Marge Simpson: Because Bigger Means Better

Marge's eyes gleamed with tears in the polished glass of the bedroom vanity. She stood, slowly parting her robe, watching the light from the bathroom creep into the widening gape. Deep cleavage filled the opening, growing deeper as the darkness retreated and revealed her two pendulous breasts. She couldn't yet separate her nightmares from authentic experiences and reeled back past the lecherous sneers that'd hung over her prostate nudity and thick cocks that'd skewered her. With the door locked and her family left without her she had the confidence she required to pull the gape wider until the robe hid only her shoulders and she stared at her new chest, each breast slighter larger than a honeydue melon. 

Marge thought back to her mixup at the Springfield Clinic and waking up with two c-cup sized breasts, much to the gratitude of their owner and proposed beneficiary, Mayor Quimby. 

"Money well spent, Marge!" he said, trying to sneak a peek over the dressing partition as she changed.

Her back turned, "Umm, thanks, I guess---. Your money, you mean..."

"You're right," chuckles to himself at the thought and in seeing with her back to him she cannot clasp her brassier and goes braless,

She tries her best to shrug off the apprehension she feels in leaving the room without a bra on but can feel Quimby's eyes on her body.

"My money," he said. There was something evocative in his tone as he followed her out the door, into the hallway, "----my---"

Marge felt her breasts sway inside her shirt as she strode past an orderly with widening eyes.

"Its Mrs Simpson" she said, stepping through an automatic door and into the parking lot, "Don't call me Marge."

Looking back on the experience she shrugged back at her reflection. It was strange to think, even long after she'd had her implants removed, she occasionally entertained the notion of getting another boob job. The times she fell asleep after swearing Homer out for watching some big-boobed blonde on Baywatch and imagined herself running down a beach in slow motion, feeling her two big tits bob as a camera on a dolly pulled by a P.A. with a hard-on recorded what became of Marge Simpson for prosperity sake. 

She wished she was one of those women some times. She looked back fondly on her full figure getting her family a table at Masion Des Francs, and regretted never seeing how her larger breasts looked in a string bikini before they were gone. 

Up late one night she thought about an older Bart or Lisa turning on the television and recognizing their mom during the opening credits of Baywatch.

Woah, they would say, how did she keep this from us?

When she undressed before bed she'd remembered spotting the peeping tom across the street or in the bushes or in the tree, watching, and wondered what her stripper name would be.

Marge Boob-ea.

She'd take her maiden name to alleviate her family from the shame of knowing their mother's second job. The first as wife and mother. The second as mistress to the men of Springfield and sometimes whore. She'd seduce all of the men who'd ever wanted her, disrobe and entrance all of Homer's friends and even his cruelest of enemies while he was away at work and then return home to make love to her beloved. Then, as Homer slept, she'd visit the dreams of those men and give her body to each one, reassured that dreams were not reality and seduction was not adultery.

The first night after she'd been augmented she was haunted by the visage of Mayor Quimby beating off to her new bigger breasts. Beneath the covers her fingers ran over her perky domes. Her fingertips rolling her nipples as though to tune the intensity of the nightmare as she slept. 

Despite her loyalty to Homer, the thought of the mayor masturbating to what resided behind the hospital partition, or a risque photo of herself on his desk got her strangely excited. She couldn't explain it when she saw an underwear ad and thought of herself in the picture, stripped down to her scivies.

More so, she was shocked to see not one iota of her shock rise to the surface and display on her face as she glared at her own nudity in the mirror and her own fingers flicking at the petals of her femininity as she caressed her clitoris. There was no guilt or shame, she stared at her own nudity and it excited her to know she was so different now. 

She barely quivered when she heard the knocking at the door behind her.