The soft glow of the television flickered across the familiar, if slightly worn, living room. Homer was out at Moe's, as he often was on a Friday night, his absence leaving an unusual quietness in the usually boisterous Simpsons household. Lisa was deep in a textbook, sequestered in her room, and Maggie was long since asleep in her crib. Only Bart remained awake, sprawled on the couch, ostensibly watching some late-night infomercial, but his gaze kept drifting. Not to the flickering screen, but to the figure in the armchair across from him.

Marge, ever the devoted matriarch, sat knitting, her needles clicking a gentle rhythm against the backdrop of the quiet night. The soft light seemed to soften the edges of her distinctive blue beehive, casting long, elegant shadows that emphasized the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders. Bart, now a young man teetering on the edge of twenty, felt a shift in his perception of his mother. The familiar comfort was still there, but beneath it, a new awareness had been growing, a subtle undercurrent that hummed with a forbidden electricity.

He watched the gentle sway of her body as she moved, the way her simple house dress clung to the generous curves of her figure. He couldn't deny it any longer; Marge was a beautiful woman. Her "Milf" qualities had, over the past few years, become undeniable to his maturing eyes. The warmth of her smile, the comforting scent that always clung to her, the way she carried herself with an unassuming grace – it all coalesced into a potent allure he had tried, and failed, to ignore. Tonight, however, the quiet intimacy of their shared space felt different, charged with an unspoken tension.

"Can't sleep, Barty?" Marge asked, her voice a soft hum, without looking up from her knitting. Her fingers, long and elegant, worked the yarn with practiced ease. Bart swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He felt a blush creep up his neck, an unfamiliar sensation when speaking to his mother.

"Nah, just... not tired," he mumbled, pushing himself up to a sitting position. He watched her for another moment, appreciating the way the fabric stretched taut across her chest, hinting at the impressive swell of her "Big Tits" beneath. A pang of something akin to longing, but infinitely more complicated, shot through him.

Marge finally lowered her knitting, placing it gently into a basket beside her. She stretched, a slow, languid movement that made her dress ride up slightly, revealing a hint of toned thigh. Bart’s breath hitched. He noticed the slight sigh that escaped her lips, a sound that spoke of weariness, perhaps even a quiet sadness that resonated with something he couldn't quite name within himself.

"It's so quiet tonight," Marge mused, looking around the room, her gaze finally settling on Bart. Her eyes, usually so full of gentle reproach or maternal concern, held a wistful vulnerability he hadn't seen before. "Sometimes, I miss the noise, but other times… the quiet is nice too. A chance to just... be."

Bart found himself moving without conscious thought, leaving the worn cushions of the couch to sit on the floor beside her armchair, resting his head against her knee. It was a gesture from his childhood, one she usually welcomed with a soft pat to his hair. This time, however, the touch felt different. Her hand, instead of going to his head, rested lightly on his shoulder, her thumb tracing small, almost imperceptible circles on his shirt fabric.

"You okay, Mom?" he asked, his voice softer than he intended. He could feel the warmth of her leg through the fabric of her dress, a comforting heat that also sent a shiver of awareness through him. Her scent, a mix of laundry detergent and something uniquely Marge, enveloped him, intoxicating and familiar.

Marge sighed again, a deeper sound this time. "Oh, Barty. Just… life, you know? Sometimes, I just wish for a little more excitement, a little more… attention." Her voice dropped to a near whisper on the last word, almost as if she hadn't meant for him to hear it. But Bart heard it, and it resonated deeply within him, stirring a nascent courage he hadn't known he possessed.

He lifted his head, turning to look up at her. Her blue eyes, usually so composed, held a flicker of something raw and yearning. His own gaze dropped to her lips, full and soft, slightly parted. The air between them thickened, becoming almost palpable. The unspoken desire, the forbidden longing, hung heavy, a silent promise waiting to be fulfilled.

Bart's hand, almost unconsciously, reached up, his fingers brushing against the soft skin of her arm. Marge flinched slightly, but didn't pull away. Instead, her breath hitched, her eyes widening just a fraction. He felt the rapid flutter of his own heart, a drumbeat against his ribs, mirroring the frantic pulse he could almost feel beneath his fingertips on her arm.

"Mom," he whispered, the name feeling foreign, laden with a new meaning. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin of her forearm, a tentative, exploratory touch. Her gaze, still locked with his, was a turbulent mix of shock, curiosity, and something undeniably akin to anticipation. The warmth radiating from her body was a siren's call, pulling him closer, drawing him into the intoxicating vortex of their shared secret.

Slowly, tentatively, Bart leaned in, his eyes never leaving hers, seeking permission in their depths. Marge's lips parted further, a soft gasp escaping her. Her hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, now trembled slightly as it came to rest on his jawline, her fingers gently cupping his face. The touch was feather-light, yet it ignited a firestorm within him.

Their lips met. At first, it was a hesitant, almost chaste touch, a mere breath of contact. But as Marge's soft sigh mingled with his own, the kiss deepened, a tentative exploration transforming into a hungry, undeniable press. Bart's hand moved from her arm to her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the supple give of her flesh. Marge responded instantly, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him in with a desperate urgency that shocked and thrilled him.

Her lips were soft, yielding, tasting of something uniquely Marge, a sweet, comforting familiarity now laced with the electrifying spice of forbidden desire. Bart's tongue tentatively traced the seam of her lips, and Marge, with a low groan that vibrated through his entire body, parted them, inviting him in. Their tongues met, danced, tangled, a sensual ballet that sent shivers down his spine and made his blood roar in his ears. This was more than a kiss; it was a confession, a release of years of suppressed longing.

Marge's hand slid down the back of his neck, her fingers digging gently into his skin, pulling him into a deeper embrace. He felt the soft give of her "Big Tits" pressing against his chest, a sensation that made his head spin. His own hands, no longer tentative, explored the curve of her waist, the tempting swell of her hips, moving lower, brushing against the rounded perfection of her "Big Ass" through the fabric of her dress. A primal urge surged through him, an instinct to claim, to possess.

With a shared breath, they broke the kiss, their foreheads resting against each other, chests heaving. Marge’s eyes were half-lidded, her lips swollen and glistening, her face flushed with a mixture of passion and something akin to disbelief. "Bart," she whispered, her voice husky, barely audible. It wasn't a rebuke, but a plea, a question, a surrender.

"I know, Mom," he murmured back, his voice thick with desire. He kissed her again, this time with more confidence, more hunger. His hands slid beneath her dress, finding the smooth skin of her thighs, tracing upward. Marge gasped, arching into his touch, her body responding with an eagerness that fueled his own burgeoning passion.

He lifted her from the armchair, Marge wrapping her legs instinctively around his waist, her arms locking around his neck. The weight of her body was a delicious burden, pressing her magnificent curves against him. He carried her, stumbling slightly in his urgency, towards the couch, gently laying her down onto the cushions. Her blue beehive was slightly askew, a few strands of hair escaping, making her look wilder, more alluring.

Bart knelt over her, his eyes devouring her. Her dress, bunched around her hips, was no longer a barrier. His fingers trembled as he fumbled with the buttons, Marge helping him with impatient sighs. When the last button was undone, he pulled the fabric apart, revealing the soft, lacy bra beneath, straining to contain her ample bosom. His gaze lingered on her "Big Tits," the pale skin, the faint blue veins, the promise of softness beneath the lace.

He leaned down, his lips trailing fire along her neck, kissing the hollow of her throat, her collarbone. Marge moaned, her head falling back against the cushions, offering herself to him. His hands found the clasp of her bra, releasing it with a practiced ease that surprised even himself. With a gentle push, the fabric fell away, revealing the full, glorious expanse of her breasts. They spilled upwards, round and heavy, tipped with delicate, pale pink nipples that hardened under his gaze.

"Oh, Barty," Marge breathed, her voice a mix of awe and pure pleasure. He took one of her "Big Tits" into his hand, feeling its weight, its incredible softness. His thumb brushed over her nipple, and Marge arched her back, a raw cry escaping her lips. He lowered his head, suckling gently, his tongue laving the engorged peak. Marge whimpered, her fingers burying themselves in his hair, guiding him, pressing him closer.

He moved between her breasts, teasing, licking, before moving to the other, suckling with a fervent hunger, drawing deep, languid gulps that made Marge writhe beneath him. Her hands roamed over his back, his shoulders, her touch electrifying. Meanwhile, Bart’s other hand found its way between her legs, discovering the soft, warm fabric of her panties. They were already damp, a testament to her readiness.

With a desperate tug, he pulled them down, Marge lifting her hips to assist him, her legs parting wider. And then she was before him, utterly exposed. Her "Big Ass" lifted from the couch as he pulled her panties free, and the sight of her womanhood, framed by a soft, dark triangle of curls, made his breath hitch. It was more beautiful, more inviting, than he could have ever imagined. A delicate slit, glistening with anticipation, pulsed gently, beckoning him.

He discarded his own clothes with a frantic urgency, Marge’s eyes widening as she took in his aroused form. "Oh, my sweet boy," she murmured, reaching out to cup him, her touch sending a jolt of pure ecstasy through him. "You’re so… magnificent."

Bart leaned down, pressing his lips to her soft, inner thigh, tasting her, before moving upwards. He parted her folds gently with his fingers, revealing the clitoris, swollen and engorged. Marge gasped as his tongue flickered over it, a delicate, teasing touch that made her hips buck. He licked, he sucked, he swirled, his mouth a practiced instrument of pleasure, drawing deep moans from her. Marge cried out his name, her body convulsing, her nails digging into the cushions as she pushed herself against his mouth, desperate for more.

"Please, Barty, please!" she begged, her voice ragged with pleasure. He continued his ministrations, not stopping until her body seized in a powerful orgasm, her legs tensing, her back arching, a guttural cry of pure release tearing from her throat. He felt the pulsing warmth against his tongue, a taste that was utterly intoxicating.

When her tremors subsided, Bart moved between her legs, positioning himself at her entrance. Marge's eyes, still glazed with the afterglow of her climax, met his. There was no longer any hesitation, only a shared, burning desire. He pressed gently, her warmth engulfing the head of his penis. Marge let out a soft sigh, her legs wrapping around his waist, drawing him in. He pushed, slowly, inch by agonizing inch, into her tight, wet warmth.

Marge whimpered, a sound of pleasure and a little pain, as he breached her. Her muscles contracted around him, a delicious squeeze that made him groan. He paused, allowing her to adjust, kissing her forehead, her lips. "Too much?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. She shook her head, tears of pleasure welling in her eyes. "No, Barty. Never too much. Just… perfect."

With a deeper thrust, he buried himself completely inside her, a feeling of absolute euphoria washing over him. Their bodies were perfectly aligned, a puzzle piece slotting into place. He began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing rhythm, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure through both of them. Marge arched her back, meeting his thrusts, her hips rising to grind against his. The sound of their bodies slapping together, the soft groans and sighs, filled the quiet living room, a symphony of forbidden delight.

His hands moved to her "Big Ass," cupping the magnificent swell of her cheeks, lifting her, adjusting her angle to allow for deeper penetration. The sensation was mind-blowing, the tightness, the warmth, the sheer, unadulterated pleasure. He felt himself nearing his own climax, but a new, exhilarating thought suddenly seized him.

He pulled out, just slightly, Marge letting out a whimper of protest. "What is it, Barty?" she asked, her voice laced with confusion and longing. He leaned in, whispering against her ear, "I want to try something else, Mom. Something… deeper." He pressed a kiss to her earlobe, his hand moving to the delicate valley between her butt cheeks. "I want to feel all of you."

Marge stiffened slightly, a flicker of apprehension crossing her face. "Bart… anal?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. He looked into her eyes, pleading, reassuring. "Please, Mom. I'll be gentle. I just… I need to be completely inside you. All of you." He gently kneaded her "Big Ass," the soft, yielding flesh beneath his fingers. He could feel her pulse quicken, a subtle shift in her expression from apprehension to a hesitant curiosity, then to a melting, trusting surrender.

"Okay, Barty," she finally said, her voice soft, a hint of breathless excitement in it. "Just… be careful."

He smiled, a triumphant, loving grin. He pulled her closer, shifting her slightly. He kissed her deeply, soothing her, before reaching for a small bottle of lotion he’d noticed on an end table earlier – a simple hand lotion, but it would do. He squeezed a generous dollop onto his fingers, applying it liberally to her soft, puckered opening, and then to himself.

Marge gasped as he pressed the head of his penis against her "anal" opening, a new and entirely different sensation. He pushed slowly, agonizingly slowly, feeling the incredibly tight, velvety resistance. Marge tensed, her breath catching in her throat, but she didn’t pull away. He took a deep, shaky breath, easing in further. Each millimeter of penetration was an exquisite, almost painful pleasure for them both. He felt her muscles clenching around him, fighting and then gradually relaxing under his gentle, persistent pressure.

With a final, slow push, he was in. Completely. Marge cried out, a sharp, surprised gasp, her body arching off the couch. Her "Big Ass" lifted, presenting itself fully, allowing him to plunge deeper still. He paused, letting her adjust, feeling the incredible, mind-numbing tightness around him. It was an entirely new universe of sensation, raw, primal, overwhelming. He could feel her clitoris, still swollen from her previous orgasm, rubbing against him from the inside, sending waves of secondary pleasure through her.

"Oh… Barty," Marge gasped, her voice strained, a delicious mix of discomfort and burgeoning ecstasy. "It’s… so full. So… deep."

He began to move, gently at first, shallow thrusts, allowing her body to acclimate. Marge moaned, her fingers digging into his back, her hips beginning to rise, to meet his thrusts, a testament to her astonishing capacity for pleasure. The sensation of his penis buried deep within her "anal" passage, rubbing against her hidden nooks and crannies, was unlike anything he had ever imagined. Each withdrawal and re-entry was a feast for his senses, the slick friction, the incredible grip, the sheer, animalistic pleasure of it all.

He picked up his pace, a slow, deliberate rhythm that soon escalated into a furious, unstoppable tempo. Marge was moaning incessantly now, her head thrashing from side to side, her "Big Tits" bouncing with each thrust. "Faster, Barty! Please, faster!" she pleaded, her voice a desperate sob. He obeyed, plunging into her "Big Ass" with all his might, each thrust driving him deeper into her forbidden depths.

Her cries grew louder, intertwining with his own guttural grunts. He felt her clenching around him, the tight, internal muscles squeezing, milking him, driving him closer and closer to the edge. He focused on her face, her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the pure, unadulterated ecstasy radiating from her. His hand reached down, finding her clitoris again, rubbing it gently as he continued his deep, rhythmic strokes. Marge screamed, a long, drawn-out cry of pure, unbridled climax, her body convulsing around him, squeezing him with incredible force.

The sensation was too much, too good. With one final, powerful thrust, Bart erupted inside her, pouring himself into her "anal" cavity, groaning his own name as his body stiffened and then slumped against her, utterly spent. Marge’s body trembled beneath him, her soft skin slick with sweat, her breath coming in ragged gasps. They lay there for a long moment, intertwined, their hearts pounding in unison, the air thick with the scent of sex and the profound aftermath of their shared, explosive climax.

Eventually, Bart stirred, pulling himself up slightly, though still intimately connected with Marge. He looked down at her, her eyes slowly opening, meeting his gaze. They were filled with a complex mixture of exhaustion, wonder, and a deep, overwhelming affection. She reached up, her fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. A soft smile, a truly contented smile, graced her lips.

"Oh, Barty," she whispered again, her voice still husky from their exertions. "That was… incredible. Absolutely incredible."

He leaned down, kissing her softly, tenderly, a kiss that spoke of gratitude, of love, of a bond irrevocably changed. "You were incredible, Mom," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. He pulled himself out of her, the withdrawal a reluctant, lingering sensation, and lay beside her on the couch, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her. Marge nestled into his side, her head resting on his chest, her hand finding his and lacing their fingers together.

The quiet returned, but it was a different quiet now. It was filled with the lingering echoes of their passion, with the warmth of their intertwined bodies, with the knowledge of a boundary crossed, a secret shared, and a love rediscovered in the most unexpected and thrilling way. The forbidden had become beautiful, and in the arms of her son, Marge felt more alive, more desired, and more cherished than she had in years. And Bart, holding his mother close, knew that this night, this powerful, passionate, and deeply intimate connection, would forever be etched into the very core of his being, a testament to the undeniable, transformative power of their love.