Chapter 3: The Temptation of the Flesh
The sticky mess on Homer’s chest was cooling fast, turning tacky. He swiped a clumsy hand across it, grimacing at the smear. "Ugh. Like week-old frosting." His gaze landed on the shredded grey pants lying near the overturned chair leg. "D'oh! Lookit that! Total blowout." He sighed, a deep, weary sound that ruffled the dust motes dancing in the fading light. "Well, guess I’ll have to go home commando. Marge is gonna flip her wig." He started to push himself up, groaning as his aching back protested.
Reverend Lovejoy hadn't moved from his knees. He remained hunched on the dusty floorboards, trembling slightly, head bowed. The thick smear of Homer’s release glistened wetly on his inner thighs, slowly dripping onto the wood. He looked utterly wrecked – sweat-plastered hair, tear tracks cutting through the grime on his cheeks, his clerical shirt hanging open, exposing pale, heaving flesh. But when Homer shifted to stand, Lovejoy’s head snapped up.
His eyes weren't filled with tears now. They were dark pools of something desperate, hungry, haunted. They locked onto Homer’s softening cock, still slick and heavy between his thighs. A tremor ran through Lovejoy’s entire frame.
"Homer," he rasped, the name catching in his throat. His voice was raw, stripped bare. "Don't… don't go."
Homer paused, one knee raised awkwardly. "Huh? Rev, I gotta. Marge’ll kill me if I’m late for dinner. Probably meatloaf night." He glanced nervously towards the study door, picturing Marge’s disappointed face. "And Bart'll ask why I ain't wearin' pants. Kid notices everything."
"If you stay," Lovejoy whispered, pushing himself up slightly on trembling arms. He shuffled forward on his knees, the rough wood scraping his bare skin. His gaze never left Homer’s groin. "Just… just a little longer." He reached out, his hand shaking violently. His fingers, cold and damp, brushed against Homer’s softening flesh. "I’ll… I’ll make it worth your while."
Homer flinched at the unexpected touch. "Whoa, Rev! Easy!" The contact sent a confusing jolt through him – part discomfort, part unwelcome echo of the intense sensations still buzzing faintly in his nerves. He looked down at Lovejoy’s desperate face, the pleading in his eyes warring with a terrifying intensity. "Make it worth my while? Like… like a donut?" The offer sounded pathetic even to him.
Lovejoy’s cracked lips twisted into a semblance of a smile, devoid of humor. "Better." His trembling hand closed gently, tentatively, around Homer’s cock. It wasn't a firm grip, just a desperate, anchoring hold. He leaned closer, his breath hot and uneven against Homer’s thigh. "Let me… let me taste it again. Clean you up." His other hand rose, fingers brushing the sticky mess drying on Homer’s belly. "Before you go."
Homer stared, frozen. The promise of… that… warred violently with the image of Marge’s meatloaf cooling on the table. The memory of Lovejoy’s mouth on him earlier – the shocking heat, the suction, the dizzying pleasure – surged back, vivid and undeniable. His cock twitched weakly in Lovejoy’s loose grip, betraying him.
"Marge…" Homer mumbled weakly, his resolve crumbling faster than a stale donut. The ache in his back, the stickiness on his skin, the sheer bewildering exhaustion of the afternoon… it all screamed for escape. But the raw need radiating from the man kneeling before him, the promise of that specific, overwhelming sensation… it was a siren song his simple body couldn't ignore. He looked down at Lovejoy’s desperate, upturned face, the dark hunger in his eyes, the trembling hand holding him. "Just… just quick, okay? Real quick? And… and maybe don't bite this time?"
Lovejoy didn't answer with words. A choked sound escaped him – relief, desperation, maybe both. He shuffled closer on his knees, pressing his face against Homer’s thick thigh. His grip tightened fractionally. Then, with a reverence that felt utterly blasphemous in the wrecked study, he lowered his head.
The first touch of his lips against Homer’s softening flesh was tentative, almost shy. A soft kiss pressed to the sensitive head. Then another, lower down the shaft. His tongue flicked out, tasting the mingled sweat and drying fluids. Homer gasped, his hand instinctively finding the top of Lovejoy’s head, fingers tangling in the damp hair. "Oh… kay… that's… different."
Lovejoy hummed softly against him, a vibration that sent a fresh jolt through Homer’s system. His tongue became bolder, lapping at the softening length, cleaning the sticky residue with meticulous, almost obsessive care. He moved slowly, methodically, his eyes closed, his brow furrowed in concentration. It wasn't the frantic, hungry sucking from before; this was slower, deeper, almost worshipful. He took the head fully into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge.
"Geez, Rev," Homer breathed, his legs trembling slightly. The sensation was less urgent now, but deeper, more insidious. It seeped into his tired muscles, warming him from the inside out. He leaned back slightly against the edge of the heavy wooden desk, letting his weight settle. His fingers tightened unconsciously in Lovejoy’s hair, not forcing, just anchoring. "That's… that's kinda nice. Like… like a warm bath for my wang."
Lovejoy responded by taking him deeper. Not aggressively, but persistently. His mouth was hot, wet, incredibly skilled. He worked with a quiet desperation, his focus absolute. He hollowed his cheeks, applying gentle suction, his tongue massaging the underside of Homer’s shaft as he moved up and down. He paid attention to every inch, cleaning, tasting, coaxing. Homer’s softening flesh began to thicken again, responding eagerly to the devoted attention. The ache in Homer’s back faded, replaced by a spreading warmth pooling low in his belly.
"Yeah," Homer sighed, his head lolling back against the desk. "Okay. Yeah. That's… that's the stuff." He looked down, watching the top of Lovejoy’s head bob slowly between his legs. The Reverend’s eyes were squeezed shut, tears leaking silently from the corners again, tracking through the dust on his cheeks. His movements were rhythmic, almost hypnotic. The only sounds were the wet, soft suckling noises, Homer’s heavy breathing, and the relentless tick-tock of the clock on the mantelpiece.
Homer’s cock hardened fully under Lovejoy’s ministrations, standing thick and flushed once more. Lovejoy felt the change, heard Homer’s breath hitch. He moaned softly around him, the vibration intensifying the sensation. He picked up the pace slightly, his head bobbing faster, his hand coming up to cradle Homer’s heavy balls, rolling them gently in his palm.
"Whoa, Nelly," Homer gasped, his hips giving an involuntary little thrust. The heat, the wetness, the suction… it was building again, a slow, inevitable pressure. "Rev… you're… you're really good at this." It was a simple, bewildered observation. "Like, way better than…" He trailed off, realizing mentioning Marge felt profoundly wrong right now.
Lovejoy didn't seem to hear. He was lost in the act, in the taste, in the feel of Homer filling his mouth, in the desperate need to keep him here, keep him hard, keep him his for just a few moments longer. He sucked harder, deeper, taking him almost to the back of his throat, gagging softly but pushing through. His tears dripped onto Homer’s thigh.
The pressure coiled tighter, hotter, deep in Homer’s core. The rhythmic bobbing, the wet heat, the sight of the Reverend of Springfield on his knees, servicing him with such desperate devotion… it overwhelmed his simple senses. "I'm… I'm gonna… Rev…" he warned, his voice thick.
Lovejoy’s eyes flew open. They met Homer’s gaze, wide and pleading and utterly shattered. He didn't pull away. He sucked harder, faster, his hand squeezing gently at the base of Homer’s cock. A silent plea: Yes. Do it. Give it to me.
With a grunt that shook his whole frame – "UNGH!" – Homer came. It wasn't the explosive geyser from before, but a thick, pulsing rush flooding Lovejoy’s waiting mouth. Lovejoy choked slightly but held on, swallowing convulsively, his throat working, his eyes squeezed shut again as he took every pulse, every drop. He sucked gently until Homer’s cock softened completely, until the last tremors subsided.
Finally, spent, Lovejoy pulled back slowly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his trembling hand, leaving a glistening smear. He looked utterly drained, hollowed out, kneeling there amidst the dust and the lingering scent of sex and old paper. Homer sagged against the desk, panting, staring down at him with dazed incomprehension.
"Okay," Homer mumbled, his voice thick and slow. "Okay. That was… quick." He patted Lovejoy’s head awkwardly. "Good job, Rev. Real… thorough." He straightened up with a groan, his back protesting anew. He glanced around, spotting the shredded grey pants again. Hopeless. He sighed, a long, weary sound. "Right. Gotta motor. Commando express." He shuffled towards the door, his bare feet slapping softly on the wood.
He didn't look back. He couldn't. The weight of what had just happened, the sheer bewildering wrongness of it all, pressed down on him heavier than Reverend Lovejoy ever had. He fumbled with the study door handle.
Behind him, still kneeling in the wreckage, Lovejoy’s voice was a dry whisper, barely audible over the ticking clock. "You'll come back, Homer." It wasn't a question. It was a statement, bleak and certain. "You'll need to."
Homer froze, his hand on the cool brass knob. The words slithered into his ear, cold and unsettling. He didn't turn. He didn't answer. He just yanked the door open and stumbled out into the dim hallway, the Reverend’s promise clinging to his bare skin like the drying sweat. The distant sound of the church bell tolled again, marking the hour he was already late. Marge’s meatloaf awaited. And the long walk home, pantless, had just begun.
The cool hallway air hit Homer’s bare legs like a shock. He shivered, the sweat drying unpleasantly on his skin, the ghost of Lovejoy’s mouth still tingling. Each step towards the front door felt heavy, absurd, the rough wood floor scraping his soles. Just gotta get home. Meatloaf. Pants. Pretend this never happened. He fumbled with the heavy front door latch, the brass cold under his fingers.
A muffled thud came from the study behind him – Lovejoy collapsing, maybe. Homer winced but didn't turn. Not my circus, not my… uh… floundering preacher. He yanked the door open, the twilight of Springfield washing over him. Freedom. Sort of.
"Simpson?" The thick Scottish brogue cut through the evening air like a rusty saw. Groundskeeper Willie stood frozen on the porch step, a burlap sack of fertilizer slung over one shoulder. His eyes, usually narrowed in perpetual suspicion, were wide saucers. They darted past Homer into the dim hallway, then down. Down to Homer’s bare legs, the rumpled, unbuttoned shirt, the unmistakable… exposure.
Homer froze, mid-shuffle. "Uh… Willie! Fancy meeting you here! Just… uh… consulting the Reverend! On… sin! Heavy stuff!" He tried an awkward chuckle, instinctively moving his hands to cover himself. Too late. Way too late.
Willie’s gaze wasn't horrified. It was… transfixed. He slowly lowered the fertilizer sack with a thump, his eyes locked not on Homer’s face, but lower. Much lower. A slow, disbelieving grin spread across his weathered face. "Consultin', eh?" he rasped, his voice thick. "Looks like ye consulted somethin' right vigorous, ye wee man." He took a step closer, the porch boards creaking. The scent of peat moss and sweat mingled with the night air.
Homer backpedaled instinctively, bumping into the hallway wall. "Willie, listen, it’s not what it looks like…"
From the study doorway, Reverend Lovejoy appeared, swaying slightly. His clerical collar hung askew, his shirt was open, revealing flushed skin. His eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, fixed on Willie. Then, they dropped to the front of Willie’s worn trousers, visibly tented. A flicker of something raw passed over Lovejoy’s face – not shame now, but a desperate, reckless hunger. "William," he breathed, the word barely audible, ragged. "You… you see it too? The… the need?"
Willie chuckled, a low, dirty sound. "Oh, aye, Reverend. I see it." He stepped fully into the hallway, kicking the door shut behind him with a booted foot. The space felt suddenly cramped, charged. He moved past Homer like he wasn't there, his eyes fixed on Lovejoy. "All that righteous talk Sunday mornin'," Willie murmured, stopping inches from the trembling pastor. "All that fire and brimstone." He reached out a calloused hand, not touching Lovejoy, but hovering near the open shirt, near the raw vulnerability. "Look at ye now. Corrupted. Glorious."
Lovejoy shuddered, a small whimper escaping him. He didn't pull away. He leaned into Willie’s space, his breath hitching. "Help me," he whispered, the plea ragged, aimed as much at Willie as it had been at Homer. "Make the noise stop. Make me feel… only this."
Willie’s grin widened. "Gladly." He grabbed Lovejoy’s face in both hands, rough and possessive. Their mouths crashed together – not a kiss, but a devouring. Teeth clashed, tongues warred wetly, a low groan rumbling from Willie’s chest as Lovejoy clutched at his shoulders, moaning into the brutal kiss. It was raw, ugly, fervent.
Homer stared, rooted to the spot, forgotten. He watched the aggressive dance of their tongues, the desperate press of bodies. His own spent cock gave a traitorous twitch against his thigh. This was insane. Completely insane.
Willie broke the kiss, panting, a string of saliva connecting them for a moment before snapping. He shoved Lovejoy back a step, not roughly, but decisively. "On yer knees, both o' ye," he commanded, his voice rough with lust. "Now." It wasn't a request.
Lovejoy dropped instantly, his eyes wide, fixed on Willie’s groin. Homer hesitated, glancing longingly at the door. Willie’s hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of Homer’s shirt, yanking him off balance. "Dinnae make me tell ye twice, Simpson. Kneel!"
Homer stumbled down beside Lovejoy on the hard hallway floor. The contrast was jarring – the trembling, broken Reverend and the gruff, aroused groundskeeper looming over them. Willie undid his belt buckle with brisk efficiency, the rasp loud in the confined space. He pushed his trousers and worn underwear down just enough, freeing his thick, flushed cock. It stood rigid, demanding, its musky scent flooding Homer’s nostrils.
"Right then," Willie growled, looking down at them, his eyes dark with depraved intent. "Open wide."
Lovejoy didn't hesitate. He lunged forward, taking the head of Willie’s cock deep into his mouth with a desperate, hungry groan, sucking hard, his eyes rolling back. Willie hissed, tangling a hand in Lovejoy’s hair. "Aye, that’s it, Reverend. Show the Good Lord what ye really worship."
Willie’s other hand grabbed the back of Homer’s neck, shoving his face towards his own groin. "You too, big man. Earn yer keep." Homer gagged as the thick head pressed against his lips, the taste alien, overpowering. He opened his mouth, letting Willie push in, the flesh filling him, stretching his jaw. Willie’s cock pulsed against his tongue, hot and vital.
Willie guided their heads, forcing their faces close together. "Now kiss," he commanded, his voice thick with strain. "Kiss while ye suck."
Homer’s eyes met Lovejoy’s, inches apart, Willie’s cock in both their mouths. Lovejoy’s gaze was feverish, lost. He leaned in, pressing his open mouth against Homer’s, their lips mashed together around the thick shaft. Willie’s cock slid wetly between their joined mouths as they awkwardly, desperately kissed, their tongues tangling around the intrusion. It was messy, clumsy, suffocating. Homer tasted salt, Willie’s pre-come, Lovejoy’s tears, the lingering bile of his own confusion.
Willie groaned above them, grinding his hips forward. "Fuckin' beautiful," he rasped. "Saints and sinners, suckin' cock together. Suck it harder!" He thrust shallowly into their joined mouths, the friction intense. Homer choked, tears springing to his eyes. Lovejoy moaned around the flesh, the vibration making Willie curse.
The rhythm became frantic, desperate. Their heads bobbed in Willie’s grip, wet sounds filling the hallway, punctuated by gasps, groans, the slap of balls against chins. Homer felt Lovejoy’s hand reach over, grasping weakly at his own semi-hard cock, trying to stroke it. Everything blurred – the taste, the pressure, the heat, the profound wrongness.
Willie’s breathing hitched, his grip tightening painfully on their heads. "Gonnae… gonnae coat ye both!" he roared. He shoved their faces hard against him, holding them tightly together, grinding against their mouths. "Take it! Take it, ye filthy beasts!"
Homer felt the hot, thick pulse hitting the back of his throat, flooding his mouth. Simultaneously, jets splattered against his cheek, his forehead, his eyelids. Lovejoy jerked against him, gagging, swallowing, as more spurts hit his face, his open mouth. The salty, musky fluid painted them – their lips still pressed awkwardly together, their eyes squeezed shut, Willie’s cock twitching against their tongues.
The pulsing stopped. Willie shuddered, releasing his crushing grip on their heads. He stepped back with a satisfied grunt, tucking himself away. Homer and Lovejoy slumped apart, gasping for air, coughing, their faces dripping with white streaks. They knelt in the dim hallway, panting, sticky, utterly defiled, the silence broken only by their ragged breaths and Willie’s low chuckle. The church bell began to toll in the distance.
The church bell’s mournful toll faded, swallowed by the thick silence in Lovejoy’s hallway. Homer spat, the taste of Willie’s release still bitter on his tongue, mixed with dust and the lingering salt of Lovejoy’s tears. He wiped his stinging eyes with the back of his hand, smearing the sticky mess further across his cheek. "Ugh. Tastes like… low-grade haggis," he groaned, blinking.
Beside him, Reverend Lovejoy knelt frozen, trembling violently. Streaks of white painted his face like war paint, dripping onto his open, ruined clerical shirt. He stared blankly at the worn floorboards, his breath shallow, ragged whistles escaping his lips. Willie loomed over them, adjusting his trousers, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. His eyes, sharp and predatory, swept over their wrecked forms.
"Look at the pair o' ye," Willie rasped, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Proper defiled, ain't ye?" He nudged Lovejoy’s shoulder with his boot. "Especially you, Reverend. All that holy water, and here ye are, drownin' in sin." Lovejoy flinched but didn’t look up, a choked sob catching in his throat. Willie’s grin widened. He turned his gaze on Homer. "And you, Simpson. Big man. Full o' surprises. Thought ye only loved donuts."
Homer pushed himself up, groaning as his knees protested. "I do love donuts! This was… this was an accident!" He gestured vaguely at the sticky chaos on his face, his bare legs. "A weird, sticky accident! I gotta get home, Willie. Marge'll have my hide!" He made a stumbling move towards the front door.
Willie stepped sideways, blocking his path easily. "Not so fast, lard-arse." He grabbed the back of Homer’s shirt again, the fabric straining. "Rev’s lookin’ a wee bit peaky. Needs… attendin’ to." His eyes flickered down Homer’s body, lingering with undisguised hunger. "And I ken just the place. My shed. Got a cot. More… private." He nudged Lovejoy roughly with his boot again. "Up, ye broken wee birdie. We’re relocatin'."
Lovejoy looked up, his eyes wide with a fresh wave of terrified longing. He scrambled to his feet unsteadily, swaying. "P-private? William… I… I can’t…" The protest died weakly. The need radiating off Willie was magnetic, terrifying, impossible to resist in his shattered state. He clutched his open shirt closed with trembling hands, a futile gesture of modesty.
"Can and will," Willie stated, grabbing Lovejoy’s upper arm in a vice-like grip. He shoved him towards the back door leading to the garden. "Move, Simpson," he barked over his shoulder. "Or I’ll drag ye by yer bare arse."
"D'oh!" Homer muttered, torn between panic and the bewildering, persistent thrum of arousal Willie’s rough command stirred. He shuffled after them, the cool night air hitting his bare skin as Willie flung open the back door. The walk across Lovejoy’s neglected lawn to Willie’s ramshackle shed felt surreal, exposed. Crickets chirped, oblivious. Homer kept waiting for Flanders' face to appear at a window.
Willie kicked open the shed door, the scent of damp earth, engine oil, and mildew washing over them. Inside was chaos: rusted tools, sacks of peat moss, and in the far corner, a narrow cot covered with a stained, threadbare blanket. Willie shoved Lovejoy towards it. "On the bed, Reverend. Make yerself… comfortable." His tone promised anything but comfort.
Lovejoy stumbled forward, collapsing onto the cot’s edge, burying his face in his hands. His shoulders shook silently. Willie turned, his eyes locking onto Homer. "You." He jabbed a thick finger at the cot. "Get yer big arse behind me. On the bed. Now." He started unbuckling his belt again, the rasp loud in the confined space.
"Behind you?" Homer echoed, bewildered. "What for? Willie, this is gettin' real weird. I just wanna go ho—"
"Did I stutter, Simpson?" Willie snarled, stepping out of his trousers and underwear, kicking them aside. His thick cock jutted out, half-hard again already. He turned his broad back to Homer, bending forward slightly, planting his calloused hands on the edge of the cot near Lovejoy’s thigh. "Get behind me. Get that big tool o' yers out. And put it in me. Hard."
The bluntness punched the air out of Homer. "In… in you? Your butt?" Memories flooded back – the tight, burning heat of Lovejoy, the frantic slapping sounds, the bewildering power. His own cock, responding instantly, thickened against his thigh. "But… but you sucked my wang! And I sucked yours! Isn't that enough butt stuff for one night?"
Willie craned his neck, fixing Homer with a glare that brooked no argument. "Ye think this is a negotiation? Get. It. Or so help me, I'll bend you over this cot and take what I want." He pushed his backside out slightly. "Grease it up. Use spit. Don't care. Just do it."
Homer fumbled with his shirt buttons, his hands shaking as much as Lovejoy’s. He spat messily into his palm, slicking his rapidly hardening length. The sight of Willie’s powerful back, the curve of his ass, the raw command… it ignited a spark of dangerous excitement. He shuffled forward, the rough wood floor biting his bare feet. Positioning himself behind Willie, the heat radiating off the groundskeeper’s skin was intense. He guided his thick head to the tight furl of muscle.
"Ready or not," Homer mumbled, more to himself. He pushed, meeting immediate resistance. Willie grunted, low and deep. "Firmer, ye daft lump!" Homer shoved harder, feeling the clench, the burn, the slow, inexorable breach. Willie hissed, a sound of both pain and profound satisfaction as Homer’s thick cockhead popped past the ring, sinking partially in. "Oh aye…" Willie breathed, pushing back. "That’s the girth. Fill it."
Homer gripped Willie’s hips, the muscles hard under his palms. He pushed deeper, grunting with the effort, the tight channel clamping down on him fiercely. Willie groaned, a rumbling vibration Homer could feel through his own body. Fully sheathed, Homer paused, overwhelmed by the intense heat, the sheer illicit thrill of dominating the usually fearsome groundskeeper. "Ungh... tight," he managed.
"Good," Willie growled, shifting his stance. "Now move. Fuck me like ye mean it, Simpson. Show me what ye did to the good Reverend." He turned his head slightly towards Lovejoy, who was watching them, his face a mask of shock and dawning, feverish hunger. "You," Willie barked at Lovejoy. "Get yer holy arse off the bed. Kneel on the floor. Front and center."
Lovejoy scrambled off the cot, dropping to his knees on the dusty floorboards directly in front of Willie. He looked up, his eyes wide, fixed on Willie’s heavy cock hanging inches from his face.
"Suck," Willie commanded, his voice strained as Homer began to move behind him, pulling back slowly. "Suck me like ye sucked Simpson. Like yer life depends on it." As Homer thrust forward again, a solid, powerful drive that forced a gasp from Willie, the groundskeeper grabbed the back of Lovejoy’s head. "Now, Timmy!"
Lovejoy lunged forward, taking Willie’s cock deep into his mouth with a desperate, muffled cry. He sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks, his eyes squeezed shut as if praying. Or damning himself further. Homer found his rhythm, driven by Willie’s demanding grunts and the lewd, wet sounds of Lovejoy’s sucking. Thrust. Pull. Thrust. The shed walls echoed with the rhythmic slap of Homer’s belly against Willie’s backside, the wet gagging sounds from Lovejoy, and Willie’s low, continuous growls of encouragement and pleasure. "Aye… fuck… just like that… Harder, Simpson! Deeper! And suck, Reverend, suck like the filthy angel ye are!"
Homer pounded, sweat dripping from his brow onto Willie’s back. He watched, mesmerized, as Lovejoy bobbed frantically on Willie’s cock, tears streaming anew, his hands clutching Willie’s thighs for purchase. The double sensation – the intense friction surrounding him and the shocking visual of the Reverend servicing Willie – coiled the pressure in Homer’s gut like an overtightened reactor valve. Willie roared, bucking back against Homer while thrusting deeper into Lovejoy’s throat. "Close… both o' ye… Gonnae drench him… Cover the sinner!"
Homer’s vision blurred. "Guh… Willie… I’m…!" His thrusts became erratic, brutal. He slammed in deep and held, roaring as he erupted, a scalding flood jetting into Willie’s clenching depths. Willie bellowed, his body jerking violently. He shoved Lovejoy’s head down hard onto his cock, hilting himself completely as his own release exploded into the Reverend’s throat. "TAKE IT ALL, YE WEE SAINT! SWALLOW THE DAMNATION!"
Lovejoy choked, gulping convulsively, Willie’s pulsing cock wedged deep as Homer’s come filled the groundskeeper. He trembled violently, swallowing, tears and saliva and semen dripping down his chin. Willie finally released his grip, letting Lovejoy slump back, gasping, wiping his mouth with a trembling hand, his eyes dazed and hollow. Homer pulled out with a wet sound, staggering back, leaning against a workbench piled with rusted spades, panting like he’d run a marathon. Willie straightened up slowly, a look of profound, animal satisfaction on his weathered face. He glanced at the grimy clock nailed to a beam. "Late for yer meatloaf, Simpson," he rasped, tucking himself away. Homer looked down at his bare legs, the drying mess on his skin, the impossible walk home ahead. A fresh wave of panic hit. "D'oh!"