Dominance in Despair
Chapter 3
Tendrils
Journal Entry 3: Perfect!
The situation is better than I could have hoped! It seems that the son, Bart, is in prison awaiting trial for a felony offense. Marge Simpson put the ad for the room to attract a tenant because she's trying to raise money to pay for her son's defense.
To complicate her situation, it seems her husband, Homer, is a stark raving drunk. According to Marge, he seems to go out every night to get shit-faced, blowing any money they could have used to defend Bart. The situation also seems to have started to affect their ability to keep up on their bills.
This is like a perfect scenario, like manna from heaven. The mother is frustrated and desperate. If I am going to pull this off, if I am going to submit her will to mine, I need to keep her desperate. I need to be a big enough financial resource to make her feel that she's indebted to me, that she needs me to keep what's left of her family afloat, but not so much that all her problems would be solved. I need time to wrap her body around my fingers.
God, her body. Her photos do not do it justice.
The elder daughter, Lisa, seems to be developing quite a body herself, even in this early onstage of puberty. Marge says she's a MENSA-level genius who, despite being twelve, will be starting high school in a few days. She has yet to understand her body and its' new wants and desires. I can use this to my advantage.
The youngest daughter, Maggie, appears ready to enter the second grade. I just have to keep her out of the way.
This is going to work. And then, when I have these women bowing to my every whim...I'll show you, father.
I'll show you that I am the future of our family!
My god, I can smell this woman from here. Her scent...the scent of desire and loss. The scent of a woman ripe for the plucking, to harvest her body and mind at my will, as I wish, when I wish.
But to get into her soul, I must first get into her body. To get into her body, I must get into her mind.
Paul leaned forward on his elbows as Marge set the steaming cup of coffee on the kitchen table in front of him. Setting her own down, she took the seat across from the young man.
It was late at night now. Marge sent the girls to bed an hour ago, as her and this traveler sat in her brightly-lit kitchen, which still seemed to take on a certain gloom when compared to the stark darkness out the window.
"Sorry that took so long," Marge apologized as Paul smiled warmly. He had been waiting in the kitchen while Marge went upstairs to change out of her wet clothes. Paul had passed the time, allowing his mind to wander as he pictured the mother of three slipping out of that wet, green dress. She came back down in an oversized white t-shirt than hung to her knees, the black bra and panties she had changed into barely visible through the fabric. Plus, much to Paul's pleasure, her hair was still hanging down, damp from her "bath."
As she was preparing coffee, she had been explaining the situation to Paul concerning Bart.
"So you see, until the trial is over and Bart comes home," Marge started as she cupped her mug in her hands, "the room will be available. But first, Paul, please. Tell me about yourself."
Paul again flashed a small, warm smile, the kind he had used to disarm countless women before. "To be fair, Ms. Simpson, there's not really much special about me. I come from a small town in northern Michigan nobody has heard of, near the border." He carefully picked every detail, tone and voice inflection to keep the attention of the housewife across from him.
As Marge leaned forward, gazing at him while absently thumbing her coffee mug, Paul could tell it was effective. "I attended school, got a bachelors in psychology, and ever since I've been traveling the country, looking for inspiration for my book."
Marge hummed in interest as she sat up. "What about your family? Brothers and sisters?"
Paul shook his head. "No, I'm afraid my parents died in a boating accident several years ago, and I am an only child."
Marge frowned, touching Paul's hand sympathetically. "Oh, I'm so sorry."
Paul smiled a little bigger, patting Marge's hand with his own. When she realized what she was doing, she blushed slightly and pulled her hand back.
"It's OK though. Their financial assets were placed into trust for me. It's not enough to let me live royally, mind you, but it's enough to let me pursue my dream."
Marge smiled. "I see. So, what brings you to Springfield?"
Paul took a sip of coffee, considering for a moment to tell her the real reason he was there. "I was passing through and I felt like it would be beneficial to my efforts to stay awhile. Plus, it'll be fall before too long, better to get settled before it gets too cold, resume my travels in the spring."
Marge smiled, Paul's emerald-green eyes drawing her attention. "Well Paul, the rent is six hundred a month. That includes the room, utilities and food. If you are alright with that, the room is yours."
Paul nodded his agreement. Pulling out his wallet, he placed six ragged 100-dollar bills on the table. Marge took the money with a smile.
"Excellent. Welcome to our home, Paul," she said, standing and moving slightly to the left of the table. Without taking his eyes off her, Paul smiled quietly as he discretely adjusted his C-bag to match her movement.
"If you'll come with me, I'll show you to your roo-"
Marge was cut short as she stumbled and tripped on Paul's bag, yelping as she fell. With a spin, Paul moved out of his chair and caught the falling housewife, her face turning beet red as her breast "accidentally" fell into one of his hands.
Paul sounded surprised. "Are you alright Ms. Simpson? I'm so sorry about that." He turned her so that her beet-red face was facing him, her chest heaving from the momentary shock from the fall, and the catch.
"I..I'm OK. And please, call me Marge," she stammered as Paul helped her stand straight. Paul repressed a lecherous grin.
Marge straightened out her shirt, as Paul watched her fidget. This seemed to only make her blush more.
"Well, Paul...your room is up the stairs and to the left, first door on your left. The bathroom is straight ahead at the top of the stairs...Lisa's room is next to yours, and Maggie's is across the hall. If they bother you too much, please let me know."
"Thank you...Marge." Paul nodded as he picked up his bag and headed for his room.
Marge leaned on the table, finding herself oddly out of breath.
"Perhaps...I should have him call me Ms. Simpson," she murmured to herself as she regained her composure and started cleaning up the coffee that her and her new tenant had barely touched.
Paul opened the door quietly, turning on the light as he stepped in and closed it behind him. If he didn't know it, he would have never guessed this room belonged to a teenager. It was immaculately cleaned, a simple bed shoved up against the wall. A desk with a chair stood in the corner by the closet, which was filled with boxes, no doubt Bart's personal belongings. Setting his bag on top of the desk, Paul took stock in the room, inspecting every inch of it. Running his hand along the wall, he paused as his fingers grazed a rough spot. Digging at the plaster patch with his fingernail, he revealed a hastily patched hole.
Peeking in, Paul saw the hole was a peephole, probably put in by Bart, that gave a fair view of the adjoining room, particularly Lisa's bed, where at the moment she was sound asleep. Paul smiled. "This will come in handy," he thought.
Shutting off the light, Paul laid on top of the bed, folding his hands together as he closed his eyes.
When Paul awoke, he bolted upright. Sunlight was flooding the room. Getting to his feet, he headed back down to the kitchen. On the table was a hastily scribbled note.
"Paul, took the girls out back-to-school shopping. There are left over flapjacks in the microwave. Plates are in the third upper cupboard on the right, silverware in drawer under. Be back about 3. -Ms. Simpson."
Paul cocked an eyebrow and drew a sadistic little grin.
"P.S...If my husband comes home, please tell him we need to talk when I get back."
"Well, well..." Paul thought as he got himself a plate of still-warm pancakes. "Homer didn't come home...and I have a few hours to get my work done..."
After polishing off his breakfast and taking care of his personal chores, Paul set about his "work." Emptying the contents of his bag onto his bed, he waded through a mound of clothes until he came upon a worn laptop case. Opening it, he removed from the top pocket a baggie of what appeared to be small circuit boards with cameras attached.
"Wireless cameras," he muttered to himself. A trick he learned from his college days, someone with skill using a soldering iron and electronics, plus about twenty bucks, can create a simple video camera that can transmit to any computer with the program and blue-tooth receiver.
After a few hours of work in the attic, Paul turned on his computer on the desk in his room, checking the new cameras he laced the house with. "Bathroom...master bathroom...marge, lisa, maggie..." Paul leaned back with a smirk and started with a recorder.
"To control a person, you start by getting into their mind," Paul thought to himself as he set the cameras to record. "To get into their mind...you need to know what they're thinking." Plus, he figured, might be some entertaining video to boot.
Every second of his process will be recorded. Paul's face turned serious and grim, as he considered his father...he will show him how it's done. Every second.
Closing his lid, he checked his watch. 3 PM. Almost if on cue, he heard the door downstairs open and the chatter of girls returning from a fun, stress free day of shopping.
"Now Maggie, make sure you go put your clothes away nice and neat, we want to make sure they look great for school next week." Marge leaned on her knees as her youngest nodded eagerly and went stampeding up the stairs. Straightening her green dress as she stood, she looked up and smiled as Paul appeared at the top of the stairs. "Hello Paul. Find your breakfast alright?"
Paul nodded as he swiveled his body to avoid the stampeding six year old. "Oh yes Marge, they were delicious. Thank you."
Marge smiled as she shifted uncomfortably at Paul's use of her first name. Apparently, he didn't get the hint. She sighed and set her own bag down, her beehive restored to it's natural look. Paul frowned slightly as he descended the stairs.
"Hi," Lisa nervously said to Paul as she entered the house. Pausing briefly in front of him, Paul responded with a smile and a "Hello, Lisa." With a nervous giggle, Lisa blushed beet red and shot up the stairs with her own bags. Marge pursed her lips. She's been around a while, and she can tell when a teenager has a crush. Suddenly this arrangement with Paul as her tenant was making her somewhat uncomfortable, and not just from her daughter's interest in the man.
Marge pushed the thought out of her mind. She needed the money, and nobody else was beating down her door for the room. "For Bart..." she thought with a sigh.
Paul smiled warmly. He needed to adjust the situation a little...a stressed mind was a vulnerable mind. He needed the housewife's mind stressed, if he was to be that relief that would give him his first tendril of control.
"Oh, and Marge..." She squirmed a little at the first name use again, but felt it wasn't worth being rude over. "Homer came home earlier."
Marge's mouth opened a little at Paul's bald-faced lie. "Oh...he did? Where is he?"
"...He left when I told him you wanted to talk. Said that all you ever want to do is talk...said he'll be back later."
Marge gritted her teeth as Paul frowned convincingly. "That man..." she growled. "All he's interested in now is his friends and his bar." She pushed past Paul in a huff, heading straight for the kitchen. Paul, allowing himself a brief grin of success, picked up the groceries she had left behind and followed.
Entering the kitchen, he found the flustered woman hunched over the sink, her nails digging into the counter. Her rapid breathing took the place of any words she wanted to form, too angry to coax her muscles into forming them.
Paul set the groceries on the table and began putting them away, keeping his eyes on the vexed wife.
"It wasn't always like this...sure, he's always liked his beer," Marge croaked as tears began to well in her eyes. "But now...for a long time, it's like he's married to that bar...and I'm just...something else...something he enjoys on the side."
Marge stood up and looked at Paul, tears flowing freely from her tired, hazel eyes as a few strands of succulent blue hair broke free from her tight hairstyle. "I'm just a hobby to him!"
"Bingo," Paul thought behind a false look of concern.
Marge sobbed as she collapsed into the kitchen chair, holding her face in her hands. "I'm sorry Paul...can you just leave me alone for now," she stammered behind heaving sobs. She was embarrassed enough to have this happen in front of the new tenant so soon after his arrival, however she was more embarrassed over the powerlessness she felt over the whole situation.
She gasped slightly as she moved her hands from her face, surprised to instead feel firm human hands on her shoulders.
"Marge," Paul started behind her as he started massaging the back of her shoulders. "I understand, it's all too much for one person to handle...More than they should handle..." Marge body writhed slightly in meek protest, but her mind gave it pause, almost moved to tears that someone...anyone...had seen through her plight.
"It's not fair," Paul continued as he rubbed her silken skin along the base of her neck, her beaded necklace clacking softly as his hands brushed it. "It's not fair to ask you to burden so much by yourself. And since it wouldn't be fair to burden your wonderful daughters..." Marge bit her lip at the prospect of making Lisa and Maggie bear her weight. She closed her eyes and sat up straighter, Paul's fingers kneading the knots from her shoulders, her body shifting with every grip. She could feel her chest getting warmer as her arms dropped limp at her sides.
"...if you need someone to vent to, I can listen to you. We'll call it part of my rent." Paul grinned as Marge rolled her shoulders under his hands, a soft moan escaping her lips.
The sound served to snap Marge back to her senses. Blushing furiously, she stood and stammered, "Thanks Paul...you're very kind...now if you please, I think I'd like to be alone for now...I need to lie down" Without facing him, she turned and rushed up the stairs, the sound of her bedroom door clicking shut echoing through the house.
A moment later, Lisa walked in, glancing over her shoulder. "Hey Paul...what was wrong with my mom?"
Paul smiled warmly as he poured himself a glass of water, sitting down. "She said she wasn't feeling well...went to go lie down."
Lisa pursed her lips, puzzled. She didn't seem to be feeling ill when they got home. Shrugging off her natural suspicion, she poured her own glass of water and sat across from Paul, leaning forward on the table, the white cotton strap of her training bra peeking out under the collar of her form-fitting red t-shirt. Her hair was styled up in it's trademark spikes, curving slightly to give her whole head a resemblance to a spinning wheel. Above her brow, a small red bow was tied into her hair. Her feet fidgeted in her socks as her jeans scraped against the chair from her subtle wiggling.
"So Paul...you getting settled in here?"
Paul smiled. "Yes...I think I will find exactly what I was looking for here."
Upstairs, Marge shut her bedroom door behind her, leaning against it as her breath caught in her chest. Her knees sank a little as she tried to rationalize her acceptance of Paul's attention. "What are you doing, Marge?"
Her muttered question drifted through the empty room, her body completing its' descent to the floor. She pressed her back to the floor, her heavy breaths heaving her busom up and down as she stared at the ceiling, her hands coming up in an attempt to steady herself.
Her mind raced to find consensus between the conflicting voices of her body and conscience. "Why did you let him do that..." Marge's mind flooded with conflicting thoughts. Her oaths to her husband...her needs as a woman. She placed her hand on her chest, feeling her heart pounding in her ribcage.
Part of her told her that her conflicting emotions were all Homer's fault. Marge was uncomfortable when she wasn't in control. However, control is the one thing she's lacked. Control over her situation, her family...even her own desires.
Marge closed her eyes, feeling her skin tingle across her shoulders and neck, where his hands has skillfully caressed her skin. It was like her body was remembering something it had forgotten, the feeling of a man's touch. Her breath began to steady as she traced her fingertips along her neckline, recalling the sensation of his powerful kneading on her bare flesh.
Her mind, its' dim voice echoing in the background of her consciousness, tried to rationalize her thinking, that Paul was just being friendly and trying to help her relax and calm down as her fingers clenched gently at the base of her neck. Her legs fidgeted gently as her feet slipped free of her red slip-on shoes, her heels drawing slowly across the carpet as her toes flexed in their unconfined freedom.
Marge's breath became deeper and more rhythmic, her fingers delicately tracing up along her collarbone, subconsciously retracing the path Paul's hands took as she caressed the bare skin of her shoulder with her palm. Her gasps became ragged as she drew her hand down her chest, cupping under her breast and squeezing gently, the warm cotton fabric of her dress crinkling as her flesh shifted and flexed. Each compression fired off countless nerves, sending pulses of sensation that made the skin on her back tingle and curl in waves.
"Oh...Paul..."
She squirmed, stretching her back with a soft moan as her thighs rubbed together. Tracing the contours of her breast on her dress, Marge could feel her nipple hardening, pressing against the fabric. She felt the noticeable bump with her fingertips as it ached for release from its' familiar green restraint.
In her mind, her hands became Paul's hands. As if triggering an alarm, Marge suddenly stopped and sighed, panting lightly as she stared at the ceiling, her hands coming to a rest where they lay. "No, Marge...this is wrong. You still love Homer...you shouldn't think like this..."
The camera nestled away in the base of the light fixture recorded everything, every sight and sound for its' master. If a camera could think, it would be sure that its' master would have one or two things to say about that.
"So...uhhh...tell me about yourself." Lisa giggled a little nervously. She always had problems getting up the nerve to talk to boys, and finally there was one in the house who wouldn't laugh at her. If anything, it would be good practice.
Paul took a sip of his water, recounting his false origins story. Lisa's eyes brightened. "Oh..you went to college? Where? What was your major?"
Paul was taken aback slightly at the enthusiasm she showed when he mentioned college. "Well...I went to the University of Michigan."
Lisa's eyes lowered a little. "Oh," she muttered with a thin disdain. In her mind, anything that wasn't Ivy League was about as good as the local Vo-Tech.
Paul chuckled a little. "Don't get me wrong, it was a good school. Got my masters in Psychology, but I had many good and interesting experiences there. I even worked part time as a masseuse."
Lisa's head cocked quizzically. "A masseuse? That must have been interesting."
"It was," Paul said with a nod. At least that much was true, Paul did know the massage arts, and his experiences with it were certainly interesting. "I used to own my own little table, and I would go around to dorms and apartments. You would be surprised just how many stressed college students would pay for a good massage."
Lisa pursed her lips, patting her fingers on the tablecloth. "Sounds like something my Mom could use." Lisa looked down slightly, the concern for Marge showing in her face.
Paul smiled, as always.
Lisa looked up again. "So, do you still do that?"
"Well, I can't exactly carry an appropriate table in my little bag," Paul replied with a chuckle, "But yes, every now and then I can get someone to pay me a few dollars for a shoulder rub."
Lisa smiled. "That sounds nice."
"Would you like one?
Lisa was taken aback a little at the question, her nervousness as plain as words in a book across her face. "Umm...sure...I guess..."
Paul stood up. "Ok, now stand up straight. Let your arms hang at your sides and relax."
With a scoot, Lisa backed away from the table as Paul moved behind her. Drawing her arms close to her, her mind became a jumble of nervous thoughts.
"Relax, Lisa," Paul said softly as he placed his hands firmly on her shoulders, flexing firmly as they had for Marge not too long ago. Lisa jumped and squeaked a little as he started, but as he kneaded the muscles in her shoulders, Lisa felt herself relaxing as her arms dropped to her sides. She flexed her entire body with a soft, pleased moan, like a cat stretching in the sunlight. Closing her eyes, she briefly stood on her toes as she curled her back to him, the low hills of her developing breasts becoming accented against her shirt.
Paul took a moment to enjoy the view before continuing his explanation. "A few minutes of this is always handy for taking away the stress and strain the day puts on the average human body. Though, it's more effective on a bare shoulder than through clothing."
Lisa giggled a little at the sensation, rolling her shoulders in his grip with a satisfied sigh. "I'll definitely have to get you to do this for my mom."
Paul chuckled a little. "Yes, I suppose so. Though to be honest, my specialty was always the full body massage."
Lisa purred softly, closing her eyes as she felt her bra strap rub against her skin from his efforts. If he was only half as good at it as he was at this shoulder rub, it must feel amazing. "People don't ask you for those?"
Paul chuckled. "Well, a shoulder rub can be done in any condition with just about anyone. A full-body requires a long table, stable enough to support a person lying on it, several towels different oils and minerals..."
Lisa breathed deeply, picturing the experience in her head as Paul rubbed off the sides of her shoulders and slightly down her arms.
"...and you can't wear any clothes."
Lisa's face turned beet red at this, her nervous giggle returning as Paul finished up. "Well...I guess you can't just give those out in public or anything." She turned to face him, her back hunching down and her hands fidgeting behind her back.
Paul chuckled. "I suppose not. In fact, I think the shoulder rub is the only thing I can do through clothes, except for maybe massaging the feet."
Lisa chuckled a little. "That felt great Paul. Thanks."
Paul smiled. "Any time."
"Well, tell Mom that I'm taking Maggie to the park. She had a set of keys made for you, they're in that sack on the counter." With a little spring to her step, Lisa bounded out of the room to collect her sister.
Paul opened the sack and found a fresh set of house keys. Pocketing them, he spied a box of personal checks. Opening it, he noticed the checks were brand new, and the account at the top said "Marge Simpson," no mention of Homer.
Taking the bottom-most book of checks, Paul slipped them into his pocket. They might come in handy later. If Marge established her own checks to try to keep money away from Homer, then the best thing to do might be to get that money to Homer. Behind him, he could hear the two children bounding down the stairs and out the door.
Returning to his room, he opened his computer and started his monitoring program, looking over the past hour or so of footage. He reviewed Marge's actions in her bedroom, his grin widening at the mention of his name.
"Marge...this is wrong...you still love Homer..."
As the words emitted from the speakers over the low electronic crackle, Paul frowned slightly.
This is something he would have to fix.