Chapter 3: Breakfast Revelation: A Feast for Desire
The morning sun bled through the Butterfield kitchen windows, casting long rectangles of light across the marble countertops. Bart sat hunched over a bowl of cereal, the *click-clack* of his laptop keys drowning out the hum of the fridge. His Star Trek shirt—the one with the faded *Warp Core Breach* warning—hung loose on his frame, hiding what he still didn’t realize was the entire reason his mother had been panting outside his door last night.
Then the scent hit him.
Not just perfume—something thicker, muskier, clinging to the air like syrup. His nose wrinkled. *What the hell was that?*
The silk robe slithered against the tile before he even saw her.
"*Bart…*"
His spoon froze mid-air. Brandi wasn’t standing. She wasn’t even kneeling.
She was *crawling*.
Her robe gaped open, barely containing the avalanche of her chest as she dragged herself forward on her elbows, her hips swaying with each movement. Her lips—already plumped beyond reason—glistened with fresh gloss. Her pupils were blown wide, nostrils flaring like she’d caught the trail of something primal.
Bart’s throat went dry. "M-Mom—?"
She didn’t answer. Just whimpered, low in her throat, and *sniffed*. The air. The floor. *Him.*
Then she lunged.
Her hands landed on his knees, shoving them apart before he could react. Her face plunged toward his lap, inhaling deep, like a junkie hitting a vein.
"*Oh fuck—*" she moaned, voice cracking. "*Baby, you* reek *—*"
Bart’s chair screeched as he tried to shove back, but her grip was iron. "Mom, *stop*! What are you—?"
She wasn’t listening. Her nose pressed against the fabric of his sweatpants, nostrils flaring as she huffed like a goddamn bloodhound. A shiver wracked her body, her tits *jiggling* under the robe with the force of it.
"I *need* it," she slurred, tongue darting out to wet her lips. "Just lemme—just a *taste*, sugar, please—"
Bart’s brain short-circuited. His hands flailed, knocking over his cereal bowl. Milk splattered across the floor.
Brandi didn’t even blink. Her fingers clawed at his waistband.
Bart *yelped*, scrambling backward so hard the chair toppled. He hit the tile with a *thud*, legs kicking out instinctively—
—and caught her right in the chin.
Brandi reeled back, clutching her face. "*Ow!* Bart, what the—?"
He didn’t wait. He *ran*.
The front door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the house like a gunshot.
Brandi slumped against the island, chest heaving. The smell still clung to the air—*thick*, *animal*, *his*—and she whimpered again, pressing her thighs together.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. A text from her yoga instructor, some vapid question about lattes. She stared at it, uncomprehending, then let her head thunk against the marble.
Her boy was *fast*.
But she was *hungry*.
---
Outside, Bart sprinted down the sidewalk, his sweatpants riding up in ways that made passing cars honk. He didn’t stop until his lungs burned.
He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping.
What the *hell* was wrong with his mom?
A breeze kicked up, ruffling his hair. He shuddered.
Then frowned.
...Why did his *pants* smell like that?