Simpsons Pornography Story: Marge the Goer
“Shut up”, the croaky-voiced woman grunted, “and fuck me harder!”
Cries of ecstasy filled the room. It was quite clear who the gentleman was. No other Springfield resident could pull off what had become a sort of ‘catchphrase’ in sentences. And Maude had passed away years ago, so who was Ned having his way with? Well, Marge Simpson. The town slut, unbeknownst to her husband of all people.
Even Bart and Lisa knew it; and hell, Maggie had probably even clued on. It was as if Homer was the last remaining soul to see that his “perfect wife” was anything but. He’d never expect it from her for starters. And when you see someone as being a conventional of a wife as her, thoughts of adultery never cross your mind.
It’s not that Marge didn’t love Homer. She did. She also loved sex. And that’s where her dopey husband under-achieved, persistently.
The blue-haired “Slut-Outta-Hell” (a nickname Ned would soon give her) rode the devote Christian father of two as if every little detail of her life depended on it.
“Harder. Harder,” she panted breathlessly as Ned sat with his back, drooling, like he was the new Homer.
“Forgive me, God,” he pleaded, clearly enjoying the sensation but asking for redemption – while committing the act of all things!
“Oh, my God!” Marge screamed. “Oh, God. Thank you for the cock you gave your whiney little protégé, God,” she said with a grin. The slapping of impact filled the room, one after the other, and the pace fastened.
“Arghh!” Ned groaned with a sharp sensation.
“Here he comes!” Marge shrieked with glee. With complete control she thrust herself in him deeper and quicker than ever. “Fuck that fuckin’ pussy, you pansy!” Her wild side was, as you can tell, quite wild. Marge Simpson on your TV and Marge Simpson on her Slut Tour were two completely different beings. “FFFUUUUUUUUCCCKKK-AAHHH…… MMEEEEEEEEE-OHHHHH!”
Marge shouted at the sheer capacity of her lungs. “FILL ME THE FUCK UP!” she demanded vigorously.
“Oh-aghh,” Ned whimpered, like the pussy Marge took him for. His package was substantial, but his mindset was like that of some shemale nun. And as frustrating as it was for Marge to bear with, it’s what made it fun. It’s what made it so taboo, and Ned was unique in that way. Hell, even Reverend Lovejoy was a careless brute in the sack. Bondage, name-calling, all other kinky shit; believe it or not, he was the king of all that in this two-faced, sex-crazed town.
And Lovejoy was the man to ‘ignite the match’ for Marge, so to speak. He was her first in well over 20 years (apart from Homer, of course) and made her the town cum-doll this past year. On the occasional visit to Shelbyville, Lovejoy would call upon all newly-legal women and (more often than not) be the guy to pop their cherries. Eighteen year-old, half-normal, half-country-hick girls who saw Lovejoy as high end. How this man was still considered a “Man of God” went completely out the window. Sure, all his “companions” were of legal age and sound mind (except perhaps Brandine), but for a fella who stands up every Sunday in spreading the Holy Word to then five minutes later go sticking his dick in whatever so wife or teenager he desires is utterly fucked up.
Anyway, back to the story. To cut her sex romp with “Good-Fellow Flanders” short, he came, she laughed maniacally, she got dressed, he got dressed, he projectile vomited with guilt, she pissed on his carpet. Yeah, disturbing. But that’s how Marge Simpson was now.
Next stop: Moe’s Tavern. Marge drove her orange station wagon through the cold night. She wore a sparkling red dress, no bra, and only the skimpiest of g-strings. Easy access for all the drunken oafs. As she turned a corner in town, police lights flickered on the car behind her.
Marge pulled over, opposite the comic book store, with nothing but a sigh. Still partially drunk from an early night’s drowning of wine (that she helped herself to at Flanders’), Marge knew what must be done. Chief Wiggum was on duty, and the only thing that liked more than doughnuts and cash bribes were sexual favours. Better yet for Marge, her hair turned the chubby guy on. Sickly, because they shared the same hair colour, Wiggum fantasized it as incest. And Marge would’ve dry-reached at the thought, but that decent side of her was erased long ago. Hardcore was her game now.
“Hello, Marge Simpson,” Wiggum said with a distinct cockiness. “Can you blow into this for me.”
“Yes, but–“
Marge stopped in her tracks, taken aback by Wiggum’s frank attitude tonight. It wasn’t a breathalyser test the copper was referring to; his cock lay on her unwound window. She didn’t even need to make the offer tonight, and Wiggum’s public exposure didn’t seem to faze him. Be it the streets were dead quiet but it wasn’t like that could change in an instant.
“I’m gonna have to ask you to step into the back of your car, miss,” Wiggum said with mischievous authority. Happily complying, Marge opened her car door once Chief backed away enough. As she stood onto the pavement, Wiggum grabbed her ass. “Had any drinks tonight?”
“Oh, you know, nine or ten glasses,” she smiled wickedly.
“That’s a good slut,” he slapped her ass and squeezed it.
Marge opened her back door and got in, Wiggum following. Unbuckling his belt, he sweated to take his pants down. Normal Marge would find this rather large, rather simple-minded man grotesque; this Marge found him oddly sexy. “Back end tonight, Simpson,” he ordered and Marge moved accordingly.
Lying on her stomach across the back seats, Chief hastily lifted her tight dress and rammed himself inside her asshole, milking the opportunity for all its worth. So thin it was, the g-string didn’t interfere one iota. Wiggum thrust inside her ragged, used-up ass time and time again. Wiggum panted, snickered and snorted (giving further evidence to recent gossip of his possible pig ancestry), while Marge moaned wildly – albeit forced and fake for the most part, to satisfy her “bribe host.”
It was at that point Marge noticed Comic Book Guy outside her window, staring in at her face.
“Trampiest. Mother. Ever,” she heard him through the closed window.
Marge rolled her eyes, having readily predicted Comic Book Guy would yank out his dick and start jerking. The even fatter oaf opened the opposing back door and welcomed his manhood (what little there was of it) to her face. Wiggum didn’t mind a smidgen, only encouraging the giant nerd-man to satisfy the slut they had all to themselves.
‘Marge Simpson: The Slut’ had become a sort of legend to Comic Book Guy. The title sounded enough like the name of some X-Rated Comic series. His rubber sized penis (yes, it did technically still qualify as such) grew two-fold as he stroked in inches from her clenched jaw.
The next thing Marge knew, a few piss-weak strings of cum flew her way and Comic Book Guy howled like a wild boar getting it up the rear.
“Biggest. Premature. Ever,” Marge mocked Comic Book Guy with his own thing. And rightfully so; that climax nearly went undetected. Talk about problems… ghseez!
More formidably, it was now that Wiggum had his own release. Right up in her ass he emptied his load, and Marge shrieked from the thrill of it. Her new persona melted at the thought of what had just happened; she loved the thought of cum settling inside her, just like Flanders’ had not so long ago.
“Be on your way, m’am,” Wiggum said courteously, lifting himself up with a struggle and a grunt.
“Thanks again, Chief. I’m so glad the force looks out for me,” she gave him a smile.
“Extra hard for you, Simpson,” Wiggum said fitting his pants and belt back on; “If you know what I mean,” he chuckled the pig-like way only Wiggum does. The pair shared a polite, “good-doing-business” smile before parting separate ways to their steering wheels. Comic Book Guy was nowhere to be seen and thankfully so. Poor fella was probably embarrassed, but there was no way Marge would spend any more time with someone like that. Two seconds in and he shoots — and probably shooting blanks, too, the strings were that damn flimsy!
Marge started her engine and drove the minute or two to Moe’s. She pulled up on the road’s side, behind Homer’s pink sedan, turned her own off, and stepped out. Patting the creases out of her dress (having been extra busy tonight) she headed inside the tavern. Carl, Lenny and Homer were on the stools, quite obviously not in the clearest state of minds, as Moe cleaned a stein glass with a filthy rag. The grey-haired, born-with-unfortunate-facial-features bartender spotted Marge almost instant.
“Oh, hey, Midge,” he welcomed her, a bit shifty-eyed.
“Hmm,” Marge made that frustrated little noise in her throat. “Marge,” she corrected him.
“Hey, look! Homer’s wife’s here!” Lenny held his beer up to her and Carl and Homer looked over to her with reddening eyes.
“Hey, I screwed you last night,” Carl said, about as drunk as you could get before passing out.
“Shh!” Moe quipped to that last reveal. Thankfully, Homer didn’t seem to register what Carl had said, so blinded by the beer.
“So”, Marge spoke up, keen to change the subject before Homer could have some freak, delayed reaction; “Where’s Barney?”
“Taking a leak,” Moe replied, understanding it wasn’t just Marge’s curiosity that asked the question.
“Oh, okay,” she answered conservatively, standing there for a few more seconds as the three drinkers slowly drew their eyes back on the drinks in their hands and off her.
“Go,” Moe mouthed to her, and Marge promptly made her way past the fellas with their backs turned, into the Men’s Room.
A minute later, soft bumps were heard coming from the toilets. Then slightly louder moans and groans; but neither Lenny, Carl nor Homer tuned into it.
“Just gonna go take a dump, fellas,” Moe informed the trio. He could hear the sounds of fornication in his tavern’s toilets loud and clear, knowing full well it was the reason Marge had shown up. He swiftly exited the bar place and joined Marge and Barney in the piss-infested room even too putrid for a toilet.
There was Barney sitting up against the wall with Marge riding his large frame like a slut possessed. Friction was aplenty as Marge’s tight ass slapped hard against Gumble’s multitude of flab. Making himself useful, Moe dropped his pants and crouched down behind Marge. Running his hands down her waist then up in front to her breasts, his dick grew. They bounced in his grip as the woman rode Barney to whatever pace she saw fit. Nudging closer to her, Moe controlled his hard-on, steering it to her ever-moving ass hole. Not desiring to put a pause on Marge’s fun, he directed the insertion himself. After six or seven attempts at “plugging” her, his tip finally dug inside Marge’s butt. She moaned a little more in that instant, before Moe gyrated himself up and down in the rhythm she was. Balancing himself with the palm of his hands, Moe pierced further into her with each thrust.
So here was the slut being done in two holes. Double penetration and she was fucking adoring it. Neither man was exactly dreamy or hunky, but Marge didn’t mind one bit. They were dirty like her, therefore she viewed them as good enough sex buddies.
Twenty minutes flew by, with multiple orgasms here and there by multiple participants. And not a peep came from the three drunks just meters away on the other side of the door.
Moe opened the bathroom door chivalrously for Marge first. She walked out patting down her ironically elegant red dress. She looked a million bucks but was whoring herself out, and for free, to make it all the worse! Moe then walked out a smiling customer, chuckling away as she watched Marge’s butt walk away. He’d been staring at it for so long in there, he pictured it bare naked right now.
“See you later, Homie,” she strolled up beside her oblivious husband and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, fellas,” she shot a glance to Carl and Lenny as Homer didn’t respond. Still too heavily dosed on the alcohol.
“Fuck you later,” Carl remarked inappropriately again. It was more than fine to speak like that with Marge fucking all your troubles away like she had done the night before, but not whilst her husband was right there. Geez! But it wasn’t his fault, for he too remained wasted, as did best friend Lenny.
Marge rocked up at home; the clock read 11:05. The kids were asleep as Marge checked in before departing for her room. She stayed up for another hour watching porn on the new TV in their room. On low volume, she played with her nude body all over to a home-made compilation video of Springfield’s biggest slut: herself. Having the men around town tape their certain escapades with Marge got her hot beyond anything else. Actually fucking these guys and being a complete slut in the particular moment was incredible, but to have them on playback was twice as hot.
Her front and back had been the firing hole of four different men tonight alone and even still it was barely enough. Marge couldn’t wait to wake up tomorrow and do it all over again with whoever she so desired. She was an utterly whored-out, cheating wife and mother of three. That’s the way she liked it. Being the “goer” of all things dirty in this Marge-addicted town.
“Maybe there’ll be some pussy tomorrow,” Marge whispered as she drifted off to sleep.