Dominance in Despair
Author's Note: Please leave reviews. Positive reviews are greatly appreciated, constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. Pointless flaming "just because" you don't like it/object to the subject matter will be countered as vulgarly, immaturely and directly as I can muster.
This story is rated M for cursing and strong sexual content. This is a story of someone whose goal is to completely dominate and control the subjects of this story, and the content may prove disturbing to some readers.
Consider yourself warned. If you read on, it's not my fault if you can't handle it.
Journal Entry 1: My father feels that I lack the ruthlessness to succeed in the family business. He feels that I cannot exert the kind of control over others that made him a success. He called me weak, said that to make it to the top, I must possess the ability to own other people of their own free will. To possess them mind, body and soul. To do with them as I wish and to have them love me for it, regardless of their age, race, gender or ethnic background.
I'm sure that deep down, he wishes that my brother had lived, and that I had died.
I will show him. The human mind is like a lump of clay. With the right situation, conditions and manipulation, it can be shaped and mended into whatever I wish.
I will show him that I can bend anyone to my will. I will dominate them to the very depths of depravity, and they will love me for it. I will ruin their lives as they know it and force them to submit to my filthy desires, and they will worship me for it.
Now, to find the right situation...
The doorbell's harsh chime shocked Marge from her trance-like state. She groaned in frustration as she drew her hand back up her body, away from the task it was performing. Her other hand squeezed one final squeeze, her nipple hard to her touch as it protruded from between her fingers.
She glanced at the alarm clock. 2 AM. The doorbell rang again.
"Damn it, Homer," she groaned as she sat up on the edge of the bed.
She straightened her beehive hair a little as she pulled on her pink cotton robe, fishing for her slippers with her feet. "Even when he's not here, he won't let me be satisfied," she thought to herself. Lately, a late night visit from the police hauling Homer's drunken ass home has become a regular occurrence. On top of that, he has been so fixated on that damn bar and his alcoholic cronies that he hasn't paid attention to her needs in months.
The doorbell rang again.
As she slipped her slippers on and stood, walking towards the hall, she searched for a reason why he has been ignoring her. It couldn't be her body, she thought. A taut, firm ass, a pert, ample set of natural breasts, most women her age would kill or pay out the ass for a body like hers.
The doorbell rang again as she opened her door into the hallway. Standing outside their doors, her daughters Lisa and Maggie looked at her bleary-eyed and cranky.
"Mom, someone's at the door," her six-year old youngest whined, her plain blue nightgown wrinkling as she rubbed her eyes.
Her elder daughter, the twelve-year old prodigy, muttered "Dad's home" with a sarcastic drone.
"Go back to bed girls, I'll take care of this." Marge readjusted her sash as the younger Simpsons sighed and went back to bed. As she passed it, Marge registered in the back of her head that Bart's door clicked shut. Odd, considering he was supposed to be spending the weekend with his degenerate friends Milhouse and Nelson.
The doorbell rang again. She'll have to see what Bart's problem was later.
As she descended the stairs, she registered the hard pounding on her door. "Ms. Simpson, Springfield Police. Open the door." She recognized Chief Wiggum's voice on the other side of the door. Part of her registered the unusual circumstances. Normally, when Homer gets drunk, Eddie and Lou just ring the doorbell, open the door with Homer's keys and toss him inside. However, this time the Chief was here, the street flooded with spinning red and blue lights and making enough noise to wake every neighbor for a thousand yards.
Marge said a silent prayer that Homer was alright as she opened the door.
"Good evening Chie-"
Marge was cut short as Eddie forced his way in, gun drawn and pointed. He made a beeline up the stairs as Lou followed behind, gun drawn, moving towards the kitchen.
"Look, I'm sorry for this Midge, but it's standard procedure." Wiggum walked in, his frumpy disheveled self taking particular note to keep Marge focused on him. Through the glare of the lights outside, Marge could barely register additional officers swarming around the building outside.
Marge's emotions went from shocked to furious as she heard a door being kicked in upstairs. "Clancy, what the heck is going on here? Why are you barging in like this?"
Wiggum held up his hand, offering Marge a piece of paper. It said "Warrant of Arrest" in large letters above it. He spoke up as Marge snatched it out of his hand and began reading frantically. "Look Ms. Simpson, there was a robbery two hours ago at the Kwik-E-Mart. The clerk was shot."
Marge looked up, confusion and horror splashed across her face as she read the name on the warrant. "According to the security footage, the gunman was..."
Marge snapped her head around as she heard her thirteen year-old son yelp in panic as Eddie guided him forcefully down the stairs, his hands cuffed behind his back. Bart's clothes were covered in muck and grime, as if he had been in a dumpster.
In Eddie's other hand was a sawed-off shotgun Marge didn't recognize.
Bart's voice cracked as he looked at his mother's terrified expression, meekly pleading "Mom, do something" as Lou came back into the foyer, holstering his weapon. "Bartholomew Simpson," Lou started, "you are under arrest for grand larceny and assault with a deadly weapon. You have the right..."
Marge's brain didn't register whatever else Lou said. In her mind, her son's pleas for salvation rang around like a hollow bell. It was all she could do to stay on her feet, not registering the sound of Lisa and Maggie gasping in shock at what was going on. All she saw was her son, struggling in his cuffs as he was led out the door.
Her reverie was broken by the sharp tone of a cell phone ringing. As Lou stopped to answer the call on the lawn, she vaguely made out the faces of her friends and neighbors as they watched the scene unfold like some damn TV drama.
As Lou nodded, hung up the phone and whispered something to Chief Wiggum, the only thought Marge could form was a wish that her husband were here. That he was home, and could put a stop to this cruel joke.
"Marge, that was the hospital," Wiggum started, his voice unusually firm and competent-sounding. "The clerk, Sanjay, has died of his injuries...Bart is now under arrest for first-degree murder."
As the door closed in front of her, Marge was unable to even form a concise thought. Sinking to her knees, she just began to cry, not even registering the panicked inquiries of her daughters as they bounded down the stairs.