Marge Meets A Vampire

BY : Jeffrey Opstik
Category: +S through Z > Simpsons
Dragon prints: 5254
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons and make no money from the publication of this.

Though Homer and Marge had agreed with the man that he could move in the previous day, he didn't move in until that very night. The sound of him, moving up the stairs with the enormous crate sent shivers down Marge's spine. It was not a few hours and already she was regretting her decision.

The man's course features, his dry hands, his clinical yet almost lecherous gazes toward her when she'd answered the door make the trek back up the stairs seem all the more a spectacle. 

Despite his years he could not deny himself the thrill of watching the lady ascend the stairs. He wasn't the kind of man that got off on voyeurism but she was so sure he was her husband late home from work that she had worn only her nightgown when answering the front door. The view up her gown as she climbed the stairs made his cock painfully hard.

And though her walk was by all means the walk of shame he wondered if, despite her demure and wifely nature the later revelation a stranger had seen up her skirt would send a thrill through the shy mother.

It was later, in the room he'd rented that he finally opened the crate and peered into the sarcophagus within. What remained and still resembled a body had no eyes, not that he could see. The lids were sunken in though some faint trace of two orbs were insinuated in the deep pit of the concave sockets. 

Maybe the eyes were indeed intact. If so he was curious to see what color the eyes of the supposed vampire had been. In his time those eyes mesmirized not just peasants but princesses and queens. Epoch, as historians not seeing mention of any real name had dubbed him, had gained dominion over many kingdoms in his time, all just by seducing the women therein. Where queens went, their kings would follow, fathers their daughters and if their daughters were princesses, a kingdom for each. Yet he never kept those women at their original stately rank. 

Epoch had, despite his control over so many royal families was for the common man and it was in this spirit he dutifully transformed every princess, queen and peasant girl into a whore for his brothel. Queens, betrayed by their own bodies, fucked their jesters, their knights, commoners, and the princesses he'd obtained walked the street offering themselves to commoners, thieves, revolutionaries, the homeless. All was in an effort to gain complete control over every town and village, every man and especially every woman. Women became his mascots, their beautiful bodies the incentive to join his unholy army. And it was almost only the women he ever turned into vampires like him. He wanted to keep them aruond long past the lives of their friends and family. He had wanted to enjoy their bodies well into modern history. 

What wsan't known and what made his mere substantiation at all recently unlikely and the validity of his body being the one the archeologist had obtain even less likely was the knowledge that there was no record of his dying at all. All records of his life had simply ceased. The minute length documented of his life in itself did nothing to reinforce he'd lived longer than any ordinary human life.

He'd lived perhaps thirty-five years of recorded history before vanishing entirely. Still, he'd snared control of almost all of Europe by his twenty-fifth birthday and supposedly his blood coursed through the centuries in the bodies of women he'd bedded but chosen not to turn.

According to legend a vampire woman was incapable of conceiving life since life had evaded her since her turning. 

The archeologist turned his head to the door of the room, some few feet away a man, he supposed the woman's husband,,whom he'd met before, was now the one opening Marge's bedroom door and stepping inside to receive his wife's welcome.

But who knows, he thoght, if the room was dark any man might assume the guise of Mr Simpson, step inside and help himself to the typically faithful wife.

That night, as he slept he dreamed Marge Simpson, in tidying the room when he left, had caught the eye of Epoch and the vampire had awoken the later night to begin the slow transformation of the woman from faithful bride to sultry seductress. Marge, under the guise of a families first movement, was sent again and again by Epoch to seduce the mayor, only to discover effort in itself was there to further addict her to adulterous sex. Her body slowly transformed too, her legs longer, her ass rounder, her breasts, as though puberty hadn't hit before, blossomed in fuller, rounder, perkier glands, until they stretched over overcame each garment's will to contain them.

The dream was over early the next morning. The archeologist resealed the crate, amazed that he'd left it open over night, and left for the museum for more research.

 

Marge smiled when she saw the old man leave out the front door. She hoped he'd be gone for a long time. It was nearly July and she wanted to plan her anniversary getaway with Homer before he returned from work. TIme alone at all would further improve upon the joy she experienced at playing out scenarios for what awaited her and Homer at the resort. 

The income from renting out the spare room would afford them the first anniversary vacation since they'd first gotten married. 

Suddenly her eyes were looking out the bedroom door at the square of light the open door of the rented room had left on the wall and her mind was filled with snapshots of herself undressing in a department store dressing room. The glowing red record light at the corner of a fisheye lens of a security camera flickering as she moved from one lace undergarment to another. Unseen from where she expose, redress and re-expose her body, someone was watching the bawdy display and smiling lewdly. 

Shame and despair filled her in seeing the night she had planned for her and Homer had been reduced to a striptease for a peeping tom.

She tried to force her eyes from the square silhouette but something she couldn't see in the white space of the light was filling her with elation to dissolve the shame of the daydream.

She wandered to her wardrobe, thinking of her night out with Homer in a few hours, the night out with his boss and the lawyers. She wasn't thinking of her green dress though.

A force from the rented room moved her hand through the closet until it seized upon a thin, spaghetti-strapped black number. Nothing in her reasoning gave her just cause to even own this, let alone wear it outside. 

She was unsure her hands were even her own as she watched herself undress in the vanity mirror, discarding even her bra before slipping into the black clingy scrap of a dress. Without her brassiere to conform or abbreviate her bust, her breasts almost overflowed from the top of the black dress. The pale and eclipsed canvas of her chest was anyone's to ogle once she left the house. As much as it may have weight heavily on her conscience it left no impression on her hands, which were busy testing where the line of her indignity really began. The fingers traced the raised mounds of each areola through the front of the dress. Had the top been an inch lower she might've seen them in her reflection.

The dress appeared painted on after a while. Hours separated her from the dinner invitation. Rather than undressing and redressing she simply wandered the house, never once the consideration that the man renting their room would return in that time coming to mind.

Finding herself in that very same room, and staring into the reopened the crate at the strange shape within Marge would never conceive it was a body. The darkness of the occupant's complexion brought to mind merely a human shape, cast from a human being and molded into ash. Then she noticed the lines, like the segments of an insect scattered throughout the humanoid features and the eyes open and staring up at her.

She was only grateful they were not moving.

How, though, could she let this man stay in her house if she was bringing mummies to live with him. How absurd. How morbid. How hinging on hysterical.

Replacing the top to the crate she decided to return to her typical routine and started about some housework. Her eyes when they strayed back to her own body never reminded what she wore.

When the call came that Homer would not make it either home nor to the dinner, her initial response to put away the dress was quickly dashed and soon she was applying a deep red lipstick to herself in the reflection of the vanity. So too, earrings but no necklace to clutter the sensual homogeny of her exposed cleavage. The line, deep and enticing, seemed more feminine and sensual a statement than any jewel or pearl could be. 

 

"What are you doing Marge Simpson?" the voice was no long just in her head, it was out in the world with her as she strode past the lusting gazes of men on her way to intercept Mr Burns and his lawyers at dinner.

Back home Homer might've been arriving, his stomach growling at the thought of dinner. There would be none and Marge wasn't really sure why.

The act of her walking briskly allowed her breasts to dance inside her revealing top, the choked ovals bounced provocatively. She could feel the dress shrink around her when she stepped inside the restaurant. The bright lights all seemed focused on her chest, as though footlights on the stage of a strip club. Her breasts seemed to swell as Marge shook with filling apprehension. The heat was nauseating, it was as though she were being cooked, and the flesh of her breasts, a rising doe was rising out beyond the line of her dress's already low recess. 

Why had she come here?

In retrospect she did not remember the trip from the door to the table, but the looks she'd gathered from Homer's boss and the lawyers at her entrance still seethed inside her, deep into the night. The feeling of nakedness, the tawdry sense of self, her newly flamboyant sexuality, the feeling of her heart throbbing in her chest, its beating, pounding, heaving, testing the brittle embrace of her bodice. All of these ebbed past the words in the conversations and joined each man's lusting eyes. She saw in their glued blue and white orbs the desire to tear open her dress and reveal her. 

Despite her grief, their glances made her body ache, her breasts in particular.

She smiled through all of it, though the potential for tears lingered at every turn of her eyes. 

 

Back home, she tossed and turned beside Homer. Her pounding heart and aching head cognizant of someone else's troubled slumber, a voice from a body that couldn't force itself to wake. It screamed and swore. It tossed and turned in sync with Marge's own body.

When she was awake again the voice were gone, the scream were cut off but she knew though it was impossible to discern as it was not English she heard spoken, the voice was a man and the fit was thrown in a fever of rising lust. The owner dreamt of thighs, and breasts, and awaiting mouths, tongues, curves and screams, of submission and surrender, of the turn from chastity to promiscuity. The tongue in which the words were spoken was musical and sensual, the voice harmonious, erotic and deeply masculine. 

Marge sat up in bed and stared into the darkness, and then the line of light under the door. Their resident weirdo's experiments with death and morbidity, the mating call of the dead to the living. 

Why did her pussy so ache? Why did her heart pound?

She wished she had burned the black dress. Now instead the light glowed and her hair stood on end, gooseflesh matted her every inch. She could feel the light when she went to the door, it was warm, it made her skin instantly damp, her body quivered at the sudden change.

Was their boarder awake?

Of course he was, the light was on.

She opened the door and crept to the rented room. The sound of two voices came to her as she knelt beside the light beneath the door.

"A homemaker. She stays home while her husband works." the first said, she recognized the voice of the man they'd rented the room to.

Then a second, "Yes."

"Shy."

"Not anymore. I've already started to change that. I will show you tomorrow."

"I don't believe you."

"I will give her to you if you want her."

There was a long pause. Marge didn't want to believe they were talking about her. How preposterous. They had no control over her.

"Can you make her....make her....I would like....."

"Yes?"

"I like a lady with big tits. Can you give her...?"

"Whatever you like. As big as you want."

"As big as....how will you?"

"I told you. I've already started her change."

"How about a job...as a stripper?"

"After she's brought them to me. After I've made her my whore."

The gravity of the situation refused to sink in. She was nobody's whore.

 

"What a strange dream," Marge sighed to herself.

"What's that?" Homer turned, she had just awoken and he was almost out the door.

"Nothing, Homie! Love you, see you in a few."

"Love you too."

The sound of the door opening in the rented room recited some faint artifact of last night. 

"How about a job...." the voice in her head repeated.

"Hi, mom." Bart and Lisa in unison, coming down the stairs.

"Hi kids." Marge pulled a pan from beneath the counter and shattered two eggs over the no-stick surface.

"....as a stripper?" the voice finished, jolting Marge away from the pan, the eggs flew over her shoulder and landed on the floor.

"Mom, you okay?" Lisa frowned.

She turned around. Bart was staring into the white and yellow puddle of the eggs beside the kitchen table.

"Umm." Marge fumed, trying not to sound panicked.

It was as though she heard her own children pose to her that very question.

How about a job as a stripper, mom?

Marge cringed. The door opened and closed upstairs. It was in fact their guest's voice in her head, posing the question. She could've sooner put her dignity and marriage to the curb and finance her anniversary vacation with a few singles from Springfield's seedy underbelly. 

She turned, thinking to catch their guest watching her from the bottom of the staircase. There was no one.

If there was any validity to that dream, she thought, and suddenly pictured their guest nosing through her delicates and unmentionables upstairs. The thought made the food from last night's dinner turn in her stomach. Then the thought of dinner made it turn more.

"Mom?"

"Why would ask that, honey?" Marge's mind was gone, she'd already replaced the man's voice in her head with Lisa and the question belonged to Lisa's voice now.

"I was thinking..."

"What? That I could do that? To you? To your father? I could never."

"Mom! Are you alright?" Bart shot Marge a mad look.

Marge stared into the faces. The question was gone, but she could now hear their guest coming down the stairs.

She felt her stomach tighten at the thought of his nose in her panties, sniffing for dampness. Then the thought of his nose in the panties she was wearing now. How long had he been here? Had she given him an opportunity to get into her bedroom?

The thought of his nose, his face, his smell on the cotton pressed to her pussy made an obvious shudder move through her body. She caught herself on the back of a chair in time for her guest to see and smile.

How about a job as a stripper, Mrs. S?

Marge looked down at her groin, the image the old man's nose and lips and tongue between her legs, in her twat, tasting her had creeped in and now the chimera was down there staring back up at her as he tongued and flicked her clit. 

Stop it, she wanted to say. Get the hell out of this house!

She wanted to scream but the man strangely only brought a sweet smile out of her. She smiled, faking it, because the face between her legs was already where it wanted to be. His tongue darted and Marge faked the retreat that the authentic sensation and her own convictions would required her. 

The old man smiled and Marge smiled back, unable to do anything else.

 

to be continued soon.....



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