Before Glen Quagmire met Homer's family, he didn't think he'd like staying with the Simpsons.
An unexpected bout of good luck in playing the stock market had left him the primary stock holder of the very plant where Homer was working. And though the opportunity to replace Monty Burns as CFO meant an unquestionable fortune, he didn't like the idea of staying with strangers during his dealings with Burns.
Pulling up to the house with a U-haul behind him, he stared at the ordinary looking house, not much different from his one in Quahog and took a deep breathe.
Only the children were home to help him, though the arrival of Homer, the so-called star employee served as a vague reminder of his friend Peter, albeit jaundiced-looking and bald by comparison.
As he was readying himself for bed one night, he stepped through the door into the steam of the shower, assuming Homer had been the kind sort of chap who'd prepare a shower when he noticed in the mirror's reflection the silhouette of a woman, naked behind the curtain.
"Homer, is that you?" Marge asked.
Quagmire smiled, transfixed by the curvy body half-hidden in the curtain's gray translucence.
He groaned in answer.
"Homer, is there any soap out there?" she asked.
Quagmire smiled. Seeing the soap beside the sink, he hit the light switch and crawled behind the curtain.
"Homer, what are you doing? Ahhh---" without the light she couldn't anticipate her visitor, slipping behind her and slipping the bar of soap up over her bare chest.
Quagmire smiled mischieviously as he squeezed his soapy hands around Marge's breasts, so big and soft.. More kneading than lathering her pliant peaks, he bent her over so as to take aim at her velvety opening. A singular thrust and he'd been more intimate with Marge than Homer had been all week.
Marge groaned deeply as he forced himself up inside her. She was a tight fit for a wife of ten plus years. Thrusting with great aplomb, he caught himself before he could laugh at hitting bottom. Marge, her face flat against the bathroom tile wall, braced her body against the wall as she sighed in ecstasy. She'd never felt like this before. What was coming over Homer?
"Ahh----" he groaned, as he seeded the wife with the smile on her face.
Slipping from her warm recesses of Homer's wife, the rest of his white jet sprayed the shower floor as he slipped back to his room.
Marge remained leaning, her body at a right angle, against the slippery wall, her chest heaving excitedly.
"Oh, Homer. Oh. You--- what--- ?" she looked around as the light came back on and she was alone in the room.
"Oh, Glen. Did I introduce you to my wife?" Homer came down the stairs, crossed the foyer and approached his guest, who jovially accepted a cup of coffee from Marge.
Glen turned, reluctant to take his eyes off Marge, who donning a long modest robe, failed to notice it'd begun to part below the sash, exposing her long bare legs.
"Oh, we already met." Quagmire smiled his knowing smile.
Without missing a beat, his eyes resumed their perusal of Marge in her robe. Reaching to the cabinet for a cup for Homer she unconsciously unfurled the top of her robe, exposing her impressive rack half-hidden in her nightgown.
Almost face to face with Marge's ample bust, Quagmire fought the urge to reach into the v-neck of her robe and rip free the thin slip once Homer was out the door.
Instead he decided to keep himself busy assembling a plan to use Marge to take over this town. Though he didn't count himself as the criminal mastermind type or mad genius, Marge's beauty was being wasted as she tended to her choirs in the Simpson home.
Firstly, he had to get Marge out of the house.
He smiled innocently as she put away the dishes. Standing up he crossed the kitchen and positioned himself between the counter and her body. As she looked up from what she was doing he froze, momentarily transfixed by the view her body bent over afforded him, "Ummm.... My boss said you'd be willing to give me a tour of your town while your husband was busy."
Marge smiled, unaware of the generous view she provided him down the neckline of her gown, the looming swells of her breasts.
"Sure. I'll get ready," she put away the last cup and spirited up to her bedroom. Always the courteous host, the notion of his man taking the place of the cruel Monty Burns as Homer's boss was lifting her spirits ever higher as she rifled through her wardrobe.
She wanted to look good for her new guest. She brushed off any instinct to grab the closest long green dress, the sameness and familiarity so comforting, she wanted to think outside the box for a moment.
Looking down her eyes stopped over a lacquered box at the bottom of the closet, a fancy dress Homer had purchased for a dinner they'd never had. The kids were too loud and rambunctious that night. Or the choirs sat in a heap, laundry, bills to pay, calls to return, in the corner of the room, ignored and in need of excavation.
"Are you ready?" Quagmire called from the foyer.
Marge looked up, little time had passed in her thoughts, but already the room seemed changed by the passing of time. She reached into the box, no longer remembering what remained inside. Where it'd come from but not how it looked.
Allowing the robe and her slip to pool at her feel she slipped her legs and feet into the loop of the open dress and pulled it up around her. Reaching for the straps for her shoulders, she found only air, and then a singular spaghetti thin loop of linen to arc behind her neck like a halter top. Suspended from the string the front of her dress didn't come back together behind her until it reached just above her bottom, leaving the whole of her back naked. In the front a dangerously low recess exposed the pale upper halves and inner slopes of her breasts like a modified French Renaissance corset. The cocktail style skirt was misleadingly long in the front, cut higher and higher as it wrapped around toward the back, allowing any bend at the waist to lift the skirt high above her derriere.
Tapping his foot at the foot of the staircase, Quagmire tried to remember where he'd hid the gaudy dress he'd taken from the lacquered box and replaced with his slut suit. Simply attaching the bow with the words "From Homie" did a lot to distract the shy wife from the provocative design of the dress.
The dress was a hand-me-down from an unlucky in love friend of the family, a surefire ticket to getting laid in a club. The dress was a magnet for leering eyes, groping hands and just cocks in general.
As Marge appeared at the head of the staircase, Quagmire was reminded of the lean figure his friend cut in the dress. Marge, top-heavy even by centerfold standards, seemed ready to burst from the cleavage-revealing upper half.
Making her way down the stairs, Quagmire watched her breasts bounce as though they sat on a shelf above her midriff, up and down, in and out of her her clothing, from the pale domes down to the now unsheathed pale arc of her areola.
"You look lovely, Marge," he smiled, no longer able to contain his infatuation.
"Why thank you." Marge smiled, stopping in the foyer to take a twirl, "My husband bought this for me."
Quagmire smiled as the twirl lifted the skirt above her ass, exposing her ivory lace panties and the peachy ass it thonged.
"Well, I have to give it to your husband. He has good taste." Quagmire nodded, trying to lean over to disguise his growing erection.
He was sure though, that once they left the house the multitude of pants Marge's passing would leave tented would distract from his own transparent enthusiasm. He wondered how Marge would take to her entourage of male admirers. He'd know soon enough.
Making their way outside he watched the mustached, glasses-wearing neighbor stop on his way to the mail box, his jaw drop and eyes widen insanely.
Pulling from the insides of his mailbox the church bulletin, Ned Flanders found it impossible to ignore the implications as she stepped inside the stranger's car. What her trampy outfit didn't give away about her arrangement with her guest was spelled out in the knowing glance the man gave Ned as he climbed inside his car. A glance that said Marge was earning her half of the family income while lying on her back.
Poor Homer, Ned thought, not knowing he'd married a jezebel in sheep's clothing.
"Where would you like to go first?" Marge asked, pulling Quagmire's concentration from the road his eyes shifted to her lips to her heaving bosom in the taut stocking of her dress.
Passing a sign for the city sponsored fair he wondered how the white of Marge's dress would look soaked in icy water. The more he thought about it the more he speculated Marge would not be willing climb into a dunking tank.
His shoulders sank with disillusion.
Though passing another billboard advertising the Family Values Tour, sponsored by Juggernauts, renewed his spirits. He had an idea and the jubilation with which he clung to it showed in his changing facial expression.
"What's so funny?" Marge asked, confusing his adulation for hysteria.
"Marge, have you ever been a rock concert?"
The words Family Values in bold print above the archway untied the knot in Marge's stomach. She felt comfortable again. She even wished she'd brought Maggie and Lisa. She knew Bart would want no part of this sort of thing.
Purse in hand, and Quagmire in toe, Marge failed to notice the eyes averting their gaze from the distant stage to pour over her proudly displayed bust.
The music a driving cacophony of sound was less like a nursery rhyme and more like the drum of her heartbeat moments before, echoing back from the past.
From the splayed apart bodies in the parking lot, the the taut thicket of figures ahead of her Marge wandered, gathering eyes and whistles from teens not much older than Bart.
Fumes hovering above the front of the crowd drifted back, their sweet aroma leaving Marge light-headed, euphoric, even flirty in the mixing mass of engrossed eyes. Their glassy and dilated concentric loops focusing on the overlying twin domes of her breasts as they billowed in and out of her dress.
Even Marge could no longer ignore that her knockers were drawing a crowd, the pale half-sheathed pearls bobbing up and down with every step. She was swimming in the attention, a sea of hungry eyes scaling the hem of her neckline like intruders a shuttered drawbridge, hoping to penetrate and expose the bounty hidden within.
She could no more explain her excitement than her relative calm as more than a few hands groped her rear. One open palm deft enough to slip beneath the thong of her panties, was treated to the naked twin swells of her rear to knead before shoving her to the adjacent stage.
Marge stared doe-eyed about the crowd as people were helping her onto a stage beside that of the actual band, where three other women now stood, their blank stares and platinum blonde hair reminding Marge of something from an obscure late night infomercial.
"Where am I?" she asked, the effects of the smoke she'd inhaled growing more profound with every breathe.
She wasn't sure she expected an answer.
Behind her Duff Man was emerging from behind a stage curtain to the applause of the crowd. An entourage of stage hands followed, lugging buckets of cold water.
Marge searched the crowd for any familiar faces, not completely aware she was even searching for Quagmire. She could scarcely remember who'd brought her here.
Suddenly there was a loud eruption of cheers from the crowd. Marge turned and watched as Duff Man stood with bucket in hand beside a woman in a now very transparent and wet undershirt. The doused fabric clung tightly around the curves of her medium-sized breasts, even the eraser-sized nipples apparent through the shrunken veil of her shirt. The woman pitched her arms in the air and cheered, pride lighting up the features of her thin pubescent face with a rosy hew. She looked eighteen or nineteen. Her adulation doubling as she soaked in the worship of the crowd.
Marge watched Duff Man pick up another bucket and move a few inches closer to her. With little ceremony he lifted the bucket above the next girl's head. Marge watched the woman's chest heave in recognizable anticipation, before Duff Man began to tip the bucket's contents over and the woman began to scream like were headed over the first drop of a rollercoaster.
From her hair down to the augmented balcony of her high hung bosom, the once singular point of the running water burst into an enormous vertical wave to douse every inch of its excited victim.
Marge swallowed as, like the other woman, the clinginess of the water spared not an inch for dignity. Opening her eyes, the woman seeing as the crowd did that the shirt had all but evaporated she cheered along with them. Her breasts, though clothed, somehow were utterly naked.
Marge watched through the cotton veil with morbid fascination as the inert caps of the woman's nipples reacted to the cold touch of the water, the pink buds stiffening. Too absorbed in the woman standing at attention as it were to notice, Duff Man was already grabbing the next bucket and heaving up it up the blue column of Marge's hair.
His face befuddled by this, what if her hair absorbed most of the water, he nodded back to the stage and two more stagehands emerged with similar buckets.
As Quagmire watched, a vision out of Homer's nightmares and his own deepest fantasies came to life on the stage.
The first drip, a singular rivulet crawling down the wavy tower of her hair, was barely a whisper before the scream of foreboding at knowing it was not a bead of sweat on her brow but a small taste of the disrobing undercurrent to come soon after.
Marge's eyes shot open in panic as one, two, three buckets were heaved upon her. The water sprayed every inch as Marge gasped in terror. An enormous tide of cheers rose around her as the white halter dress seemed not only to disappear but come apart, as the fabric shrank around her her naturally large breasts seemed to swell, stretching then ripping the elastic mesh.
Marge watched with mounting dread as the first rush of water slowly painted her naked, the hem of her neckline receding, revealing the pale flesh of each breast down to the pale soft areola.
Another gasp at the sight of her fully exposed boobs and the second rush of water unraveled her hair into wavy locks down her back before pricking to agonizing stiffness her sensitive nipples.
"Ahh---" another gasp, her hands rushing to the aid of her now defenseless breasts, she unconsciously squeezed them together as though she wanted them to grow larger. Her holstering palms did just that, lifting and pushing together their exposed surfaces until the front of her dress burst open in its failure to contain her, allowing the third rush of water to deepen the cleft on the front of the dress and splash against the naked flesh of her bosom.
The crowd stared wide eyed at the display Marge was putting on. The gasps, one with every collision with water sounded like she was climaxing on stage.
The last of the third bucket, Duff Man deftly aimed over Marge's midriff and groin, watching the linen crawl higher and higher before receding into the dark space between her legs.
"So who will it be?" Duff Man shouted.
Marge stood, shivering naked on the stage, waiting for the hand that hovered over each contestant to stop over her.
When it did the crowd erupted in complete agreement.
As though at that there was any dignity left for Marge to lose, Duff Man reached for the now faint hem line at the top of Marge's dress plucked at it like a string on a music instrument.
Behind her neck the sudden snap of the halter string sent the remaining dress down until it sat in a diagonal puddle against her lap.
Marge stared wide-eyed up at the hysterical crowd, too shocked to decide how she could any longer live her life the same way after this moment.