Chapter 10
The slow steady hypnotic heartbeat of the pounding music beat in cacophony with the pumping muscle in Homer's shrinking chest as he stepped through the double doors and past the bar. The light, amber by the stock of liquors and purple over the black lacquer runway dividing the club, lit the eager faces of the men ogling the lithe body mounting the pole in the center of the stage.
For a moment, Homer thought he recognized Marge's wavy blue locks as the woman spun her body around the chrome pole, and clutching his eyes shut he saw, projected onto the screen of his conscious mind, his wife, page 49, 50, 51, all the way to 63. He'd put the magazine away after placing the call to the private dick, and yet like a masochist craving the rush of endorphins, he stole himself from the phone and his right mind, back to the pages, the grief and agony clutching at him again.
The body on the stage was not Marge's though. The beachball shaped breasts on the lithe platinum blonde, the the ultraviolet light merely painting the shimmering waves blue, Marge's own powder blue, this was not Marge at all, barely a facsimile.
Taking a seat at the bar, he glanced over the room again, women moved about the room, but none looked like Marge. With great determination he stared through the half-darkness at the back of the enormous room, expecting his wife of so-many years to step out from the curtain separating the kitchen from the customers, when the lights about the stage began to dim and a crackling noise, like the sound of a needle from a turntable being placed on a record filled his ears followed by a long stomach churning silence.
The air was still, musty with perspiration, no doubt that of the dancers on the stage, yet the sound of the red curtain where the back wall met the runway rustling stole Homer from the stillness in the atmosphere. He followed the aim of the spotlight to where the curtain was parting.
A shiver ran down his spine as from the furl slipped the long naked stem of a woman's leg.
Despite how incredulous it seemed, he recognized it, from the curve of the heel, to the line of the achilles tendon to the firm lump of the calf muscle, up behind the knee and back around to her shapely thigh, the body of the woman he'd fallen so utterly for, who he'd courted and worshipped. The perforation of the curtain unfurling, he stared, his eyes trembling in their sockets as the familiar tower of blue hair brushed back the red velvet of the drapes and he was staring back at his wife, pacing the stage, owning it with every strutting step, every sinuous flair of her shapely hips.
A natural, he was ashamed to say, so only thought it to himself, seeing his wife slip into the role of the dancer. In the shimmering jade of her surveying eyes Homer could see some brief flicker of the woman he remembered, the eyes wide, cognizant and terrified of the strange men looming at the the edges of the stage, but with the first pound of bass as her song began he watched the woman he knew vanish, her eyes narrowing as though on a singular purpose she began to move.
Over the pounding heartbeat of the music, Homer could hear a name, slip through the cracks of the wall of blaring music.
"Once a shy..." the words muffled by the blast of the music, "meet our newest addition, Marge Boob-ea."
Homer felt his face grow hot with anger. Though a small part of him was almost happy no one knew her as Marge Simpson, that she'd kept her maiden name only to turn it into a joke about her top-heavy shape, an aspect of herself she hated to be reminded of upset him.
A moment of almost relief stilled the air before like a bright beacon the spotlight fell fully on Marge, and he recognized the ensemble and the song playing over the speakers, Stacy's Mom.
She hadn't slipped into the role of some other person. The words he'd heard moments before replayed in his head, the blanks filled in by a finer tuned sense of cognizance.
Once a shy wife, Marge Simpson. Now no more.
He'd seen Marge in an apron like this before. He'd almost failed to recognize the stoic determination spurring the now fluid movements of her curvy body, the same zeal for life that had made her warm repurposed into something carnal and untamed for her lucky audience. She wasn't the shy wife and mother he'd grown to love but a seductive tigress on the prowl.
Whoever had lured his beloved away from him had either instilled or fostered some long hidden aspect of her personality, found within her something Homer had never seen. A new and more vital purpose.
Her hips swaying sensually to the rhythm of the music, Homer watched as she bent at the knees, the eyes at the rear of the stage widened as she pushed out her round ass taut against her skirt, how the hem had begun to crawl up her body to reveal the pale skin of her upper thighs, he watched mortified as her fingertips helped the hem creep ever higher until, gripping the taut sheath, she tore it from her lower torso, exposing a sheer g-string to the now cheering audience.
In the moment, his eyes darting away, he saw what remained of the skirt, the velcro tabs lining its sides exposed as it unfurled open.
His gaze reluctantly crawling back to his wife, he watched her make her first full circuit of the stage, her long spindly legs exposed to the spotlight of the stage as she moved, her movements lissome as she made her way from man to man, her gaze entreating with every eye she met. Homer felt his insides quiver, tremble, like the something had been jammed between the gears driving him as her hips flared, now crawling on all fours teasingly past her male admirers, their hands reaching, touching her and stuffing rolled up dollars behind the strings tying her panties over her hipbones.
Back to the center of the stage, turning her body away, exposing what he saw now was herself naked beneath the apron, the strings tying the garment to her crisscrossing her long lithe back, down to where the g-string thonged the twin humps of her bare ass, he watched, her ass still swaying in time with the music, she began to play with the strings tethering the apron to the top half of her body.
"Please, Marge, don't.." he mumbled, the words inaudible beneath the tremendous pound of the music, as she turned her body, her lips twisted in a mischievous smirk as she picked at one string between her index finger and thumb and slowly pulled, the knot at its axis unraveling, as the upper left corner of the apron fell away, exposing the upper half of one full bosom.
Peeking from behind the parted curtain of linen it was miraculous to think the garment could even contain her. The uproarious cheers not loud enough to drown out the pounding of his heart between his ears, he could feel the throbbing muscle plummet as the second string came undone, the floral linen peeling away, the plump upper dome emerging to the brightness of the spotlight, he tried to close his eyes as her hands slipping to the final string, the apron fell as a whole, puddling at her feet, he heard the audience explode with glee as she stood in all her glory, her naturally large breasts pale and enormous in the unsparing spotlight, her disproportionately small areola making them seem even larger as the small buds of her nipples noticeably stiffened in the hot air of the room.
His gaze sinking from the stage, Homer stared at what little of the floor he could see through the cavalcade of feet rushing the edge of the stage now, his eyes closing, his face from hot and red to pale, bloodless, he shivered, sinking in his seat the moment before he realized the music was still playing, her routine wasn't over.
Two Weeks Earlier...
It wasn't possible, the past few hours, the past few... What had it even been? Days? Weeks? Months? Naked beneath the stripper style bridal gown, she could don only a thick wool blanket after she was booked and put in a cell. Sitting at the corner of her cage, the days passing, the traffic of people in and out, a few women, but a whole lot of men.
Why in the supreme judgement of the arresting officer was she placed in a cell beside the men was beyond her. The first day, the crude remarks. The second and third like a legion of undead their arms were reaching through the bars for her, men came and went, but as though as a single appetite it grew more voracious with time, until the disquiet was spreading to even the officers.
Her eyes downcast, her senses with time ruminating, narrowed into selectivity, she listened to the sound of only her own breathing, blocking out to the best of her ability the yells and chants of her fellow prisoners, even the hushed words of the officers watching her from the sidelines before to her disbelief she was given a guest, a thin-faced girl in torn nylons and a short black dress stared back at Marge, her makeup smeared, her eyes pinched and hazel narrowed at her buxom blue-haired host as she sidled up to sit beside her.
"Marge... " Marge offered the woman her hand to shake.
"Don't care, bitch," the woman replied back, before her gaze, downcast, returned to the officer she'd chatted with moments before. The officer who had brought Marge in the week before shot the girl a determined look, as though by stare alone was willing her to do something.
Her eyes darting back to the men in the closest cell, Marge sat, still ruminating over the past few days, when she felt the woman's hands slip around her and pull her from her seat.
"Bring her over here," she heard from one of the men in the next cell.
Turning her body, trying to brace herself against anything but only clawing at the air as the brute of a woman shoved her, she began to scream as she was shoved finally against the bars, the hands of the male cellmates reaching toward her, gripping her .
"No! Stop! Please! Help!" she began to scream, her new cellmate, releasing her to her male captors, but not before pulling away the wool blanket, rendering her utterly naked, her body pressed against the bars.
She quivered, her hot skin against the cold bars as the exposed curves wet beset upon by hands, fingers, lips, even tongues. Screaming for the brief instant before a hand was snaking between the bars turning her head to face its owner's, her lips pressed tightly against his, the probing muscle of a man's tongue slipped inside her. Her hands gripping the bars, she cringed, squirming as palms and fingertips scattered, groping her naked body, a mob amassing mere inches away. Her body shifted along the metal lattice, she screamed into the mouth of the man kissing her as she was pulled, her massive udders thonged by a metal bar two men bent at the knees, licking and sucking her tender nipple buds.
The hands gripping her thighs, pulling her tighter to the bars, she braced herself as she felt something hot brush her between her thighs. Her eyes unable to see past the looming head of the man still kissing her, his hot tongue filling her like another cock, she shivered as she recognized the thick mushroom shaped tip of a man's cock as it slipped between the lips of her pussy and up deep inside her in a singular thrust.
Her upper body in the grip of some six or seven bodies, their mouths and fingertips wandering up and down her squirming nudity, the fingers fumbling, fondling and molding her full breasts as tongues grazed and teased their way over the raised flesh of each areola, up and down her thighs, she shivered as the unsparing piston of another man's cock began to fill her, a dull throbbing heat filling her to grip the pink walls rippling from his lunges.
Wanting to beg, wanting to scream as the cock filled her and the fingers and tongues teased her, she felt her body, by its own volition, set in motion, felt her hips buck and her throat burn as she howled deep into the other man's mouth, her pussy melting around the faceless man's cock as it hammered her tender insides and spit jet after jet of spunk deep into her womb.
Her eyes closing, her knuckles white from gripping the bars as she humped the now ten or twelve men taking turns at her tits, her pussy and when finally she was on her knees, her head pulled between the bars, her own mouth, she collapsed, the wall between her and her inner most desires torn down brick by brick, she stared up at the grimy ceiling of her cell, hot white strings of cum glazing her thighs and the light creamy lips of her pussy. She coughed and stared up and saw nothing, feeling the cum well up from inside her, dribble down her lips and over her chin, and down her neck and over her tits. She had to force herself to laugh in the utter hysteria of the moment, the incomprehensible irony that she could feel deep inside her how much she enjoyed it, the wave of heat, torrential and filling between her legs now, in the pit of her stomach, as she gazed back and saw in the chaos of her epiphany herself pinned against the bars, being fucked by so many strangers and feel turned on by it.
For a moment, she thought of Homer and the kids, and the life she'd had before coming here. She thought of Leigh, of Hugh, of the past few days and her unsettling metamorphosis and was filled with regret.
What was she becoming? What had this town turned her into?