Chapter 3: Breakfast of Champions
The clanging against the bars reverberated in Sugar’s teeth. Alison was already moving, a study in efficient, muscle-memory motion. She swung her legs off the bunk, looming over Sugar for a second before her hand fisted in the blonde hair spread across the pillow.
“Up. Now.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. Sugar winced as she was hauled to her feet, her body protesting every movement. Alison didn’t let go of her hair. She used it as a leash, steering her to the small metal sink bolted to the wall. The water that came out was a rusty trickle, cold enough to make Sugar gasp.
“Clean up,” Alison ordered, splashing her own face. “You’re meetin’ people.”
Sugar tried to pat her face dry with a threadbare towel, but Alison snatched it from her. “Forget it. They don’t care about pretty.” She eyed Sugar’s rumpled, unbuttoned jumpsuit, the swell of pale breasts obvious. A slow, knowing smirk spread across her face. “Actually, they care about that a lot. Leave it.”
She kept her grip on Sugar’s hair, looser now but still controlling, and marched her out of the cell into the streaming current of inmates heading for breakfast. The noise was a wall—shouts, laughter, the scrape of hundreds of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum. Eyes, countless eyes, locked onto them. More specifically, onto Alison’s hand in Sugar’s hair, and onto Sugar herself, stumbling along, her front barely covered.
The cafeteria air was a thick, greasy blanket. Burnt coffee, overcooked eggs, and beneath it all, the sour-sweet smell of crowded humanity—sweat, cheap soap, and desperation. The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry insects.
Alison navigated the room with the ease of a shark, cutting through the current until they reached a long table in the corner. Five women sat there, all variations on Alison’s theme: tall, broad-shouldered, busts straining against faded denim or state-issued tops, skin a canvas of ink. Their conversation died as Alison approached.
“This is Sugar,” Alison announced, her voice carrying over the din. She gave Sugar’s hair a slight tug, a presenter showing off a prize heifer. “My new bunkie.”
A woman with a shaved head and a spiderweb tattoo crawling up her neck leaned back, looking Sugar up and down. “No shit. Heard the fuss last night. Sounded like a demolition derby.”
“She’s durable,” Alison said, finally releasing Sugar’s hair only to push her forward by the small of her back. “Sit.”
Sugar slid onto the bench, acutely aware of every pair of eyes on her. The gang’s names came at her in a blur as Alison pointed—Rizzo, Sketch, Moose, Cutter, Biggs. They nodded, their assessments blunt and physical.
Breakfast trays slid in front of them. Sugar stared at the lump of scrambled eggs, the slice of pale toast, the cup of wobbly, red Jell-O. Her stomach growled, a traitorous sound.
She picked up her spoon and went for the Jell-O first. It was lukewarm, artificially sweet. She saw a packet of ketchup on the tray and, on a whim, squeezed the entire thing over the red cube. It looked almost festive.
“The fuck are you doing?” Sketch, a woman with intricate sleeve tattoos, asked, her eyebrow arched.
“It’s good,” Sugar mumbled, taking a big, sloppy bite. The sweet and salty tang was bizarrely satisfying. She leaned over the tray, and as she did, her jumpsuit gaped further, the full curve of a breast nearly escaping.
A hand, rough and calloused, reached across the table. It wasn’t aggressive, just proprietary, cupping her through the fabric. It was Biggs, the quietest of them, with watchful eyes. She gave a firm, evaluating squeeze. “Soft,” she grunted, then withdrew her hand back to her own eggs.
Sugar just blinked, swallowed her Jell-O, and took another bite. A strange warmth was spreading through her, different from the shame she’d expected. It was a buzzing, attention-fueled glow.
Rizzo, the one with the spiderweb, watched her eat for a minute. Then she crooked a finger. “C’mere.”
Sugar hesitated, glancing at Alison. Alison was shoveling eggs into her mouth, watching the exchange with a flat, approving expression. She gave a slight nod.
Sugar slid along the bench until she was within Rizzo’s reach. Rizzo didn’t say a word. She just grabbed a handful of Sugar’s hair, pulled her head close, and kissed her. It was nothing like Alison’s violent claiming. This was slower, exploratory, a tongue pushing past her lips to taste the fake strawberry and ketchup. Sugar’s hands fluttered for a moment, then settled on the table. She opened her mouth wider, a willing participant.
Rizzo broke the kiss with a wet sound. She didn’t let go of Sugar’s hair. “Not bad,” she said, and then spit, a clear glob, directly onto Sugar’s cheek.
It dripped down towards her jawline. Before Sugar could react, Moose, a mountain of a woman with a playful grin, leaned in and licked it clean with a broad swipe of her tongue. “Salty,” she joked, and the table rumbled with low laughter.
The contact didn’t stop. As Sugar tried to resume eating her now-cold eggs, hands were on her constantly. A pinch on her side, a palm sliding over her ass as someone got up for more coffee, fingers tracing the line of her collarbone. Sketch pulled her in for another kiss, this one deeper, her tongue mapping Sugar’s teeth. Another woman—Cutter—bit her earlobe, not hard, but enough to make Sugar jump.
She felt dizzy, overwhelmed, and utterly, stupidly alive. This was a different currency than the one she’d used in her old life, but she understood it instinctively. Her body was the trade. And they wanted it. Their attention was a tangible heat on her skin, more nourishing than the dismal food.
Alison finished her coffee and stood. The table fell quiet. “Yard time,” she stated. She looked at Sugar, whose lips were swollen, face flushed, breakfast a forgotten mess. “You’re with us.”
The yard was a fenced square of cracked asphalt and bald, dusty earth under a relentless sun. The relative freedom after the cramped cafeteria was exhilarating. Sugar tipped her face up, eyes closed, feeling the heat on her skin.
She didn’t notice the circle closing around her until a shadow blocked the sun.
Alison stood in front of her. Rizzo, Sketch, Moose, Cutter, and Biggs formed a loose, imposing semicircle at her back, cutting them off from the rest of the inmates milling around.
“So,” Alison said, her voice casual. She lit a contraband cigarette, the smoke curling in the still air. “The girls had a talk.”
Sugar looked from one face to another. They were all watching her, expressions ranging from amusement to flat hunger.
“We appreciated the show at breakfast,” Alison continued, taking a drag. “But see, enjoying the view… it builds up an appetite.” She blew the smoke out slowly. “A different kind.”
Rizzo cracked her knuckles. Sketch smiled, a flash of white teeth.
“They all want their asses eaten,” Alison said, as if commenting on the weather. “By you. Starting now.”
The words hung in the hot air. Sugar’s mind, never particularly fast, processed them. The image formed instantly, vividly. The request was so crude, so impossibly debasing, that it should have sent a bolt of terror through her.
Instead, a jolt of pure, electric excitement shocked her system. It was the same illicit thrill she’d felt last night, multiplied. This wasn’t just Alison anymore. This was the whole crew. They weren’t just looking; they were demanding. Her worth, her place, was being cemented in the most graphic way possible.
A slow, dumb smile spread across her face, genuine and uncalculated. Her heart hammered against her ribs, not from fear, but from a wild, eager anticipation.
“Okay,” she breathed, the word barely audible.
Alison’s smirk was triumphant. She flicked her cigarette away. “I thought you’d say that.” She jerked her head towards a slightly more secluded corner of the yard, near a rusted basketball post. “Over there. We’ll take turns.”
As they began to move, a solid wall of female muscle guiding her across the dusty ground, Sugar’s only coherent thought was a silent, screaming echo in the emptiness of her skull.
Finally, something to do.