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Tales From The LiitAverse	By : LordKuyohashi Category: -Misc Cartoons > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 353 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons or any related characters and receive no monetary or compensatory reward for any of this.

Chapter List
- 1-Let's All Be Fairies
- 1
The silverware clattered on the tray as Waylon Smithers weaved around the janitor, narrowly skirting the secretary’s desk, his eyes locked on the delicate china cup jostling on the saucer. The tongs slid along the inner rim of the sugar pot, and a small tidal wave of cream threatened to crest the creamery boat as Smithers extended his arms over the prone janitor, busy digging out from behind the photocopier for a wayward nickel, looking like a noodle carrying the dishes, the way he swerved and contorted himself around the obstacles in his way. As he navigated the perils of the Springfield Nuclear Power Plants executive wing, he hummed to himself, an ancient song he had heard wafting from the executive office.
Gee, but it's hard to love someone
When that someone don't love you
I'm so disgusted, heartbroken too
I've got those downhearted blues
Once I was crazy 'bout a man
He mistreated me all the time
The next man I get has got to promise me
To be mine, all mine.
The door to the executive office was straight out of a haunted house - Smither suspected there to be more truth to that idea than one might realise - tall arching panels of lacquered English Oak, stained cherry roan and laid in place with thick, heavy wrought iron hinges, finished with braided ring knockers of iron and pearl. Juggling the tray of dishes, he pressed the release button recently built into the doorframe, and waited a few seconds for the door to open automatically. Once inside, he set the tray down on the coffee trolly by the door, and gave the cavernous, opulent room a quick scan. Huddled over his desk like some grim vulture picking apart a corpse was the silhouette of Charles Montgomery Burns, the proprietor and owner of this power plant, of at least sixty-five percent of Springfield as a whole, of at least three percent of America beyond the city limits…
…And one hundred percent of Waylon Smithers’ body, mind and soul.
The automatic door drifted back to a closed position, and Waylon let out a withering sigh. Mr. Burns hadn’t noticed him yet. Quickly, Smithers pulled at his tie, undoing the knot. As he pulled the silken noose out of his collar, he also kicked off his shoes, shivering as the silky smooth black lace on his feet made contact with the amber carpeting of the office. He pulled his jacket open, folding it and laying it on the lower tray of the trolly, doing the same to his shirt, then working on his pants; each article of clothing removed revealed Smithers’ true self to the otherwise vacant office; Underneath his business clothes, hid the real Waylon Smithers, clad in thigh-high stockings and garters, a black lace halter bra slung across his chest, his stiffening cocklet barely restrained by panties. He glanced up towards Mr. Burns, his employer too mesmerised by his stock portfolio to notice his assistant’s change of clothing, and quickly, Smithers pulled a pocket cameo from his folded trousers, opened it, and quickly and deftly applied his real face - rouge on his cheeks, a light frosting of gloss to his lips, and a subtle purpling of eyeshadow. He smacked his lips, quickly ducked the cameo back into his pants pocket, and stood up, shivering with antici…..pation. He curled his dainty, painted fingers around the push-handle of the trolley, and prodded it across the room to Mr. Burns’ desk.
“Ahem!. Sir, your coffee is ready.”
Mr. Burns waved Smithers off dismissively, still engrossed at the financial graphs shifting and flashing on his laptop screen before him. “Fine, fine, pour the stuff and let me be, Smithers. Can’t you see I’m busy? Some addlepated bafflewit went and decided that India of all places should be its own country and now the price of unvulcanized rubber has gone on a balloon-ride! If I ever meet this–” he scanned a page on his computer - “Mo-Hawn-Dass Jawndy, I’ll…well, I’m sure I’m not sure, but it’ll make what I had done to the Kaiser seem friendly.”
“Um…Sir, Mohandas Gandhi was assassinated in 1948.”
Mr. Burns hummed, somewhere between approval, and irritation that someone had beaten him to the punch. “Hmph, well…let that be a lesson to him, then. Independence and self-determination might seem like fun, but not if it means I have to pay three cents more per barrel of rubber!”
Smither shook his head with a smile. He placed the coffee cup from the trolley to its usual spot on Mr. Burns’ desk, just in between the photograph of himself and Myrna Loy, and the photo of he and Ernest Hemmingway fishing in Africa, a massive coelacanth dangling from the thick line.
Two sugar cubes dropped into the cup with a soft thud, hissing and melting as the coffee was then poured in, thick bolts of steam rolling over the rim of the cup. Finally, Smithers poured in the ice-cold cream, watching the black coffee pale into near-white, stirring it smoothly until its light colour was uniform, then shaking the spoon over the cup and setting it on the saucer with a soft clink. His first duty complete, Smithers stood back, hands behind his back, waiting for his employer to notice a job well done.
It took a few seconds - about thirty or so - before Mr. Burns' skeletal fingers curled into the handle of the mug and his frail, ancient arm flexed and creaked arthritically to lift the lukewarm coffee to his withered, bloodless lips. A wet slurp, a satisfied hum, and the clink of the cup being lowered back onto its saucer, and Smithers knew his efforts had been appreciated. Mr. Burns finally turned in his high back leather chair towards his assistant, seeing the middle-aged man frocked in dainty black lace for the first time that day.
“Ah, I see you wore your new uniform today, Smithers. Very good.”
Smithers shuddered at the praise, his heart fluttering in his chest beneath the lace halter he wore. “Th-thank you, Sir. I’m glad you like it.” He gave a little pirouette, prancing as he spun in a circle. He felt so cute and loved, Mr. Burns’ eyes burning into his ass.
Mr. Burns slid down into his chair lazily, eyes roaming over Smither’s new outfit, devouring the sight of the man like a hungry wolf. “Oh yes, Smithers, I rather like it a lot. I think it’s…what do the youngsters say? “The elephant’s eyebrows?” Yessss.”
Bony fingers absently flicked the button on Mr. Burns’ trousers, Smithers’ eyes glued to his elderly employer’s throbbing, bulging pants-front. His mouth watered as images of his immediate future filled his mind, and he felt his knees shake with nerves and desire. The clicking of a zipper as it slowly lowered, the rustling of slacks as Mr. Burns wrangled his pants to his ankles, and the triphammer drumbeat of Smithers’ own heart broke the silence of the room, and the moment Waylon saw Mr. Burns’ veiny, wilted cock flop out of his cotton boxers, the man almost melted.
“Now,” Mr. Burns hissed like a broken radiator, his hooded eyes locked on his assistant, “it’s time for you to see to the rest of your duties.”
Smithers smiled like a child being given a candybar, and sank to his knees, shuffling towards his employer’s exposed dick. “Yessir!” Taking the flaccid cock in his hand, Smithers ran his fingers along it’s pale, veiny flesh, slowly kneading it, watching as it stiffened and rose and grew many times it’s initial size, until the withered old prick was a proud and mighty COCK ready to be served. He pressed his thumb against the hooded cowl of flesh obscuring Mr. Burns’ meaty cockhead from view, milking a dollop of pearlescent dew from the tip, before burying the delectable spire of hot beef into his gaping maw. Mr. Burns’ hissed as his cock was engulfed into Smithers’ hot, wet mouth, his dried twig-like fingers raking through his assistant’s hair. “Mmm, yessss…just like that, Smithers. Oooh, you remind me of the time Cole Porter gobbled my John Thomas at the Hamilton Lodge in Harlem. Such an eager little Ethel he was, too.”
Smithers had had to look up most of Mr. Burns’ usual sayings ages ago, just to survive in the workplace; his vocabulary seemed to have frozen solid sometime around 1928 or so, but Waylon knew full well that when Mr. Burns called him an ‘Ethel,’ he was really calling him a sissy slut bitch, and the thought of being reminded what an effeminate cocksucking slut he was made him tingle all over. He slurped on the iron-stiff rod of aged meat, drawing his lips along the shaft, his cheeks hollowed inwardly as he sucked and squeezed Mr. Burns’ cock against the roof of his mouth. Slowly he edged his face back down his employer’s length, before drawing himself back off of it. His painted lips were smeared with a layer of spittle, his face and eyes both glazed with lust, and he greedily lavished his tongue along the tip of Mr. Burns’ glans, watching the ancient old man quiver, frail fingernails scraping against Corinthian leather in an attempt to hold back the near-bursting dam building up in his geriatric balls. The old man’s penis pulsated in Smithers’ grip, and the sissy assistant grinned hazily. Smithers playfully nipped at the thick, throbbing shaft, leaving light teeth indentations in the pale flesh, kissing any pain away as he went. Mr. Burns planted his hand on the back of his pet cocksucker's head, pushing him back down onto his full eight inches of glory, the wet gagging noises coming from Smithers’ stuffed throat bringing a sadistic smile to the old man’s withered lips.
“Take it all, Smithers. Every inch, there we go. Such a good girl for me. Show me how a good girl serves her Daddy.”
Smithers locked his eyes with his elderly lover, and began pumping his face back down onto the thick cock in his mouth, his dainty, painted fingers gently juggling the cum-filled balls that lay slumped on the chair beneath the glorious cock..
Charles Montgomery Burns had face-fucked more than a few men in his time - he had had a few dalliances with women in his long life, even fathering a son on the nineteen-year-old daughter of his college sweetheart, but it was only when some simpering sissyboy was on their knees servicing him tha he felt truly alive. But of all the men whose faces he had fucked, whose stomachs he had filled with his rich, thick nutchowder and whose tight, grasping asscunts he had violated and torn, none seemed nearly so eager to serve and please him than Waylon Smithers. Smithers had taken to his new “uniform” with startling zeal, seemingly already inclined to dressing up like a cheap tart and sucking off men. And when he was first ordered to suck off Mr. Burns, the man practically fainted dead away, before scrambling to his boss’ feet and undoing his belt to get at the thick, meaty treat that lay beyond.

A wet, ragged slurp on his cock made Mr. Burns snap back to the present, his eyes dropping onto Smithers obediently planting his face back onto his boss' dick. With a laboured groan, Burns pushed personal fucktoy’s head off his rigid fleshmast, and, grasping at the gossamer lace of Smithers’ halter bra, pulled the middle-aged sissy cocksucker up off his knees and into the old man’s lap, thin, skeletal fingers digging into plump assflesh, parting cheeks and searching for the heated centre of Smithers’ lust. Waylon cooed and hissed as Monty probed a finger into his thick-lipped mancunt, his muscular rim stretched wide with repeated use as a cocksleeve. Smithers writhed and squirmed under Mr. Burns’ manual ministrations, grunting and humping himself against the invading finger slipping into his depths.
“Sssssir,” Smithers hissed in a low, ragged whisper, “please….oh god, I–”
Waylon’s head dropped weakly against his lover’s shoulder, his body shivering at the electric sensation of his cunt being toyed with. Mr. Burns grinned, his withered face stretching and distorting, his hot, stale breath in his toy’s ear.
“Your slot is so hungry, Smithers. Shall I feed it a piece of meat, perhaps? Would it like that?”
By now, Smithers had slipped his glasses from his face, setting them into the top drawer of Mr. Burns’ desk. His eyes were fogged with lust, his tongue hanging from his mouth like a dog in heat as he rubbed the old man’s turgid pole against his own semi-stiff erection, panting with desire.
“Yes, please, god! Sir, please give it to me! I need it so badly! I need you to fuck me like the cheap whore I am!”
Monty turned Waylon’s face up to his, an oddly warm smile on his weathered face, and through the heavy clouds of lust fogging his brain, Smithers could still see the aura of maddened desire that had overtaken both men reflected back to him. Without a word, Burns pulled Smithers into himself, lips pressing together, tongues writhing and entangling inside their unified mouths. Monty’s finger breached Waylon’s asspussy, and Waylon groaned, wriggling his ass to fit more of his lover inside him. Monty pulled away, confident and authoritative as always.
“Assume the position then, Waylon.”
Smithers pushed himself up and away from Mr. Burns, righting himself on his feet. He opened the top drawer of the large oaken desk, withdrew a small tube of lubrication, and smeared some on his hands, reaching back to massage it into his eager and hungry hole, before handing the tube to his lover, wiping his hands clean with a nearby box of tissues, and leaning over the desk, jutting his ass out like a good girl.
Monty greased up his pole with a thick slather of lube, watching a few clear droplets slowly ooze onto the carpet. When he was satisfied that his glory had been properly prepared, he rosed achingly from his chair, shuffled behind Smithers, and placed one bony hand on Waylon’s shoulder, the other on his hip, and with a wordless thrust upwards, he had parted Smithers’ cheeks and driven himself into the man’s tight, waiting asshole.
Smithers let out a whine that melted into a humming groan as Mr. Burns thrust into his depths. Bending over the desk completely, letting his stomach rest on the wood desktop, Waylon gripped at the edges as Monty began working himself in and out of Smithers’ sweet, glorious ass.
“Nnngooooh yesss! Oh god, fuck that ass, Sir! Fucking stretch my slutty asshole out with your beautiful cock!”
Monty grunted labouriously as he rutted into his assistant’s rectum, his heavy, wrinkled ball sack swinging low with every thrust into his pet fairy’s guts. His eyes were locked at the site of their physical connection, the spot where his bulging root vanished into the abyss of Smithers’ asscunt, the thick rim swallowing the ancient cock, then letting it slip out it’s fat, stretched-out lips. The vision of Smithers’ pussy taking his cock made Monty groan and convulse, and he slowed his rhythm in an attempt to delay his inevitable rapturous explosion deep inside his pet.
Smithers felt wiry fingers dig into his silver-capped scalp and drag his head back cruelly, a tingle of masochistic glee charging through him. Monty pulled Waylon’s head, glaring at him with predatory lust, and sneered.
“Look at you, man. Dolled up like some juice-joint molly, shaking your tail for any egg who can toss the green for you.”
Waylon moaned. His higher brain functions were well and truly fucked up, so he wasn’t even listening to anything Mr. Burns was saying, but the man he lusted after all these years was talking down to him as he was being fucked, so it didn’t matter; his fucked up brain was still releasing the happy-chemicals, all the same.
“Mfffyessss, Poppa, punish that naughty ass of mine! Make it sting, Daddy, make me learn my place!”
Something about his pet’s brainless servility brought a smile to Charles Montgomery Burns’ face, and he did what any predator would do - he attacked, his mouth falling hard over Smithers’, his slimy tongue slithering down Waylon’s windpipe, gagging him even as he renewed his manic pounding into the man’s well-used ass.
Just as Smithers was melting into the soul-sucking kiss, Monty yanked himself away, bringing his hand hard against the very same ass he was ploughing into.
“That’s right, this is where you belong, my sweet little Ethel. Do you feel how hard you’ve made me? Feel that hot, fucking cock sliding into your cunt? Mmmf, yessss, you’re quite good at turning! Me! On!”
Each word was punctuated with a pelvic slam that pushed Smithers further along the desktop, papers and stationary scattering to the floor carelessly, his agonised yelps of utter pleasure ringing throughout the office, backed up by Monty’s furious grunting as percussion.
Waylon struggled to form words as his breath was shoved out of his lungs with every upward thrust of his darling employer’s masterful cock into his fey depths. In between the savage pounding his guts were taking and the orgiastic fog smothering his higher brain functions, he found himself babbling utter nonsense, a stream of consciousness that showcased his innermost depravities.
“Ahhh ffffuck fuck that ass baby, fill it up, ream that cunt wide open, fucking breed me like a bitch, Big Daddy!”
Monty grinned, his breathing ragged and forced, his chest starting to ache dully as he pistoned into Waylon’s hungry cunt. With a growling hiss of effort, the old man pulled himself against his bitch-boi lover, pressing his decrepit chest against Smithers’ heaving back, inhaling the sharp smell of their sex mixed with Waylon’s sweat.
“I-I’m close, Smithers!”
Waylon pushed himself up from the desk, pumping his ass against his employer’s thrusting hips in desperate bid to hasten their mutual crashing.
“Do it, Sir! Fuck my ass hard! Flood my fucking guts with your hot cum, please!”
The two men, driven mad with passion and pleasure, slammed against one another, Smithers’ fleshy ass jiggling as he impaled himself on Monty’s shaft, Monty’s withered old balls slapping hard into his lover’s own testicles with every inward thrust, both heaving, panting, growling like wolves at a slaughter until in one, final push, Mr. Burns slumped against Smithers’ back, breath ragged, his ballsack pulled tight against his body as streams of scalding hot seed filled his darling assistant’s mancunt. Smithers felt his own pressure build to an explosive crescendo, a thin load squirting like an overfilled water gun against Mr. Burns’ priceless desk. The sensation of draining himself into Smithers’ caused Mr. Burns to flop limply back into his high back leather chair, one arm dangling near-lifelessly at his side, the other folded against his midsection, his cream-slicked cock flaccid against his lap. Smithers steadied himself against the desk, reaching over for the convenient tissue box nearby to sop up the overflow dribbling down his shaking legs.
Once he had been satisfactorily cleaned, Waylon picked up his clothes from off the floor, the soft whistling of Monty’s breathing telling him that his master, his boss, his Daddy had drifted off into a post-coital slumber. He had just picked up his left shoe, when a soft voice behind him made him freeze with anticipation.
“Oh no, Smithers,” Monty rasped through exhaustion. “You’re not finished for the day just yet.”
Smithers turned to see Mr. Burns, his tie loose, his bony fingers opening his shirt, revealing a pink chiffon teddy underneath. Smithers swallowed the lump of lust building in his throat. Monty unfurled his shirt, tossing it and his jacket to the floor, and stood up, unsteadily at first, and stepped out of his trousers, showing off the frilly pink panties and sheer hosiery he had been hiding underneath his business attire. He gazed at Smithers with smouldering, hooded eyes, licking his thin lips with ravenous hunger, before turning around and parting his ancient asscheeks, presenting his own puckered cunt to his assistant and looking back at him with a blushing, coquettish smile.
“You know the, aheh, ‘drill, ’ Smithers. Now it’s your turn to be Big Poppa, and my turn to play your Ethel.”
Smithers drank in the sight of the man he loved most in all the world, begging to be fucked like a college frat boy, and his own spent cock surged upwards to life, revived at the prospect of buggering his boss. Without a care in the world save for the winking, wrinkled paradise that lay between those two shapeless asscheeks, Smithers let his pile of clothes tumble from his arms as he stepped towards Mr. Burns, cock red and ready for revenge. Monty wiggled his ass invitingly, biting his lip as Smithers approached him, eyes locked on the pecker that was about to make a woman out of him.
“Come on, Waylon; let’s all be fairies, as the song goes.”
Smithers murmured throatfully as he staggered back towards Mr. Burns, smiling as he gripped the old man’s bony hips, and lined his cock against his darling lover’s asscunt.
“Mmmm, yessir, let’s all be fairies.” Both men groaned as Smithers sank into the tight, warm asshole before him.
Not much work would get done today, it seemed.
- 1
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Tales From The LiitAverse