrator down on the table beside the box.

Jacques' cock, she thought, feeling icky for making the connection. 

It was lifelike in every way but its insane proportion, longer and thicker than Marge's forearm. 

She dropped it back in the box and went to the phone in the kitchen. The contents of the package had been occupying her since she received the call from the post office the hour earlier to pick it up.

She wondered now if the clerk had opened the box and only asked her to come so he could see the woman who'd ordered the sex toy and intended to use it.

But she hadn't ordered it. Hadn't he read the note? Maybe not. Maybe he thought she'd ordered it from some seedy inner city sex store or online catalog.

She looked back at the label on the box.

Mrs. Marge Simpson

She blushed, knowing now the man behind the counter took her for some sexually unsatisfied housewife, a sex hobbyist, nymphomaniac, some in-the-closet sexaholic wife.

Standing beside the receiver, waiting for Homer's scheduled four o'clock phone call, she flushed with embarrassment, knowing two people she had never met had already taken her for the kind of woman to cheat on her husband. With a sex toy no less.

"Why hasn't he called?" Marge sighed.

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do, Miss. Unless he's missing for forty-eight hours there's nothing I can do. You said he's in Capital City, Is it possible he just couldn't make it to a phone?" the 911 operator said.

"But its been three hours. He'd find a way to call me."

"I'm afraid that's not enough, Miss. Call back Wednesday, this same time if he hasn't called you by then."

The line cut off.

Marge collapsed to the kitchen floor, sobbing.

What'd happened? What had gone wrong? Where was Homer? Where were the kids? They would call. They had to call.

The night stretched on longer and longer without the reassurance of a phone call. She couldn't sleep, and by Tuesday morning a lifetime had gone by.

The morning was hot.

She hadn't slept and she hadn't showered. Perspiration with the help of the damp air had painted her dress wetly to the curves beneath it. In the mirror, as she past from the living room to the kitchen she could see her white bra and panties ghosting through the wet cotton. The pouty ovals of her breasts bounced in the lace cups as she strode past.

She'd never wondered how her thirty-four year old body might look in a wet t-shirt contest, now the image lingered long past the reflection.

In the cradle the phone showed no missed calls or messages left in the night. She had indeed been wide awake the entire night.

She felt like fainting. The physical and emotional fatigue of the last twelve hours ached in every inch of her body, every joint and muscle.


"Homer?" Marge pressed through the fog of waking. It was almost Wednesday morning when the phone rang and Marge forced herself from the bed to retrieve the receiver.

The voice was faint, through the static she couldn't decipher whether she had heard it before. 

"Your husband..." it said.

"Yes. Is this the police?"

"Your husband..."

"You have my husband?"

"Marge. This is your husband."

"What?"

"...'ll be back."

"What? When? Homer?"

"Need you...want you...to fuck you, baby."

"Homer?"

"I'm so hard right now. I want so bad to fuck you."

"Homer...why are you saying these things?"

"Say it back. Just talk dirty to me, baby. Want you so bad. Say something, say anything. What are you wearing?"

Marge's heart fluttered with desire. This was so strange, so unlike Homer to call her like this. But he was okay, and that was all that mattered.

"Say something, baby." he said again.

She was doing somersaults in her head, too overjoyed to let the crude words on the phone slow her down.

She stilled herself. Her whole body was shaking with elation at the news.

But what would she say? Homer wanted her. He'd been thinking about her this whole time, worrying and lusting for her. What would she say back? What could she say back?

Her voice became low and seductive, she thought of Kathleen Turner in Body Heat, "I'm wearing that teddy you bought me, Homie."

"Mmmm. That's nice. I love the way your tits look in that."

Marge's free hand stroked her neck and shoulder, moving down toward her chest. The voice on the phone was gravelly thru the muck of the static, but it'd had taken on a manful and forceful resonance. He was a brawny adonis amongst ordinary men now.

"...they're so big and soft. I wanna cum between them. I wanna fuck those tits." he said.

Marge had never heard such coarse language in her life, least of all from Homer. 

She closed her eyes, trying to put away her puritanical sensibilities for a moment. She was lonely. He was lonely. They'd been away from each other for so long. They both deserved this.

"I wanna fuck those tits." he said.

Marge was stroking her breasts through the front of her dress. She could feel her nipples telescope from the stimulation and tent the green cotton. She was aroused too.

"Take those tits out so I can fuck them, baby."

She stood up and moved to the vanity mirror and unzipped the back of her dress. Then, reaching down she unclasped her brassier and slipped the straps from her shoulders.

"Can you see me, Homie. Can you see me? Can you touch my body?" she teased, her breathing deep with every vowel.

"Just let me at those big perky tits of yours, honey."

She moved her hands down and began to fondle herself.

"Can you feel me, baby? Can you feel my cock between your tits?"

Marge moved her hand down between her breasts, the friction of flesh against flesh drove her on.

The tone of her voice dropped lower, she was the blue-haired temptress of Homer's dreams, the femme fatale of his life story, the buxom blue-haired streetwalker from Springfield's inner city.

"Fuck me, Homie. Fuck me. Fuck my....tits." she had to force the word but it eventually came.

Marge felt a tingle deep inside her from hearing the word spoken in her own voice.

She was back on the bed, her small fist the end of Homer's cock. She felt the slim knuckles trace the inner circumferences of her pillowy breasts as she moaned into the phone.

"Oh, Homie! You're so big. Your....cock....is so big."

Her hand moved from her cleavage to the ruffled sheets on the bed, her open hand closed around the familiar rubber cylinder.

She pulled it to her chest and slid the length of the rubber cock down into the deep indentation between her breasts.

"Oh...you're so big. Your cock is so big!"

She could feel the path of the cock's thick veins tracing its length as the wide width pulled apart the twin globes of her breasts. 

She was making love to a sex toy, alright. The enormous head slid back and forth some few inches from her parted and waiting lips. 

"Ahhh...ahhh....ahhh!" she could hear over the phone, the sound made the image of the cock head in her mind flare as jets of Homer's cum erupted onto her face.  

Marge wished she'd slipped her one free hand to between her legs. Her pussy ached with want, the empty center starving for Homer's cock.

And then, the click as the line was cut off.

"Homer?" Marge turned, pressed her ear tighter to the receiver but heard nothing.

"Homer?"

He'd hung up, or been cut off. She pressed the redial button and waited.

"You have reached a Springfield Public Telephone.."

"Oh, god." she screamed, hanging up, "That wasn't Homer. Who was it I just...?"

Marge felt nauseous. She'd just had phone sex with a perfect stranger. She put her hand down to steady herself and felt the still vibrating cock slip back into her open palm. The quivering thickness in her hand mixed with the smell of her own weeping sex. She'd gotten wet over the filthy ramblings of some local pervert.

She looked down at the twitching cock and wondered if Bunny, or whatever her name was, had arranged all this. Marge had taken the bait and seduced an obscene caller. 

Laying topless on her bed, sweat pasting the sheets to her back and hips, the shame of what she had done did nothing to trample how sexy she felt. The sense that she'd betrayed the one man she'd ever loved could not distract from the dissolute craving within her to hear that voice again.

She moved her hand down between her legs, taking the vibrating phallus with her. 

She knew she could never fit the handsome cudgel inside her body.

As she drifted to sleep, her quivering body opened up to the fist-sized end of the cock. Her obscene phone caller became the narrator of her dream, her guide through a labyrinth of sexual discovery and experimentation.

She met Bunny who taught her the ways of a lady of the evening, and soon Marge was giving herself to whomever thought she was worth the price. She knew she was worth that and more.

How often, after all, can a man be satisfied by his neighbor's wife?

She learned to let go and gave herself to so many men. She learned the merit of birth control over condoms, so by the time Homer and the kids had returned her insides were painted with the expended white lust of her neighbors. 

Her panties hung from one ankle when she awoke. Her hands memorizing the wet geography of her sex as she slept. She felt as though she'd been passed from her own bed to another in the night. As she sat up her own wetness poured out and filled a perforation in the sheets. She turned her head to the window and saw that it was open, the light shined in and illuminated her naked body. 

She'd masturbated in front of an open window last night.

Her worry about the caller or the dildo grew dim as she shifted her thoughts to the window and wondered how loud had she been in satisfying herself. 

Had neighbors heard?

Had neighbors watched?

She looked back to the phone, standing, she reached for the end table. A strange diversion came in wondering how her ass might've looked now through the window. She tried to keep in shape, and was more than a little proud of how she looked at thirty-four, but had never been boastful of it.

Until now.

She didn't dress right away, but picked up the phone and dialed for the police again. The obscene phone call gave her another reason to call the police. It might even help expedite their desire to reunite her with her husband and kids.

The sound of another man's voice as she stood naked beside the mirror unnerved her. The voice was not altogether different from the obscene phone caller's from earlier she now realized. 

"When was this he called?"

"Midnight maybe."

"And how long did the call last?"

"I don't know. I thought it was my husband at first, but then..."

"And when did you hang up?"

"I didn't. He hung up first."

"And how long had he been on the phone with you."

"Maybe ten minutes."

She could hear some laughter on the other side of the phone. She didn't realize until now she'd just admitted to a perfect stranger that she'd not just humored the caller but turned a short conversation into the kind of thing someone would read about in Penthouse Forum. 

"No. Less than that."

"And did you, in that time, invite the caller to go on or give him any reason to believe you weren't consenting to the conversation?"

"Wait. What?"

"If he recorded the conversation and you didn't either hang up or give him reason to believe you weren't buying what he was selling than he can counter-sue you for defamation of character."

"NO! No. I thought it was my husband."

"Maybe it was." more laughter.

"No. My husband is in Capital City. This call was from a public phone, here in Springfield."

"You hit re-dial?"

"Yes."

"You intentionally called back the man who gave you an obscene call."

"I had to be sure--"

"Of what? That he was done?" more laughter, "Look. I suggest you keep this sort of thing to yourself. If your husband" laughing "finds out. Well, if I found out someone called my wife and she called him back I'd blow a gasket. So I suggest you keep this to yourself."

"No. Wait. I mean---"

The line cut off again. She hadn't even found an opportunity to bring up her husband again.

She put the phone down. In an instant it was ringing again.

She picked up.

"Hello?"

"I love the way your ass looks, baby. I'm gonna take that ass for my own, tonight."

"Leave me alone!"

"I watched you finger yourself last night. Did you secretly pretend it was my hand tickling your cunt?"

"Stop this, please! I'm a happily married woman."

"If I have to take you kicking and screaming, I will. I'm gonna be inside that tight ass of yours when you're talking to your husband and kids later."

"Stop it! You're disgusting."

"--gonna give you a pearl necklace like you never had before."

Then the barely perceivable click as her caller hung up.

"Damn you! Stop calling here!" she screamed, knowing no one was there to listen.

For the first shower in three days, Marge didn't feel as though she achieved much in cleaning herself. A thin glaze of perspiration returned some minutes after redressing.

Staring at the phone, the voice of the caller echoed in her head.

If I have to take you kicking and screaming....I will.

Sweat beaded at her temples and trickled down her neck, beneath her clothing and over her bare breasts. Its cold touch as more rivulets of perspiration crawled down to join it made Marge quiver.

I'm gonna take that ass for my own.

Sweat was pouring down, painting her breasts a bronzed flesh color.

I wanna fuck those tits.

Marge's hands moved down between her legs, beneath her panties. Her clit was stiff, throbbing like a small beating heart.

The phone rang. She would not dislodge both hands to retrieve it. While in one hand she held the receiver, the other her moistening cunt.

"Homer?"

"Getting ready for me, Marge?"

"Please...just..."

""How wet are you, right now? Does the thought of your idiot husband get you this wet?"

"Leave me alone!" she thrust the phone back into the cradle.

She'd done it. She'd finally done it.

The silence thereafter, the emptiness in the room left by the since voided deep voice made her feel comfortable again.

But she'd left her hands in her panties. Her eyes in moving across the room back to the phone stumbled upon the dildo again. 

She stared at it, and for the first time thought about the obscene caller's cock. His hand stroking the shaft to the thought of fucking her later that night. The sound of her voice in his head, low and seductive, as he fucked his fist and came inside the public phone booth. The image of her body, naked, sweaty, as it clutched to his own was on both their minds now.

She tried to imagine how he might look, but in all her imagination she couldn't force herself to materialize one single strong male feature. Only with the help of the dildo could she fill the substance of the fantasy with any raw detail, and then it was his cock.

Wide, rigid and beautiful, Marge found herself salivating as it throbbed beneath her.The rhythm of its palpitating length and shrinking/widening of the dick hole was the breathe of a dragon. The mouth of the serpent seethed as Marge slid, naked, down upon the thick spear.

How much of this was real. She could feel the stranger's cock in her hand. Having forgotten she'd since seized the dildo, she put her knees to the floor, widened her stance until she was impaling herself on the enormous cock.

"Ahhhhh!" she screamed. Reality was creeping in in the pain of real penetration as her pussy stretched to accommodate her intruder.

She tried to stop herself, catch her weight on her hands but her legs shifted further apart under her weight and the end of the dildo pressed harder against the lips of her pussy.

"No. No. Don't let it in!" she tried to shift her weight away from her groin, but the hardwood floor provided no friction and her legs grew wider apart

And suddenly the dildo was being driven into her like a nail. The thickness of the cock as her pussy opened to allow entrance seemed to press at her very pelvic bone.

"No! No more!" she screamed, searching for something to grab onto.

Three inches of the monster were already inside her. Flexing her ass she tried to pull her legs back together, but only succeeded long enough for them to part again, wider now than before. She was fucking herself back down onto the cock.

Five inches.

Her legs came together again, then slid apart. The battering ram of the cock was thrust deeper into her.

She tried to fall forward, onto her chest, but the back end of the dildo hit the floor first. Her body bounced, her body weight again driving the cock deeper. She could feel her insides deform to take in more of the thick rubber dick as she cried.

She looked down. It was barely half in. She could see her stomach bulge in trying to contain the cock.

Steadying herself on one hand she reached down to grasp the cudgel.

She did not expect the gesture would lead her fingertips accidentally across her clit, but in an instant her insides were doing their best to squeeze around the dildo.

She could feel her pussy wanting to squeeze down, to constrict, but the width of her invader would not allow it.

In the cramped remaining space between the cock and what of her it'd penetrated, she could feel herself lubricating. She looked down and saw the tiny rivulets tracing the veins of the cock, down to the floor.

She reached for the phone, but then pictured the image of the stunned paramedics entering her bedroom and seeing her invalid body impaled on the vibrator. They'd take her to the emergency room, lay her on a stretcher, invite in some male interns in and hit the switch on the vibrator. They'd remove the blunt object after they'd made her cum a couple of times.

Her hands moved down from the night stand to the floor and just as suddenly the end of the vibrator hit the floor and bashed the on switch.

Marge screamed as the unentered end swung back and forth like a tail between her legs. Deep inside her pussy friction from the vibrations was tickling the pink flesh of her insides. And though the muscles of her hips and ass burned with the effort it took to keep herself upright her body was greasing the length of the cock inside her. She reached down, one last time to remove it but her hand slipped wetly across the exposed end.

Moving her hand back up her body, she let it caress the taut flesh of her stomach and breasts. While a dress shirt of Homer's she'd worn interfered with the contact of skin against skin she tore it away and her hands went to wet the curves of her breasts.

Soon, her entire body was lacquered in her own juices, she polished her every inch by the time she was thrusting her groin back toward the floor, pounding the cock deeper and deeper inside.

She ran her fingertips through her hair leaving sticky trails of lust in the blue curls, a naked disheveled bride of frankenstein. 

There was barely a coherent thought in her head when the phone rang again.

She picked up and moaned into the receiver.

To Be Continued....


Bart

Bart could hear them together in the next room. He was greatious that for all of the foreign exchange kid's boasting he could hear only talking right now.

He'd heard the kid, Collin was his name, boasting around school he was going to pop little Lisa's cherry and change her forever from a self-righteous hippie chick to a cock-savoring slut in no time. He'd made similar metamorphoses of American girls when they came to visit schools in Ireland. 

Though Bart had been fairly certain he cared not one iota about his sister he wondered if Colin was going to rape her the first time.

Though Lisa may have gone in with romantic intentions the extent to which her imagination defined romantic ended before her knowing about sex.

Bart found himself strangely excited at the notion of his sister's humiliation triggering some basest nympho gene dormant within her.

He pressed his ear tighter to the wall, anticipating the sound of Lisa's red dress tearing and muffled screams. His cock was already hard and he'd only been thinking of his sister.

He'd felt something similar months before when an invite to Artie Ziff's led him to a private gallery. Portraits he'd had painted of Bart's mother. She'd not worn clothes in any of them.

It was plainly obvious to Bart that his mom did not know of the paintings but it turned him on to think how she might react to their unveiling at a public art gallery, or being sold at auction or turning up in one of those men's magazines she was so against him owning.

Bart though, had never met the woman in those paintings. His mom was a modest, less a woman than even Lisa. She was not the top heavy calendar girl Artie had envisioned for October, or stripper school girl he had for September, or busty biker chick for June or pole dancing Mrs Claus for Christmas. She was not any one of those things. Her tits weren't big and fake. Her pussy was small, pink and shaved. There was no tattoo labeling her "daddy's little whore" on her lower stomach. 

So the alternate reality that the painters lived in for the moment they painted her resided on a plain where Marge was not Homer's wife, not Bart's mom but Artie's big-boobed supermodel wife.

The painting Bart had stolen and stashed beneath his bed was not of Marge, his mother, but Marge Boobea, star of The Stepford Whores, 28 Dicks Later and The Best Man Bangs the Bride 1 & 2. 

Bart heard a soft sighing through the wall and gave a groan of his own. He couldn't distinguish whether he'd heard a sigh of surrender or something else. Was it only a kiss? Had Colin already undone Lisa's frail innocence?

Bart moved toward Lisa's door and looked in through the keyhole.

Colin's mouth was at her neck, his hand moving slowly down toward the bottom of her dress.

Though the kisses had temporarily distracted Lisa she caught his hand before it lifted her skirt. Bart groaned with impatience. He had no real interest in seeing Lisa's legs, it was the shattered jewel of hers he wanted to see.  Staring at Lisa pushed Colin away, Bart was sure if Colin didn't rape Lisa soon he would.

To Be Continued...



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