A House in the Hills

Brian's green eyes had moved from the appetizers to Marge in her green dress. Beneath her neck, where the fabric receded into a dangerously low and wide v his gaze oozed over the enormous pale domes of her breasts.

Marge's unease wasn't totally lost on Homer. He could sense at least some of Marge's hostility, like a charge in the air, as if from static electricity.Marge wasn't sure what he made of it. She could feel the local hillbilly's intense green eyes penetrating her clothing from the moment she'd first sat down. Her hand, almost subconsciously moved to Homer's wrist. And feeling it between her fingers and palm, then seeing the hillbilly's eyes on her body she thought of the shaft of a penis. The thoughts weren't at all adulterous though. It was Homer in her hand. Though thicker than he ever could've been.

Studying his gaze she reaffirmed her suspicions, her smile confirmed his peeling away at her dress, his eyes moving down to excavate her small pink nipples from behind the green cotton.

Homer stepped away for a moment and it had taken Marge long before she realized she was alone with this man and his wife. It was as though her senses had been dulled until that moment. She'd remained not quite cognizant of her open hand, the cold open palm Homer had left behind until right now. He'd excused himself and stepped away.

Maybe the anxiety had gotten to him too. Maybe he couldn't place the source of Marge's worry and decided to amputate their one point of attachment.

Marge looked down and stuttered, "I'm sorry, I'm going to step out for a moment."

In the back of her mind she was hoping they'd imagine a smoking break or a cell phone on vibrate going off. More than anything though, she just needed to be away from this man. And despite stepping outside without Homer, and being dressed this way was just asking for trouble she'd chance it to avoid far more overwhelming certainty that she'd be pawed at the first opportunity Brian found.

The night was cold by then. And so she wandered toward the first light she could find, the glowing neon of a Michelob sign in a nearby bar.

Out of place didn't begin to describe the clash between Marge Simpson in her corseted halter dress and the thick fog of testosterone and alcohol that poured from the place's every corner.

The change in temperature was fairly distracting from the eyes and heads that were now turning to appreciate her near naked body and heaving sensuality.

Her large breasts bobbed as she walked by the jukebox. Wide eyes unsheathed her breasts from her dress and then her long legs from her frank skirt, as she smiled, the euphoria of the warm room slowly dawning on her face.

Any place would've been better than where she just left. The absence of the lecherous pair of eyes she'd left behind was more than enough relief to distract her from the dozens of others now amassing around her.



Homer smiled, "Where did she say she was going, again?"

"She didn't." Brian smiled.

Homer's brow furrowed, "Did she seem ill to you at all."

Brian's smile grew wider, more smug and self-assured, "Do you think she just wanted to leave?"

"I know her better than that."

"So where do you suppose she went to?"

"I suppose...we'll know after the main course." Homer shrugged. He wasn't the best liar and this whole situation was worrying him more than he could admit, but the biggest priority was keeping this mechanic happy. He began to wonder as he sat back down how he felt about Marge.



Marge had been startled when the bartender put his hand over her own. She'd placed some cash on the counter for the beer and he'd snagged her hand, pulling her closer, mashing her large breasts against the dark wood of the counter top. Right now he was enjoying the view down the front of her dress.

"Its on the house." he said smiling, and slowly released her hand.

Marge smiled.

Just then she noticed to either side of her two men who'd stepped away from the pool table, she could feel their enibriated eyes drinking up her body. One of their large hands moved to her purse, so she moved it between her thighs, and felt the large hand lay down and squeeze her bare thigh. She shuttered.

"How about a game of pool, lil lady?" one said.

Marge took a sip of her beer, afraid to ask "What're the stakes?"

"You win, anything you want.."

"Say, then, every drink on the house."

"I win, you dance with me.....for me."

Already the alcohol was dulling Marge's good sense, she wasn't thinking about bending over to shoot the ball in her short skirt or what kind of dance they had in mind.

Marge smiled. The hand moved higher and she wiggled uncomfortably.



Homer smiled weakly as he passed the wine to Brian's wife. The woman was beautiful for sure, but not close to the knock-out Marge was. Homer was insufficient in pretending he hadn't been thinking about Marge this whole time.

Worrying.

It had been, what, almost an hour and a half. And though it wasn't quite cold outside, she was alone. He began to picture her, back home with the kids. He waited for the warm feeling that accompanied relief, but he couldn't totally convince himself she was that safe and, whereever she was, that happy.



As her senses dulled so too had the light inside the bar seemed to dim. Only the neon lit the room. It was two pitchers of Budweiser later, and Marge remembered telling Homer she hated the stuff. She'd been pressured to keep up with the boys when it came to drinking though, and the more of the stuff she drank the more she enjoyed it. By now the bartender had begun dropping shot glasses of whiskey into each mug of beer, Marge's included and the heavy weight of this new ingredient had seemed to weigh down every inch of her body and inhibition. Her dress had never felt smaller, more revealing or her modesty slighter than it did right now.

The eyes and bodies that had once filled the room had begun to disappear until all that remained was her and the balls on the pool table. And despite it didn't make sense in light of her light-headedness her senses seemed more acute and her concentration more specialized than it had ever been before. So when she'd begun to lose the first game and she happened upon the notion, all too late, that pool was not her game and her dress was not equipped in length to allow her to stretch or bend when the game required her to, there was nothing left to do but lose with dignity and grace.

So she'd have to dance with this man. So what? As long as he kept his hands to on her shoulder and back what was there to worry about. She'd lose and they'd dance and it would all be over. She'd leave, go home, and that would be it.

Marge shrugged her shoulders, and gave a nervous and fake laugh. The last of the solids remained on the table. She'd lost.

"Get on the table." a low voice said from behind her.

She turned and a marathon of wide grins had amassed around her, yellow teeth peeking out from behind thick red and brown facial hair.

"You said a dance." she said, the anesthesizing fog of the alcohol was blurring the words between her and the rest of the room. She couldn't completely grasp what was going on here.

"Yeah, that's right. You dance for me. For us." the same voice and for the first time Marge got a real good look at her adversary, a thin short skinhead with an anemic complexion and large pink eyes. It appeared as though he'd emerged from the very fog that'd dulled her senses and diluted her usually weary apprehension.

She felt nothing now but the air beneath her feet as the ground had crumbled beneath her and she hovered above the abyss of her bottomless debasement. The warmth of the whiskey inside her slowly wore away at the cruel glare he'd shot her way. Her mind would've drifted to why his eyes were pink. Instead she was already thinking of climbing up on the table. The indescency and depravity of the act had yet to dawn on her, she only thought about humoring these boys. Even still she'd yet to assign them the minds and imaginations of men. She felt so much older than them, and they were still somehow innocent even in the midst of their basest request.

The sound of a shot glass being dropped into another mug and then sinking to the bottom momentarily congealed the spreading mist of Marge's enibriation. She looked around and saw the remaining women in the bar had moved back toward the door, and there was a mote of two dozen or so men separating her from them.

"My husband wouldn't like that." Marge said, the words pouring out of her before she could catch them and totally know what she was going to say.

"Your husband doesn't have to know." the skinhead smiled.

Marge became increasingly aware of the newly distinctive marathon of faces, and how much older these men were than she'd earlier thought. Beside the skinhead a much older man stood in a trucker cap and suspenders. Something eerie in the familiarity of this old man's face startled her, as though this man could've been the father she'd never met. His thick blue hair reminded her of her own. Something in his face reminded her of her own too.

She caught herself before she accidently addressed the old man as 'daddy' but the stigma of that one moment remained, ascending her thoughts toward her higher brain functions, as though the man had telepathically infiltrated her brain then body. She was already looking down at her shoes, her hands opening in preparation of unbuckling the straps.

"Come on baby" the trucker said "Tit for tat."

The entire bar broke out in laughter, everyone but Marge.

Marge noticed for the first time the mixing air of cigarette smoke, faces appearing and disappearing behind clouds of tobacco and tar. From behind the haze of her condition the visage of the room seemed downright supernatural. The unreal and occassionally ghosting quality of the people in the room with her, faces and then whole bodies appearing and disappearing behind smoke all around her and sunk in replacing the crude remark about her chest, 'tit for tat'. The least of her concerns right now was her dignity or even the shame of undressing for these strange men. The more she procrastinated the more the room seemed to take on a nightmarish quality, and its occupants like a million little voices seemed to conjoin into one entity, one will, one want.

"What should I...?" she was afraid to ask, but she did anyway.

She could only have faith that whatever ensued here she wouldn't remember it tomorrow morning. Stranger still it seemed that she wasn't just drunk but under the control of the men in the room. The beer and whiskey hadn't just dulled her senses but worn away at her will.

Marge fought the instinct to simply ask what of her exactly they wanted to see, but in the back of her mind she'd already begun to piece that together.

Tit for tat.

She looked down at herself and for the first time really felt exposed, her privacy not just invaded but eviscerated. Her skin, from her neck, down over her breasts, right down to her toes now prickled with gooseflesh.

"What're---?" she mumbled, hoping it hadn't been loud enough for them to hear.

"Just get on the table, bimbo." the skinhead said.

Marge kicked off her shoes, and then let her eyes disengage from the image of her own long legs, and move back to the enclosing tide of lusting old men. Most, she knew now, were older than her, some Grandpa Simpson's age.

As she slowly turned and began up the side of the table a few low whistles and cat calls reminded her of her short skirt and beneath it her sheer black panties. The soft shaven impression left by her pussy glaring back to these men's face from a few inches away as they closed in. She was fast to turn around and face the edifying mob beneath her. From this height the number of men seemed to have multiplied since last she checked. She could imagine men being herded into the bar from all parts of town, each one the epitome of unabashed and unsatisfiable lust.

"Please" was all she could think to say.

"Nothing's free, especially not favors." she heard one voice say.

Over the tens of head she saw a confederate flag on the wall and a crude painting of a saloon girl with her head resting in a bar patron's lap, her face was turned away so one couldn't assess what she had in her mouth. Marge could imagine herself staring at her own future, a premonition appearing to her on the canvas rather than dogs playing pool for instance. It'd make sense, the woman from her tall blue hair to her profile shared a startling resemblance to Marge herself. Had the dress been purple it would've been her costume from the Powerplant Costume Ball three years ago. What an unhappy coincidence.

Marge was beginning to wish the fog of enibriation had remained. The startling clarity of this moment had paralyzed her on the table top. She stared down at the faces that stared back up her short skirt or the looming almost monolithic domes of her breasts.

"Would a shot of Jack put you in the mood, darlin'?" the old man said.

Marge wasn't sure how to answer, what to say.

In a quick moment a hand seized her leg and she was pulled down onto her ass, before she could totally surmise as to what'd happened she felt the cold rim of a bottom at her lips, a hot clear liquid was crawling down her throat and the fuzziness of enibriation returning, stronger than before. She didn't have time to decide whether or not she wanted to swallow or even needed to, she simply did and felt the alcohol wash most worries away.

What didn't go in her mouth ran over her chin, down over her chest, painting the dress to her body, lending the cotton an absurdly revealing translucence that would've appalled her under any other circumstances. She couldn't care now though, she was beyond reasoning or worry, there was only her body and the preoccupation to get whatever this was done with. To put this little humiliation behind her.

The bottle must've been full when it was eariler put to her lips because it felt like forever before it was empty and she could finally breath through her mouth again. By then she'd almost forgotten who she was, let alone why she was here. And why did she intend on leaving. The warm liquid euphoria filling her, and washing around inside her stomach began to finally forced from her mind the mental image of her husband, Homer. It took time, but it was best that she distance herself from the adultery of the act before the act began, otherwise she might not leave at all, and a dance might become an orgy without her permission.

She hung her head down where the men couldn't see her face. Even still she could feel herself crying in the aftermath of her past moment of cognizance. She could barely remember why, but only knew whatever the pain she would have to exorcise it before..

She began to stand and eventually settling on her knees reached down, and biting her tongue, began to pull open the front of her dress.This is what they wanted to see and it pained Marge to know it was just that simple. They'd relayed more than enough clues for her to know this by now.

The undressing eyes, the fumbling hands, tit for tat.

The dress was expensive though and wouldn't at first yield to Marge's adulterously-intentioned hands. The extra effort needed to disrobe her of her dignity was almost out of her grasp. Even if she could've...

And then the tearing sound of the cotton filled her ears, she felt her body clench in preparation for her exposure.

Had Homer Simpson seen his wife dancing topless on a pool table that night he might've lost all sense of trust, instead Marge couldn't even count on her husband's deceived gaze to distract her from the indignity of this sacrifice. She stood for a moment still, even when crying, hedonistic and absurdly buxom in her nudity. Feeling her bare breasts sway as she moved and the gaze from her admirers move over her like a spotlight, baking her like an intense glare to the point of perspiration.

If on the table beside Marge had stood the epitome of proud feminine immodesty not one man in the room would've been able to discern the difference. Worse still, it was still within Marge's means when her heart beat so fast to distinguish terror from anticipation. She'd hoped whatever she'd drank would take care of that but only the most faithful of mental faculties seemed intact now, long enough to press her heart hard with the guilt of this indiscretion.

Marge knew this was an act, an illusion, to settle the lustful disquiet in the room around her. And she knew in time they wouldn't know that. To them, she was already under their control.

But she was not, not entirely. She was conscious of her infidelity. This moment and every moment from now on would not only be supplemented by it but joyless because of it. If, she remembered.

Why did Homer have to leave the table? Why did she have to leave and come here? Why this dress? Why had the night been the night and Marge's dress seem manufactured by Homer and his injured pride? Why the lustful mechanic? Why this bar? Why this town or any of the men in it? Why did she have to be the depository for all the pent up sexual tension in this town?

A thousand why's. And maybe every one just a coincidence.



Homer had been kicking leaves when he found it, and by then it was midnight. The trek from the town to their cabin was especially long now that he didn't have a ride back. His car in the shop and their host having no intention to pardon Marge leaving dinner early, Homer had one fewer friend in this town now. Did he have any friends at all? Marge's leaving made him think not. It would've been four hours ago she'd left and he could only hope against instinct that she was at home, waiting for him to return.

So when in the middle of a shortcut across the woods and kicking leaves to distract him from the worry that Marge was alone somewhere, frightened, he happened upon a very familiar undergarment, Marge's, his mind gathered up a whole other group of variables.

He remembered seeing Marge in this once and wondered to what alter-ego of Marge's this must've belonged. Not the modest, even prudish woman he remembered marrying. Then who? He remembered being embarrassed seeing her in it outside and pretending it didn't bother him when she pretended not noticing other men staring. Marge was too top-heavy for such a marginal garment.

He started to picture her frolicking in the woods in her micro-bikini, but then the absurdity of that vision washed over him. He began to think about her drifting to sleep during his and Bart's nature hike. He pictured her luxuriating in the backyard and then the epiphany that she must've taken it off if he found it here struck him.

"That little---" he stopped and put the bikini top down, kicked it back into the wind. A breeze caught it and carried it away. He had no intention in retrieving it.

"Whore!" he shouted, then pensive, hoped no one had heard him.

He knew enough to know this was not like Marge. This was not the woman he knew.

Maybe she did this kind of thing just to piss him off. No, that wasn't like her either. He'd made her very aware of her own beauty. He just wasn't the kind of person to boast about his wife. Or at least he hadn't been until this afternoon.

Oh god, what had he done? And to make her wear that horrible outfit. What had he been thinking. She hadn't seemed all that reluctant until she saw herself in it, but by then his pride had taken over. And he wouldn't be weighed down by her insecurities.

It would be hard to argue about her flaunting ways when it was he who put her in that slutty dress. What had he gotten himself into back there?

By now he'd made his way out of the woods, and at the distant end of the clearing he could see the cabin as their bedroom light came on.

"Marge?"



As Marge moved her body she thought of Homer, she thought of his body above hers, all around her. She tried to replace every stranger in the room with her husband, but all she succeeded in was turning herself on with the notion. And while it wasn't what she wanted at all, she'd prefer nausea to ecstasy under these circumstances, her imagination cruelly tethered her to this until she could feel her nipples stiffen in anticipation of Homer's thousand eyes.

As the cocktails she'd nursed led her writhing body and mind deeper into her monogamous fantasy the men in the room around her watched Homer's busty wife divulge as to her two most formidable features to every man in the room. Not one particle of Marge's beautiful body seemed taboo or at all inaccessible, but one.

As her hair untangled from its tower, with each twirl of her unwinding body most eyes moved from the debauched bride to her still concealed femininity. The ones closest to the table could smell the odor of the salacious want between her legs. Had it not for her panties, her excitement would've oozed in slick streaks down her long legs. For the first time ever Marge's thoughts were transparent to the men, and how her mind had settled on sex was unimportant, only that the cock she yearned for was their own.

As total awareness slowly oozed into Marge's mind her body moved to keep up with the flickering chimera of her husband, his face, his eyes, his cheering, swearing obscenities at her from every four feet of the room, an overwhelming tide of his lust at every side of the pool table's peninsula.

Sweat seemed to bronze the complexion of her chest and back as it cascaded down, dimming her yellow skin and accenting the already enormous ovals of her breasts.

Even with her modesty overcome her somehow sober eyes still leaked tears.

"Homer" she whispered.

Beneath her shuttering shiny grey-green eyes she gyrated from her midriff to her knees, pistoning her pelvis and feminine scent back and forth toward the spectators at all sides of her.

She went on whispering, too low for the men to hear until beneath her glistening skin she could feel her lithe muscles fatigue as though they too had been pained by her guilty conscience.



As in her mind she could see Homer watching from across the room, alone together, as he grew hard from watching her body move, the first jolt of reality set in in the sound of her panties being grabbed and pulled from her body.