Scooped Out
Two weeks have passed since Manchester.
Two weeks since Mandy's mouth on her throat, since Jade's fingers inside her, since Priya's confession about Cody M's collection of filmed conquests.
The new assignment arrived yesterday.
Teddy and his wife, the toxic divorce, the rumour that won't die.
Is he gay?
Her editor had asked, sliding the folder across his desk.
Find out. Get the scoop.
Brenda pulls on the beige cardigan, buttons it to the throat. The transformation complete, she becomes invisible again.
The golf course sprawls across the Cheshire countryside, manicured green velvet under a dull September sky.
Brenda arrives at dawn in a borrowed Vauxhall, her disguise packed in a duffel bag: khaki shorts two sizes too large, a polo shirt with the club's crest embroidered on the breast, white tube socks pulled to mid-calf, a canvas cap pulled low.
The fill-in caddy, summoned by a phone call to the pro shop from a "sister club" that doesn't exist.
She practices her walk across the empty parking lot, the linoleum hallway of her flat inadequate preparation for turf and grass.
Slouched, unassuming, eyes down.
The anti-Trixie.
A girl who would never catch anyone's attention, who would never be remembered, who would hear everything because no one thinks to guard their tongue around furniture.
Teddy emerges from the clubhouse at nine sharp, and Brenda's photographic memory catalogues him instantly: six-foot, broad-shouldered, the kind of handsome that cost money to maintain.
His golf bag is monogrammed, his shoes unscuffed.
He scans the caddy line-up with the impatience of a man who expects service, and his gaze slides past Brenda without stopping.
"You're with Mr Whitmore," the caddy master says, nodding toward her.
"Teddy. Eighteen holes. Try to keep up."
She follows him to the first tee, carrying his bag, counting the clubs to memorise their arrangement. The weight is substantial, forty pounds of steel and graphite, and she lets her shoulders slump under it, playing the struggling girl grateful for the work.
Teddy says nothing through the first three holes. He slices his drives, mutters curses, checks his phone between shots.
Brenda retrieves his balls, offers clubs when he holds out his hand, keeps her eyes on the grass.
The fourth hole, a par three over water, he finally speaks.
"You're new."
"Yes, sir. Fill-in from Blackpool."
"Blackpool."
He laughs, a single harsh note.
"Christ. What'd you do to end up here?"
"Needed the work, sir."
He studies her, then really looks, and she feels the assessment like fingers on her skin.
He's searching for something—threat, interest, complication—and finding nothing.
She is beige cardigan and sensible loafers. She is safe.
"Clay's joining us at the turn," he says, turning back to his ball.
"My... friend. You'll carry his bag too."
The pause before "friend" lasts half a second. Brenda files it away.
Clay arrives at the tenth hole driving a cart, and Brenda understands immediately why the rumours persist.
He is Teddy's opposite where it matters: lean where Teddy is thick, dark where Teddy is fair, loose where Teddy is wound tight.
He moves like a man who has never worried about being watched.
When he steps from the cart, his hand finds Teddy's lower back, a touch so brief most would miss it.
Brenda doesn't miss anything.
"New caddy?" Clay asks, his smile reaching his eyes.
"Apparently from Blackpool," Teddy says, and there's something in his tone now, a loosening.
"Brenda, is it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Don't call me sir. This isn't a funeral." Clay laughs, and Teddy's mouth twitches, almost smiling.
"Teddy's going through a divorce," Clay continues, as if announcing the weather.
"Nasty business. Wife's trying to take everything."
"Clay."
"What? She is. And she's wrong about everything, aren't I right, Teddy?"
Teddy's jaw tightens. He doesn't answer, but his next drive is pure, straight down the fairway, violence translated into motion.
The back nine unfolds differently.
With Clay present, Teddy talks—not to her, but around her, as if she has become part of the landscape, a tree or a sand trap.
They discuss the divorce, the wife's accusations, the lawyers' strategies.
Clay calls the wife "the harpy", and Teddy doesn't correct him.
By the fifteenth hole, Brenda knows the settlement terms, the hidden assets, the threat of exposure that keeps Teddy awake at night.
"The thing she doesn't understand," Clay says, lining up a putt, "is that some things aren't about her. Some things exist outside her comprehension entirely."
He makes the putt. Teddy watches him with an expression Brenda has seen before—in mirrors, in the cracked glass of her flat.
The nineteenth hole is a private room above the clubhouse, members only, velvet curtains and leather chairs and a bar stocked with single malt.
Brenda carries the bags up the narrow stairs, her arms aching, and finds the door held open by Clay.
"Join us for a drink," he says.
"I should get the clubs cleaned, sir."
"Teddy tips in whisky, not cash." Clay's hand is on her elbow now, guiding her through. "And he wants you to stay."
The door closes. Teddy stands at the window, backlit by grey afternoon, a silhouette of expensive shoulders and held tension.
He doesn't turn when she enters.
"She's going to tell them everything," he says, to the window or to Clay or to himself.
"The papers. The television. She's going to describe things she never saw and claim they're truth."
"She won't," Clay says, crossing to him.
His hand finds Teddy's shoulder, and this time the touch lingers.
"Because there's nothing to tell. Because you're not what she says."
"Then what am I?"
Clay's answer is to turn him, to bring their faces close, to wait.
Brenda stands by the closed door, the golf bags at her feet, and watches Teddy's composure crack like ice on a pond.
He leans into Clay's mouth, and the kiss is desperate, famished, the kind of collision that happens when denial finally exhausts itself.
They break apart. Clay's eyes find her in the shadows.
"You see?" he says. "Not complicated at all."
Brenda's heart pounds against her ribs, but her voice comes out steady, curious, the invisible girl asking harmless questions.
"Does she know? Your wife?"
Teddy's laugh is bitter, broken.
"She suspects. She doesn't understand. She thinks it's a choice I'm making, something I could stop if I loved her enough."
He moves toward her now, the predator energy she recognises from a hundred interviews, the desperation of a man who needs to be witnessed.
"It's not a choice. It's gravity. It's falling and never hitting ground."
He's close enough to touch her, close enough that she can smell his cologne and the sweat beneath it, the fear and relief of being seen.
Clay approaches from the other side, bracketing her, and she lets herself look small, overwhelmed, the beige cardigan girl who couldn't possibly be dangerous.
A girl who will never tell.
"We don't usually," Clay says, his hand finding her waist, testing.
"But you're not... you're different."
"How?"
"You're not here," Teddy answers, and his mouth finds her neck, her throat, the place where her pulse betrays her.
"You'll hold secrets in your heart. Not blab them."
Brenda or Trixie?
In the moment, she's a young woman in a two-guy body press.
Clay's fingers are inside her knickers.
Teddy's hand cups her boob.
They strip her with urgency.
Clay's mouth is on her breast, Teddy's fingers in her pussy.
They lead her to the leather couch, the velvet curtains filtering light over her young body.
Clay kneels between her legs, his mouth finding her inner lips.
Teddy's hands find her breasts again, pinching, flicking, and she moans.
"Mmm. Mmm, uhh!"
Clay's tongue slurps her clit with regular precision.
If Teddy is a 'bear,' he's one that sucks teats.
She unzips two pairs of pants.
Teddy is thick and uncut and leaking already.
Her hand wraps around him, and she's stroking.
Clay has decided to find her tonsils.
He tilts her head and jags his stiffy to the back of her throat.
Spit polishes his pecker from the knob to his sack.
They rearrange her like furniture, like the caddy she pretends to be, positioning her for their pleasure and hers.
They take turns stuffing her mouth.
The dirty sods double cram her gob.
One cheek each.
They delight as she gags.
They invite her to stick a finger in each of their bums, while they tug each other.
Then they select a hole each and fill it.
Clay skull fucks her.
While Teddy fucks her pussy.
Teddy shags her gob, while Clay dogs her snatch.
"Double cream," says Clay. "Yes, Miss?"
A bobbing head is taken as a yes.
Is itTrixie or Brenda standing between two guys?
Clay has two fingers pummelling her box.
Teddy has his thumb poking into her tush.
Clay, on his knees, spits into her pussy like he's oiling an engine.
Teddy bastes her mussy rilled starfish like he's lubricating a stiff tight lock.
"Uhh! Uhh!" she moans.
They ragdoll her up, and punch her holes in tandem.
"Oof! Fugh! Uhh! Ahh! Ahh!"
The oof for the ramming backdoor intrusion.
Tight, raw and constricting.
The fugh for the barnstorm assault on her pussy.
Hell, she felt there was nothing in between.
Well, technically there was, but in cock shaped reality, the partition literally disappeared.
She was skin-filled front and back, with a micro gap in between.
"Fugh! Fugh! Orrghhh! Arragghh!"
Brenda and Trixie catered for.
God, they were bears!
The mauling kind.
They battered her arse and snatch.
Her cutes holes were thrashed and battered.
"Fugh! She's got a tight arse."
"Jeez. Her pussy has a startling clench."
Her fem-slots were drubbed, roughhoused and thoroughly used.
The only release, the only salve, copious natural cream.
Her juices were leaking, and thankfully sliding down around her raw tushy.
"Aagghh" into her neck.
"Orgghhh" into her shoulder blade.
"Rraaghh," as she herself squirted as she climaxed.
Man-milk seeped out around the schlong in her slit.
Baby gravy dribbled from her puckered patootie as a cock popped out of her date locker.
Two sets of fingers scooped combined emissions.
Four fingers were in her mouth.
Trixie-Brenda sucked them dry.
And two bears kissed each other.
After they shared cognac.
Maybe this is one scoop beyond the tabloid telling.
She's still smarting, enjoying the sensation of having had her pussy and arse outrageously scooped out together.