Chapter 4: Breakfast of Champions
The words hung in the greasy air between the hiss of bacon and the gurgle of the coffee pot. Her smirk was a challenge, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. There was a flicker there, something assessing, maybe even a sliver of doubt she’d never shown before. She was waiting for his reaction, for the numb compliance she’d sculpted over years.
Cletus didn’t blink. The hollowed-out feeling from the night before was gone, replaced by a low, steady current. He looked from her eyes down to her hand, still holding him with a casual ownership that now felt like an insult. He moved.
His hands shot out, not to her wrists, but to the full, rounded curves of her ass beneath the thin sunflower dress. He grabbed handfuls of her flesh, his mechanic’s grip fierce and undeniable, and yanked her hard against him. The move was so sudden she gasped, her own hand falling away from him as she stumbled forward into his chest.
He held her there, pinned against him, his face close to hers. The smell of her morning breath and Jean Naté was overwhelming. He could feel her heart hammering through both their clothes.
“Gonna fuck me right here against the stove?” his mother says. Cletus grabs her ass, squeezing and pulling her close. “If you want me to fuck you,” he says, while squeezing her ass cheeks, looking into her eyes, “just say it.”
His voice was low, flat. It wasn’t the mumbled protest of a boy. It was a statement. A condition.
For a second, she just stared. Her mouth, usually so quick with a lewd comeback, hung slightly open. The assessment in her eyes sharpened into genuine shock. Then, it melted, transforming into a dark, dawning excitement that flushed her neck and cheeks. This was new. This was better.
“I want you to fuck me,” she said, the words leaving her in a rushed, breathy whisper. No joke. No cackle. Just raw, simple need. “Right here, Cletus. Don’t you stop.”
That was all he needed. He spun her around, her back to his front, and pushed her forward. Her palms slapped flat against the warm Formica counter next to the sizzling skillet. He shoved the sundress up around her waist. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He didn’t pause. He guided himself into her with one hard, sure thrust.
She cried out, a sharp, gratifying sound that was part pain, part pure relief. Her head dropped between her shoulders. He set a relentless pace immediately, each drive of his hips slamming her into the counter’s edge, rattling the stove burners, making the bacon grease jump and spatter. One hot droplet landed on her bare thigh. She didn’t flinch.
“Yeah,” she chanted into the laminate, her voice vibrating with each impact. “Yeah, yeah, like that. Just like that, baby. Fuck.”
He gripped her hips, his fingers finding the bruises he’d surely left last night, and held her steady for his use. The world narrowed to this: the slap of skin, her choked gasps, the acrid smell of pork fat starting to burn. He watched himself moving in and out of her, the sight fuelling a cold, focused fire in his gut. This wasn’t about his body betraying him. This was him taking something. Claiming back a sliver of the fucking universe she’d swallowed whole.
Her noises grew higher, tighter. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, her own need becoming a frantic, matching rhythm. “I’m close,” she begged, “oh god, don’t stop, I’m so close.”
He didn’t stop. He sped up, his own breath sawing in his lungs, the base of his spine tightening. The release, when it came, was less an explosion than a total systemic shutdown—a wave of blankness that washed everything else away for three pounding heartbeats. He ground into her as he came, emptying himself with a final, deep shudder. A second later, she clenched around him, her body seizing with a silent, rigid climax that he felt through his own.
He stayed there for a moment, buried inside her, both of them panting, slick with sweat. The bacon was definitely burning now, a black smoke starting to curl up from the skillet. He slowly pulled out. She slumped forward over the counter, her dress still rucked up, her exposed skin glowing in the harsh kitchen light.
Without a word, he pulled his jeans up and fastened them. He walked to the stove, clicked the burner off, and used a fork to lift the blackened, curling strips of bacon from the pan, dropping them onto a paper towel. The grits had formed a thick, rubbery skin. He scooped them into two bowls anyway.
He set a bowl on the counter next to her hip. He took his own bowl and his coffee to the table, sat down, and started to eat. The grits were flavorless paste. The bacon tasted of charcoal and salt. He ate it all.
He was halfway through when she finally moved. She slowly straightened, letting her dress fall back into place. She was quiet. She picked up her bowl, brought it to the table, and sat across from him. She didn’t look at him. She ate, staring at the peeling linoleum between her feet.
The silence was different. It wasn’t the loaded, expectant quiet from before. It was the quiet of a shifted landscape, of a new and unspoken treaty written in sweat and bruises. She finished her food, took both their bowls to the sink, and ran the water.
“Gonna be late for work,” she finally said, her back to him, her voice oddly subdued.
“I know,” he said. He stood, the chair legs scraping. He walked past her to the door, grabbing his grease-stained jacket from the hook.
As he pushed the door open, the white midday sun assaulting the dim trailer, she spoke again, so softly he almost didn’t hear it over the squeal of the hinge.
“Supper’s at six.”
He didn’t answer. He stepped out into the blinding heat, pulling the door shut behind him, cutting off the world of flickering lights and burned breakfasts and her terrible.
The sun had baked the world into a flat, metallic plate. Cletus moved through his shift at Ray’s Auto like a machine part, his hands doing the work while his mind floated somewhere in the grease-stained rafters. The memory of the morning was a physical bruise he kept pressing, testing its tender edges. Ray made a comment about him being quiet, and Cletus just grunted, wiping his hands on a red shop rag that never got clean.
The walk home felt longer. The dust from the gravel road coated his jeans and settled in the fine hairs of his arms. He pushed the trailer door open. The air inside was a stagnant blanket of vanilla air freshener and something deeper, muskier. She was on the couch, the same sunflower dress from the morning, now wrinkled. A game show blared from the television, the audience’s laughter sounding tinny and far away.
She didn’t turn her head. “Take a load off,” she said, her eyes fixed on the screen where a woman was screaming over a new refrigerator.
He stood for a second, then sat on the far end of the couch. The springs groaned the same way they had last night. A commercial for toothpaste came on, too bright and cheerful.
“How was your day?” she asked. Her voice was casual, almost normal. As she spoke, she swung her bare feet up from the floor and dropped them into his lap. The weight was familiar now, a declared fact. Her toes, the chipped pink polish vivid against her tanned skin, wiggled once before going still.
He looked at her feet, then at the TV. “Fine.”
“Just fine?” she prodded. Her right foot began to move, not a massage, but a slow, circular rub against his groin through his work pants. The denim was rough. The pressure was deliberate and insistent. She kept her eyes on the television. “Old man Ray work you hard?”
“Yeah.” He could feel himself responding to the grind of her foot, a slow, shameful tightening in his gut. His hands stayed on his own knees.
“Tell me about it,” she said, as if they were having any ordinary conversation. Her foot worked him with a steady, teasing rhythm, the ball of her foot pressing and rotating. She chuckled at something on the TV. Her other foot rested heavily on his thigh, anchoring him there.
Minutes passed. The game show ended. A local news segment about a tractor auction began. Her foot never stopped its slow, maddening circuit. It built a heat in him that was separate from his will, a dull ache that spread up from his core. He was fully hard now, trapped under the casual weight of her, the absurd normalcy of the news anchor’s voice detailing livestock prices.
Finally, he shifted. “It was a long day,” he said, the words sounding thick. “Had a lot to do. Ready to relax.”
Her foot stopped. She turned her head and looked at him then, a slow smile touching her lips. Her eyes were dark and knowing in the blue TV light. “I’ll help you relax, baby.”
In one fluid motion, she switched positions. She slid down the couch, turning onto her side so her head was level with his lap. Her fingers went to his belt, then his button, then his zipper. She didn’t look away from his face as she pulled his pants and boxers down to his mid-thighs. The cool air hit his exposed skin.
She took him into her mouth without ceremony.
Her head began to bob in a slow, deep rhythm, her eyes drifting back to the television. The contrast was jarring, paralyzing. The wet, tight heat of her mouth, the shallow suction on each pull, versus the bland weather forecast now playing behind her tangled hair. She hummed softly around him, the vibration traveling straight up his spine.
He let his head fall back against the cushion, staring at the water stain on the ceiling. His hands fisted at his sides. The pleasure was a wire being drawn tighter and tighter, a physical truth he couldn’t escape. Her pace was relentless, deep, taking him to the back of her throat each time with a practiced ease that left him breathless.
The wire thinned, sang. A tension gathered low in his belly, urgent and undeniable. “Close,” he grunted, the word ripped from him.
She didn’t stop. She sucked faster, harder, her hand coming up to work the base of him in tandem with her mouth. The sounds were obscenely wet, loud in the room under the drone of the TV. She pushed him over the edge with a fierce, claiming purpose.
He came with a shudder, his hips lifting off the couch. She took it all, swallowing with a soft, efficient gasp, her throat working. She held him in her mouth until he was soft, until the last pulse faded. Then she released him with a soft pop.
She sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked at the TV, then at him, her expression placid. “Meatloaf tonight,” she said, as if commenting on the rain that was now predicted. She swung her feet to the floor and stood, adjusting her dress.
She walked toward the kitchen, her bare feet whispering on the linoleum. He sat there, exposed and spent, listening to the clatter of a pan being pulled from the cabinet, the thud of the refrigerator door.
He sat there, exposed and spent, listening to the clatter of a pan being pulled from the cabinet, the thud of the refrigerator door. Eventually, he pulled his clothes up, the denim rough against his sensitive skin. He stayed on the couch, not moving, until the smell of frying onion and cheap ground beef filled the trailer.
“Set the table,” she called from the kitchen, her voice normal, wifely.
He did. Two plates, two forks, a half-empty bottle of ketchup. She brought over the meatloaf, a dark, dense brick, and a bowl of instant mashed potatoes that glistened under the light. They sat. She served him a thick slice, the sound of the spatula scraping the pan setting his teeth on edge.
“Eat,” she said, already cutting into her own food.
They ate in silence broken only by the scrape of cutlery and the crunch of the meatloaf’s burnt edges. He forced each bite down, the food like ash in his mouth. She ate with appetite, occasionally wiping grease from her chin with the back of her hand. When she was done, she pushed her plate away and lit a cigarette, the smoke curling into the fluorescent haze.
“Not bad,” she said, exhaling toward the water-stained ceiling. “For a Tuesday.”
He didn’t answer. He stood, collected the plates, and took them to the sink. He ran the water too hot, scrubbing at the baked-on grease until his knuckles were red. She watched him, smoking, one arm draped over the back of her chair. He dried the plates and put them away in the cupboard, the glasses, the forks. The ordinary actions felt like a performance in a play he hadn’t rehearsed.
He turned, drying his hands on his jeans. She had finished her cigarette, stubbing it out in a greasy saucer. She stood and walked past him, her shoulder brushing his arm, and went into the living room. He heard the television click on, another game show’s manic soundtrack.
He stayed by the sink, listening to the fake audience laughter. Then he followed.
The blue TV light painted the room in shifting shadows. She was standing in the middle of the worn shag carpet, directly between him and the screen. She was looking at him, not the television. Her expression was unreadable in the dim, flashing light.
He stopped. He was still naked from the waist down from earlier, his jeans and boxers in a heap by the couch. The air from the window unit chilled his legs.
“My turn, Daddy,” she said, her voice a low murmur that cut through the game show host’s chatter.
Her hands went to the hem of her sunflower dress. She pulled it up and over her head in one smooth motion and let it drop to the floor. She stood there, naked, her body pale and heavy in the electronic glow. She didn’t approach him. She simply walked to the couch where he’d been sitting before and sat down, sinking into the cushions. Then she pivoted, swinging her legs up so her back was against the armrest, and looked at him.
“C’mere,” she said.
He walked to the couch. She reached out, her hand closing around him, already hardening again at her touch. She guided him down, positioning him between her spread thighs. She didn’t lie back. She sat up, her eyes on the television over his shoulder, and lowered herself onto him with a slow, sighing exhale.
She was already wet. She took him all the way in, a deep, encompassing fit that made his breath catch. Then she began to move. Her hands braced on his shoulders, her hips lifting and falling in a steady, rhythmic bounce. Her eyes stayed glued to the TV screen. A contestant was winning a new dinette set.
She rode him with a workmanlike focus, her breath coming in soft puffs against his neck. Her large breasts jiggled with the motion. The only sounds were the slick friction of their bodies, the creak of the couch springs, and the cheerful cacophony of the television. She increased her pace, her bouncing becoming harder, more desperate. Her fingers dug into his shoulders.
“Yeah,” she hissed, her gaze still locked on the screen, on the spinning wheel, on the host’s brilliant smile. “Oh, yeah. Right there.”
Her rhythm broke, becoming frantic and uneven. She was chasing it, using him to get there, her face a mask of concentration aimed at a prize showcase. She clenched around him, her internal muscles fluttering wildly, and let out a sharp, truncated cry as she came, her body shuddering against his. She collapsed forward, her forehead pressing into his shoulder, her weight driving him deeper.
She stayed like that for a long minute, panting, as the game show cut to a commercial for pain relievers. Slowly, she pushed herself upright. She looked down at where they were joined, then back at his face. She smiled, a small, private thing.
She began to move again, a slow, rolling grind now. “Your turn,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Don’t make me wait all night.”
Her words, her heat, the overwhelming reality of her, ignited a final, compulsive spark in him. His hands found her hips, his grip tight, and he drove up into her, meeting her downward rolls. The control shifted, just for a moment. He fucked up into her, his own pace quick and punishing, chasing his own release through the fatigue and the shame.
It arrived like a sudden, silent puncture. His vision whited out at the edges, his body bowing into hers as he emptied himself with a groan that was swallowed by the trailer’s thin walls. He pulsed inside her, each throb a diminishing echo of the first.
They sat there, locked together, breathing in the dusty, air-conditioned air. On television, someone was very excited about a new car. She finally lifted herself off him, the separation a wet, soft sound. She reached for her dress from the floor, pulled it on over her head, and settled back into the far end of the couch.
She picked up the remote and changed the channel. A weatherman pointed at a map. She picked up a forgotten can of beer from the side table, took a sip, and made a face. It was warm.
“Storm’s coming in tomorrow,” she said, nodding at the screen. “Might rain.”
Cletus said nothing. He looked at the water stain on the ceiling, darker than he remembered.
He looked at the water stain on the ceiling, darker than he remembered. It had spread since yesterday, a brownish Rorschach test of damp and decay. The weight of the day pressed him into the couch, a fossil in the blue TV light, until sleep took him like a swift, dark tide.
He woke to the peculiar quiet of the trailer park just before dawn. The window unit had cycled off. The only sound was the drip from the kitchen faucet hitting a metal pan in a steady, lonely ping. His body was stiff, curled on his side on the couch, still dressed. The TV was a dark, blank eye.
Gray light seeped around the blinds. He sat up, the events of the previous day settling in his gut like a cold, heavy stone. His mouth tasted foul. He stood, his joints complaining, and walked to the bathroom. He didn’t turn on the light. He pissed in the gloom, washed his face with cold water from the tap, and stared at his shadowed reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. The face looking back was stranger than it had been two days ago.
He walked back into the living room, the peeling linoleum cool under his bare feet. That’s when he saw her.
Brenda was laid out on the couch where he’d just been sleeping. She was on her back, one arm thrown above her head, the other resting on her stomach. Her terrycloth robe was wide open, the sides falling away to fully expose her body. The sag of her large, pale breasts, the dark nipples, the curve of her belly and the thatch of hair below—all of it was displayed in the dull morning light without shame or ceremony. She appeared to be sleeping, her breath a slow, deep rhythm.
Cletus stood frozen in the hallway. A low, familiar heat ignited in his groin, an automatic response he no longer fought. Morning wood thickened and hardened, straining against his jeans. He watched her for a long minute, the drip from the faucet marking time. This wasn’t an accident. It was a tableau, arranged and waiting.
He walked over. The floorboards sighed under his weight. He stopped at the edge of the couch, looking down at her. Her eyelids fluttered but didn’t open. A tiny smile touched the corner of her mouth. He unbuckled his belt, pushed his jeans and boxers down his hips, and freed his erection. The air was cool on his skin.
He crawled onto her, his knees sinking into the cushions on either side of her hips. Her body was warm and soft beneath him. He positioned himself and, without a word, shoved his dick inside her. She was already wet, sleep-warm and yielding. She gasped, her eyes flying open, locking onto his with a sharp, alert pleasure that confirmed she’d never been asleep at all.
“Oh, baby,” she breathed, her hands coming up to grip his bare shoulders. Her legs rose, wrapping around the small of his back, locking him into her, heels digging into his ass. “That’s it. Right there.”
He began to fuck her, a hard, steady pace from the start, his hips pumping. The couch shook, its old frame slamming against the paneled wall with a rhythmic, hollow bang. He dropped his head, taking one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking hard, then biting. She cried out, her back arching off the cushions, pushing her breast deeper into his mouth.
“Harder,” she grunted, her voice rough with sleep and need. Her hands moved from his shoulders to claw down his back. “Don’t you fucking stop. Give it to me.”
He obliged. His thrusts became punishing, deep and fast, the force of it jolting her whole body with each drive. The sounds were animalistic: their ragged breathing, the wet slap of skin, the creaking protest of the couch. He switched to her other breast, sucking and biting with a frantic hunger, as if he could draw something out of her through her flesh. Her legs tightened around him like a vise.
“I’m gonna cum,” she announced, her voice tight and high, a warning and a plea. “I’m gonna— oh, god—"
Her body clenched around him, a series of fierce, fluttering spasms that milked his dick. She let out a sharp, broken scream, her head thrashing side to side on the cushion. He felt her warmth flooding around him. He didn’t stop.
As her climax subsided into trembling aftershocks, he slowed. He pulled almost all the way out, then sank back into her with one long, excruciatingly slow stroke, filling her completely. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, not moving. She whimpered, oversensitive, her legs loosening their grip.
“Cletus,” she whispered, a real question in her voice for the first time.
He began to move again, but differently. Deep, slow, deliberate strokes that dragged against every nerve inside her. Each withdrawal was a tease, each penetration a profound, claiming pressure. He watched her face, her reactions now stripped of performance. Her eyes rolled back, her mouth hung open, a thread of spit connecting her lips. A second, deeper orgasm began to build within her, coiling from a different place.
“Please,” she begged, her hands fluttering against his chest, pushing weakly. “It’s too much. I can’t—"
He didn’t speed up. He maintained the same devastating, slow rhythm, each stroke hitting a spot that made her jolt. Her protests melted into incomprehensible moans. Her body began to shake, a seizure of pure sensation that had nothing to do with the frantic fucking of minutes before. This was slower, wider, total. She broke with a silent, open-mouthed gasp, her body bowing underneath him, her fingers digging into his biceps hard enough to leave crescent moons in his skin.
Only then did he allow his own control to snap. A few final, hard, rapid thrusts and he came, pouring himself into her with a groan that was half relief, half surrender. He collapsed on top of her, their sweat-slick skin sticking together, his face buried in the crook of her neck. They lay there, a tangled, breathing heap in the gathering dawn. The drip from the kitchen faucet continued its solitary percussion.
Outside, a bird began to chirp. The first weak rays of sun cut a blade of gold across the floor, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air between the couch and the TV. It found the water stain on the ceiling, making it gleam like an old wound.
Slowly, he pushed himself up and off her. He stood, pulling his clothes back on. She lay still, her robe open, her body glistening, her eyes closed. He walked to the door, grabbed his jacket, and stepped out onto the porch. The morning air was cool and clean, smelling of wet pine and distant trash fires.
He didn’t go to work. He sat on the porch steps, lit a cigarette, and watched the sun rise over the rows of silent, dilapidated trailers. Behind him, inside, he heard the shower start.