Chapter 9
Leaving the PI's office without a word, Homer took the long walk back to his hotel. His eyes once alive with hope, he gazed back morosely at the world he'd once known and wife he thought he trusted. He'd put the magazine with Marge's likeness down without the slightest provocation and skirted it right out the leery-eyed man's office without a word.
Passing several newsstands on his walk, Homer's eyes, like a knee jerk reaction, turned incredulously in their direction, in pursuit, no doubt, of the infamous smut rag that gave some clues or emitted some faint echo of the woman he'd once known. Somewhere behind the wall of his grief his curiosity was stirring, by the third and forth newsstand his gaze was peeling away from his path, by the eleventh and twelfth the realization that such pictorials were accompanied by articles with interviews fell upon him and he was straying from his path. Standing sheepishly at the border between the technology section and adult section, surveying the selection before his eyes fell upon the familiar cover art.
He had little memory of the time it had taken him to make it from the last newsstand to his hotel room, though glaring over the shiny cellophane enclosing Marge's lurid deception, he wasted little time tearing the plastic wrapping open and peeling back to the place he'd last been.
Beside the picture of his wife, donning her risque bridal gown the words Here Cums The Bride
A shutter went through Homer, he could feel his face grow hot and red with anger and he peeled to the next page, so much of the rage pouring out of him but with no place to go it crashed against some concrete barrier in his mind, the collision like a spark in the synapses of his brain triggered some deeper or torrential rush of despair as his eyes settled over the image of his wife, her legs spread as she laid across a red satin sheet bed, exposing her pink sex to the center of the page.
Shielding her bosom with the bedspread, Homer saw some faint sign of the shy, almost reclusive woman he'd met all those years ago in high school, the timidity that'd kept him from so much of the beautiful woman he'd come to know after their honeymoon. Now, before his pained eyes some asshole with a professional camera had talked her right out of her clothes. He stared, forlornly back at his wife, her mischievous smirk, and the pink lips of her sweet cunny now exposed for the world to see.
Turning the page, he exhaled, the air escaping in a rustling huff of despair and surprise. She'd dropped the sheet she'd been holding about her bosom, her large natural breasts pale and glorious in the amber light of the honeymoon suite, the shoulder of the would be groom just at the fringe of the picture, she was no doubt seducing the man, Homer knew was, his eyes scanning the words on the page, saw her name and then his own, supposed to be him. His gaze traversing the words, the intimate details of their married life he felt the white and black orbs tremble in their sockets with grief, the lids brimmed with tears as he blinked them back to the best of his effort. There was something retching deep inside of him now, he could feel Marge twisted it into some impossible and deformed shape as he put down the magazine, the page falling back, revealing yet another image.
It was their home, their kitchen and Marge was preparing a meal for her lucky hubby, naked, her long spindly legs strutting across the room, her breasts despite the stillness of the singular image seeming to bounce, the gibbous orbs ducking down then springing back up, her shapely and well displayed derriere well lit against the artificial light mimicking the daylight through the kitchen window.
Resting his head in his hands, he tried to close his eyes and block out the images nestling themselves already deep into his self-conscious. He could feel them like a premonition waiting to revisit him in his dreams as nightmares.
He had to know why this had happened. How it could've happened. He had to find her. Talk to her. Force from the narrow keyhole some semblance of what'd happened on the other side of the closed door. What he couldn't see, what only his wife could explain to him.
His hand quick to the phone, he dialed the number, waiting for the voice that minutes before had been about goading him into tears.
"Matthew Donner, Private Eye," the familiar voice responded.
"Its Mr Simpson. I want to see her, take me this place. I need to see her before I go."
"Gladly," he said, "Marge, wasn't it?"
"Marge Simpson."
"Not anymore apparently." the private eye quipped.
On the other end of the line, Homer stared confusedly back at the phone. What did he mean? What could he mean?
One Month Earlier...
The words "where you belong" fizzled in Marge's thoughts as her unprepared eyes adjusted themselves to the world wrapped in the warm Spring air, the eyes trained on her, the shapely curves of her derriere so accessible to their gazes in the backless dress, she could feel their gazes like hands on her bare skin, Marge found herself staring back into those hungry lusting eyes, the part of her most ashamed of her exposed state willed to confront all the leers in sight, now too many to count.
The feeling of the natural light on the side of her face, warming the skin of her cheek stole Marge from the moment's reassurance she was in a studio, instead, blurred at the fringes of her peripheral vision she could see cars shuttle down the street. She was outside and worst of all the crew had made little effort to block the commuter's view of her half-naked on the steps of the grandiose church.
"Bradley, could you help Mrs Simpson with her dress please," the man behind the camera said with a knowing wink, watching some blemish faced intern nod and encroach upon the nervous bride, "her dress, lower on the shoulders please.."
Marge about screamed when, following the shutterbug's commands, the apprentice pulled the neck of her dress forward, it slipped down her arms and puddled at her feet, rendering her utterly naked in the stark daylight. Her hands quick to cover her body as she cowered, the effort pointless as her thin arms and small hands couldn't cover enough of her massive udders to spare her dignity.
Just behind the camera, the man relaying commands to his intern smiled to himself, watching Mrs Simpson's face turn a bright red from embarrassment. The delectable curves of her supple body shook and shimmied as she struggled in vain to conceal them.
To Marge's shock and awe people had begun to stop on the street, motorists turning the distance past the prop car with the Just Married on its rear into a parking lot, commuters stared back at her, craning their heads out from the interiors of their cars to catch a better glimpse of the shy wife and mother's fit young body.
"The dress! The dress! Pick up the dress!" she cried back at the intern, fear vexing the delicate features of her face as she watched the man look back at the man directing her from behind the camera and then hesitate. The heavy linen leaden at her feet, she squirmed, bending to pick it up, the figures behind her bursting at their seams with laughter as she bent, her shapely hips parting, revealing the deliciously pink divide of her pussy.
Snatching the gown up as slowly as the boy could afford to, the feeling of the chilling breeze on her pussy lips sent an anxious shutter through Marge, her whole body shaking as at the fringe of her jostled senses she heard to further her despair, a police siren.
"So, what do we have here?" Marge heard, her eyes still downcast, looking over the dress as she tried desperately to pul it up around her body, shielding her from the crowd of onlookers.
"Just a wardrobe malfunction," she heard the man behind the camera chirp half-heartedly back from behind the camera.
"Really?" she heard the cop respond, his broadly shouldered silhouette falling over her before pressing the sole of his shoe against the lump of bridal linen, he pinned it to the concrete steps, leaving Marge bent over, naked as the bodies around her leaned close for a better look.
"Please," Marge meekly pried, with her sullen words and feeble hands at the foot pinning her dress to the ground, but the man wouldn't budge an inch.
"Stand up and face the officer addressing you," she heard from another officer, one now just standing up from behind a parked police cruiser.
Her eyes wide and trembling with tears Marge timidly began to stand up straight, her body softly shaking against the cold air, one thin forearm failing to impede the heaving of her heavy bosom as she slowly met the stare of the smirking officer.
Her gaze briefly breaking away from his, she saw the name on the badge, Officer Green, before her gaze was lifted and she caught his eyes on her body. By now it was less of a surprise that he seemed to like what he was seeing. She'd been such reserved woman in her former life, shy and unsuspecting of how the world had perceived. Now it was clear how the world saw her, it was plain as day in every leery eyed stranger she'd met since coming here.
Not bothering to meet eyes with Marge a second time, he angrily caught her by the arm and jerked it away from her full bosom, revealing the pink nubs of her nipples stiffened by the cold atmosphere.
The smirk twisting into an even more unsettling look of belligerence, he looked a second time at Marge, their eyes meeting, an warden to his prison, a puppeteer to his marionette.
"I think Indecent Exposure sounds about right for this blushing bride, don't you think, Al?" he said, barely shifting his posture toward the man he was speaking to. Deep down, though, Marge knew he was merely addressing her in the third person.
"Sounds about right to me," the officer said, now a human blur in a blue uniform just over Green's shoulder to the shell-shocked wife.
"Book her then. A few nights in a cell should set this slut right," he said, still smiling and still holding Marge by the arm. She watched as his grip at her elbow slipped, descending the length of her arm until he was holding her by the wrist, lifting her hand, brandishing it long enough to notice the pale impression left by the ring once before on her finger, "Ahh, I mean slut wife."
Marge felt the blood rush to her head, her whole head throbbed as she met the man's lusting gaze, her face hot, her body and blood cold as she shook in the man's grip.
