And Then There’s This Guy…

This my friends, will get very graphic, but I need to set it up first. So I met Scott through Emma. She had been banging on about this guy for ages and she made a lot of money from his story. I must say, I didn’t believe a word of it. I work in the big city, hook-ups on a Friday night are common. Emma however, has a voice and a way of telling things that make you lean in. What happened was basically this. I went on Emma’s podcast and it was a crazy night. But all the superchats that came in were about Scott. Had Emma seen him again, had she done this, done that. So I asked her about it. The superchats explode. The way superchats work is that people pay to ask you a question, and you are obliged to answer. At the end of the stream, we halved the profit and I walked away with £2,705 just by nattering into a camera for an hour.

But it wasn’t the money. I wanted to know who this Scott guy was. One woman, a CEO, paid £250 just for his contact details. She dropped the cash like it were nothing.

So who is this guy?

I asked Emma on livestream, and she went deeper after, totally filling me in. And I’m going to tell you this story. Why? Because I was so intrigued, I went after him, done my own digging, and oh my.

I’ve tried to tell this story on Substack, but I get proper neutered every time because it’s not for the faint of heart. First, Emma pointed me towards her blog, I’ll link it below. Visit it, I’ll add it to the bottom of this post with all the other resources used. Her article goes into everything and is exhaustive, but true. Have fun. Emma’s a whacky far left feminist, and when she heard the rumours of Scott, it went against everything she believed. She had one mission: to dismantle him, break him down and reduce him to a well constructed lie, the urban legend that women discussed over wine and takeaway. Except, it didn’t work out that way. I’ll link her story, I’ll let her tell it it in her own words. I, on the other hand, want to tell you about my story, and what I learned, and more importantly, what happened when I caved.

Who is Scott?

Scott is a retired escort that blew up and went famous around ten or so years ago. First up, I need to fill you on where my head was at the time. No man is an expert in bed. They think they are. They’re not. I have said that for years. Most of them are hurried, or proud of the wrong things, or so busy performing that they forget there is another person in the room. Some are sweet. Some are enthusiastic. Very few are actually good in the way people like to claim. So when Emma talked about Scott as if he belonged in a different category altogether, I rolled my eyes hard. She claimed, on air, that he’s an “Oral Technician”. I’ve never heard the term before. Apparently, there’s a difference between escorts and prostitutes. Escorts have a field they specialise in one “act” and do nothing else, whereas prostitutes, will do anything, no skill required, and will do it for a bag of chips and a fiver.

Emma went deep into everything.

Scott, as it turns out, was an oral sex/toy specialist, and famous for it. He was in all the magazines at the time, late night TV, you name it. I’ve seen these, and I’ll add them here. I still weren’t convinced. A hooker is a hooker in my eyes, or at least it was. It’s still icky. But as icky as it was, there was intrigue. Emma then said he had a book, called the Princess Mindset. You can get it on Amazon, but fear not readers, I still have the PDF that Emma gave me, I’ll include it in the resources at the bottom. Read it, and prepare to have your mind blown, because it’s a crazy read.

So I read this book.

In laymen’s terms, it’s an oral sex/foreplay guide for men. And it reads like one. With a caveat. For a woman to read this thing and not get the hum in pussy in near impossible, and it took me two sittings to get through just over 200 pages. It’s exhausting. My ick, turned into want, in just few hours. It’s not raunchy, there’s no characters or story, but it’s very descriptive, and imagining what he’s describing is very difficult to resist, your brain does it as he’s going through it.

His book didn’t read like bragging. It read like someone describing a craft. There were pages that made me put the thing down and stare at the wall. Not because they were shocking. Because they were strangely calm. He wrote about time. About treating another person’s pleasure as the whole point rather than the warm up act before he got his turn. Then there was a hundred ways to eat her pussy. How to make her squirt. How to monitor pulse in her thigh so you can keep her pinned in the orgasm zone. The perfect kiss. The five kinds of female orgasm. It’s crazy, crazy shit. And all of it made me all the more curious.

It’s a blinder of a read. I finished it and I was like, fuck. Because now I’m intrigued. I was thinking about it all day long, in bed, at work, it was really frustrating.

The Lore

The urban legend bit is interesting, because if you live in the Harlow/Essex area, you’ve probably heard this rumour. Scott is famous for breaking women of all kinds, married, partnered, even single. His oral sex is rumoured to be so good that it quickly became urban legend, and he featured in many of the big magazines at the time. Women would talk about him in hushed tones and louder over wine.

If you want to know about this part, go visit Emma’s articles she goes into it obsessively. (Link at the bottom). I said to her, how do you know this isn’t just bullshit, because rumours have a real bad habit of self maintaining. And it was then I saw the guilt in her face. It was hilarious. She promised me her original intentions were to find him, interview him, then take him apart. That’s what feminists do. She ended getting the goods on day one, six hours, and the way she writes it, it makes you sit funny.

So I was like, so, you’ve tried it once, you came out winning. Go you. Nope, three times, she says proudly. It was the funniest moment ever, because I was like, you dirty bitch. Secretly though, something was brewing. If she went back three times, that means there’s something worth going back to, and now I’m really fucking intrigued and secretly gagging.

An important caveat Emma was immediate to say, is that he’s retired now. He doesn’t do it for money, he does it because he wants to and with who he chooses. Obviously, he’s done Emma and she went back two more times, and another of her friends, but he’s also turned down a few others from her friend group, which I’ll be honest, had me nervous. I was really tempted, but didn’t want to be in a reject bin. Luckilly, I had her as wingman, and she goes into how to get him to give you the big fat “yes”.

These days he’s rumoured to be a security guard, which is so ordinary and cute it almost makes the rest of it harder to dismiss. But nobody knows anything real about him. It must be said, I do love a good time. Anyone who has followed this blog for more than five minutes knows that. We live in the city. We work hard. Sometimes we need to let our hair down and play hard. We all do it. So on paper, this sounded perfect.

I sat with that for a while, which for me means I pretended I was above it and then thought about it on the walk to the station, in the lift, in a meeting I should have been listening to, and again in bed when I should have been asleep. Three weeks later I break.

Contact

I contacted Emma and asked for his details. I wanted to write something of my own. She said sure, it’s all in the front of the book I gave you, as if it were nothing complicated. I then did what I always do when the subject is this close to the bone. I sat on it. When it comes to this particular subject I hate being disappointed. I find it almost offensive. There is something about being promised a revelation and then being handed the same old half hearted effort that leaves me colder than if no one had promised anything at all. Curiosity, though, is a bastard. It ate away at me in the evenings. It followed me to work. It became really annoying. I told myself I was being ridiculous.

He’s alright looking. Not the face you would invent if you were writing a fantasy. Not polished in that catalogue way. Nice. More handsome in person. He is what you would expect: stubble, six footer, dark hair etc. Definitely doable. So I’m a little nervous. This is a 50/50 punt. I sent the message. I threw a bit of charm at it, because that’s what I do when I am nervous. He replies a day later. He was very dry, not desperate like most guys over text, I was actually surprised. Ordinary in a way that made the whole thing more interesting rather than less.

I went in proper swinging. I told him I had heard good things and that I wanted to try. I said I could give him a proper run for my money, which in hindsight was a very me thing to say and also slightly absurd, given what I was actually asking for. Obviously, my images make me appear very petite, but I’m not. I’m 5’8″ and robust, I’m a banking and finance supervisor, the girlboss. I knew just from his words that he wasn’t convinced, so I made sure I threw it all at him, so he knew I would be a least capable of going toe to toe with him. Then I dropped the bait.

Emma had told me the line that seemed to unlock him.

“So this is the deal, Scott. No man has ever made me orgasm before.”

A red rag to a bull. It was nonsense, I orgasm all the time, but I needed to give him a purpose, a hook. We do it all the time in finance. When dealing with the sharks, you need to use the right bait.

The Contract

A few hours pass then he sends me a message, a PDF file. The Contract. I was in. Emma had told me about his contract, I had seen hers, but this one had my name on. It was his secrecy contract, it’s a promise that every text, email, conversation, act and orgasm, was secret and he wouldn’t talk about it with anyone. It doesn’t bind me, just him. If he’s approached by someone, and they start asking about me, then he’s never met me, doesn’t now who I am, it was perfect. I am free to tell anyone, it’s just a contract that affected him only. Part of me was like, you know, I have his contract, I could just say I’ve met him, he can’t deny it, and nobody would be any of the wiser. I thought about it. But then I was like, no, I want to know what this pussy worship feels like, I’m going to do this.

We arranged it like adults. No games. He made me wait seven days. I knew what I wanted. Oral. Toys. A sample. His time. My body on the receiving end of a rumour. I told myself I would be fine. I have a high sex drive. I like it intense and rough. I’ve had plenty of one-night stands, I’m not shy once I am turned on. At best, he might surprise me.

I massively underestimated him. Write that on a mug.

The selfies in this post are from the day. I didn’t go full date mode. Just casual. He told me straight, don’t dress to impress, you’re on a sure thing, come comfortable. So I did. We met at Harlow Travel Lodge, by the train station. He arrived looking like the opposite of a myth. Clean. Quiet. Security guard energy in the nicest way. Six foot four, heavy, dark hair and the bluest eyes. The guys and boyfriends I’ve had were loud, glaring, eager to impress. This guy was calm. Older, maybe early forties. But tasty. But it was the quiet that had me. He wasn’t performing. He treated me like we were mates, not as a lusty idol that you get from all desperate men on a promise. Women don’t get wet from a man announcing he is good. We get curious when a man is not in a hurry to be applauded.

He told me, very simply, that he was not here to fuck me. No penetration from him. Mouth, hands, toys. That’s the menu. You play it his way. So now I’m fucking intrigued. All the ladies reading this, how many guys have you met that have wanted to fuck you the moment you kiss, because until this guy, my list was all of them. I laughed because part of me still doesn’t believe a word of it. I’m thinking Emma was pranking me or something.

The Kiss

I expected him to be a decent kisser. If he’s good with his mouth down below, he’s going to be a competent kisser. But wow. Thinking back, I would pay him gladly just to lay there kissing him all night. Dry. Non-invasive. Natural and white clean teeth. Hands at the face with zero wandering. No breathing, no saliva, this guy has it fucking down. Near zero force. In fact, my tongue was hunting his constantly, and his was playing with mine like a tease. Kissing him was fun and a delight. He’s also got a pierced tongue, because of course he has. I kept smiling during it, like a right fucking melt. You know when a kiss feels so real and tailored to you, you just go giddy, grinning like a teenager on a guys face, it was that. I’ve only ever had that two times before, but this one was on steroids because he wasn’t in a rush to take it further.

I am going to be explicit now, because the clean version would be a lie, and because the whole point of this piece is the thing Emma hinted at. If you are here for a cute fade to black, go and do something else.

The Rude Part

So we are kissing for an hour at least, I’m getting right wound up. He slips down there, and he doesn’t hit me right away. He’s on me with gentle fingertips, teasing and lightly stroking the whole pelvis area, rubbing me with oil, and he’s down there a good forty minutes just winding me right up. He’s doing this tiny little blows, deliberate hot warm breaths, and when I look down, he’ll just smile with his eyes. I’m swelling up down there like a bastard. Ladies, you have no idea what that’s like, to have your pussy paid that much attention without the release or any of the proper parts touched. It’s torture. It’s the best, and it’s terrible. You lose all power.

Emma said on stream, the first hour, he’s plugging in and hacking into your pussy, mapping it out, waking it up like it’s never been awake before. And she’s right. In a normal session, you’re going to have fingers in you in five minutes. Not here. I have never felt so swollen and hungry down there before, it was horrible.

So it’s going and going, then I feel both of his hands on my thighs and yet the massaging is still going on?

I never even noticed the swap out, and I cum, before he’s even done anything. It wasn’t big, it was just a cheeky cramp-out that must’ve made me look like an utter novice. He said nothing, just worked through it, slowly getting more intense, and I’m starting to feel the shit going on he talks about in his book.

The first direct contact of his tongue to my pussy was so precise I actually laughed. Not because it was funny. Because my body did not know what else to do. He started with the kind of light, wet strokes that make you chase them. Not stabbing. Not sandpaper. A broad, warm lick through my slit, then a slower one that parted me, then the softest circle just south of my clit, close enough to make it swell. He get’s right in there, whole face. Not that toe dipping weak shit most men do. He clamps his lips around my clit and I feel him gently suck it into his mouth, his mouth fills with warm saliva and while it’s prisoner in there, his tongue is on it at lightning speed. I could feel myself bottoming out in that heavy way, the kind you notice when you shift and there’s more of you on the sheets than there was a minute ago.

Now obviously, I start to get lost here, so I can’t word for word it because I would basically be making it up. I want to keep this honest.

I’m fucking screaming, crying, puking in my mouth, gasping for air, I’m cumming over and over, squirting all over him, it was awful. He says nothing, just carries on, like there’s nothing to it, and I’m just laying there, legs flying about, sheets in my hands, screaming into the pillow. He’s at for hours.

I tried to think of way to prove this, and after sitting here typing and wondering how I could, I had a revelation. I have an Apple watch, which I was wearing at the time. I have the proof I need. Us bankers, we love numbers and graphs, so I’m going to share the graph of that afternoon. As you can see from my graph, this mother fucker railroaded me for hours, I’m surprised I didn’t die in that bed to be honest, it was brutal, but so damn good. And that’s not even the worst of it.

The Main Event

If you’ve read the book, you know there’s a main event to all this. It’s not sex as we know it, this is a whole new sport. So when you read his book, there’s a chapter called the ‘The Thumper”, this is what I came for.

The Thumper is the bit in his book I thought was just men being dramatic about toys. It’s not. I’ve had men refuse to use toys with me in bed, they get offended. This guy, it’s part of his thing. And I’m in on it. After he’d already had his mouth on me for hours, there was this leftover ache that oral cannot quite kill. You know the one. That greedy, hollow, please just fill me feeling. He weren’t going to fuck me. As much as I begged him to, jarringly. I’m begging and pleading for cock by hour three, I felt like a right desperate idiot. He flips me onto my knees, face in the pillows, and used a dildo on me, just a long silicone dick that felt close enough to the real thing. It was painless, fast and deep, no knuckles or accidental thumping, it was beautiful. And he hit every spot inside inside me. Emma goes right into this in her article, and it’s fucking amazing. There’s no area inside you neglected by this guy, it’s the complete MOT you didn’t know you needed.

It was too clean and too perfect, that should have warned me. It didn’t. It was so fast and so satisfying I thought I was going to puke.

He started slow. Circled it at my entrance and teasing me until my hips were doing that embarrassing rock on their own. Then he fed it in, inch by inch, and stopped at the top to rock the head against that deep place until I made a noise I would deny in court. I say feeding it, and it sounds really gross, but that’s exactly what he was doing. My body was ready for it, so it took him like it had been waiting all afternoon. That first slide was relief. Proper relief. The rest was delightful punishment. Like someone had finally scratched the exact itch.

Then he started building.

Long strokes. Short ones. A sudden nosedive onto my G spot that made my arms buckle. He would pull almost out, leave me hanging, then give me the full length again. I’m doused and covered in babyoil, my hairs hanging matted, my eyes are puffed up, pussy swollen. The guy took me apart piece by piece and it was brutal. Every time I thought I had the rhythm mapped, he changed it. Up. Down. Fast rock at the end. Slow drag out. I kept dropping orgasms in these rolling waves and my mouth was drooling. These orgasms were deeper. Fuller. The kind that start in your stomach and knock the sense out of you. I came on the third or fourth proper thrust pattern and he didn’t even pause like a normal person. He had his arm locked around me, I weren’t fucking going anywhere, and I tried. A prisoner to pleasure. He just let me shake around it and kept going.

That is the filthy genius of it, if I am being honest. Oral makes you wet and wrecked. The Thumper uses that wreckage. You are already swollen and slick and a bit stupid, you can’t think, and then he gives your pussy the friction it has been begging for, everywhere at once, at a speed no man I have taken home has ever sustained with his own body. I could feel myself hugging it, clenching, then opening again, and every slide set off another little collapse. I lost count. I stopped trying to be cute about it. I was just screaming into the pillow and pushing back like a bastard. I was getting greedy, really greedy, and he fed me.

He pulled out once, flipped me, put his mouth back on my pussy while I was still throbbing around nothing, which was rude and perfect, then put me straight back on my knees and went faster. I could feel the heat around it. It just went on and on, oral and fucking. In easy terms, it felt like being properly fucked by something that didn’t get tired, didn’t need to come, and had decided my pleasure was a job. I came again with my face mashed into the duvet. That bed was ruined, sheets soaked. I squirted. Then again when he changed angle and dragged it over that front wall like he was ringing a bell. My legs were gone. My voice was gone. I could hear how wet I was and I did not even have the dignity to be embarrassed.

I was brain dead.

If you have only ever had a man dash through penetration so he can finish, this is a different sport. It scratches the hunger without him putting himself in you, which I know sounds like a technicality until you are on your knees feeling full, stretched, pounded, and still being treated like the whole point of the room. I kept thinking I was done. My body kept lying. Another one would gather, break, leave me twitching, and he would oil me again and start that deep even rhythm until I was making sounds I would not play back.

At one point i was gripping that head board with dear life, hugging it, as my mind just puked in my head, it was fucking something insane.

I tapped out, I was desperate for it to stop. I collapsed onto the bed sobbing with a huge grin on my face. He slides up to me cuddles me into him, and there I arm, squeezing this big teddy bear, listening to his heart thump and I’m gone. I’m asleep for a good hour. You can see it on my watch graph, the exact moment, I’m asleep. This fucking guy is crazy.

I thought about it at work the next day, standing in the bank with my stern face on, being harsh with a team of twenty somethings, and underneath it my thighs were still tender. I had to cross them at my desk at one point because the memory landed too specifically. His mouth. The sound. The moment I started crying and he did not panic, he just stayed with me and licked me through it like my overwhelm was allowed.

Emma was not lying. I hate that sentence and I am still putting it here.

The Aftermath

The book reads different after you have been under his mouth for that long. All that calm stuff about time. About pleasure as the point. I used to think that was the sort of sentence men write when they want to sound deep. It is not deep. It is practical. If you actually do it, if you actually stay, if you actually watch what a woman’s body does when nobody is rushing her toward a finish so they can start theirs, it gets feral. It gets sloppy. It gets loud. It gets tears on the pillow and a laugh you cannot explain, a pussy so overworked and happy it feels like a separate creature.

I kept thinking, on the Sunday after, sat in my pyjamas like a respectable person, that I’d gone in cocky. I had gone in as the girl who likes high energy, who likes being thrown about, who can take a hookup and tell the story later. I came out as the girl who had to nap in the afternoon like she had run a race. I came out sore in places that made me blush on the Tube. I came out wanting to text my friends and also wanting to keep it like a secret because some stories get smaller when too many people touch them.

I will say this for the ones who read these posts looking for the useful bit, the tempting bit, the why would I bother bit. If you have only had oral as a five minute courtesy, you don’t know the thing Emma was talking about. If you’ve only had a man who treats your clit like a button and your patience like an inconvenience, you do not know it. This was not polite licking. This was long, explicit, devoted, filthy attention. Tongue, lips, suction, fingers, toys, breath, rest, then more. It was hard in the sense that it asked my body to keep opening to pleasure past the point where I usually tap out and start people pleasing the ending. It was savage because he was accurate. It was mind blowing because I could not think my usual thoughts. No work. No scepticism. No little running commentary. Just heat, wetness, muscle, breath, and a mouth that would not get bored of me.

Would I tell a stranger at a bar the whole seven hours? Probably not. Would I tell you, here, because this is the kind of blog it is? Yes. That is why you are still reading, if you are still reading. You want to know if the rumour has a body. It does. It had stubble burn on my thighs and a dead legs, a voice that sounded wrecked when I finally stopped screaming.

I didn’t get the tall dark fairy tale boyfriend night. I got something ruder and, in its own way, more romantic than I expected, because someone stayed. Someone paid attention. Someone made my pleasure the plot. I got rung out so fucking hard and the guy didn’t even get undressed. He is a sex toy. If you want sex and wet bodies, there’s a million men to choose from. This fucking guy though, he is who you call when you want hours of worship without having to perform. When you don’t want to satisfy a man, when you want to be completely ruined and be selfish with it. He gives you permission for that.

So here is the end of the review, the gossip, the bit I would send in a voice note if I trusted you.

I’m so going back. He’s my new thing. I don’t care how ordinary the day job sounds. I don’t care that he won’t confirm my existence or whether it took place. It’s not about him. It’s not about two people pleasuring each other, or connecting. It’s about me. My needs. This guy is a sex tool, nothing more. I don’t care. I left crying from being eaten into another time zone, toys still buzzing in my head, mouth swollen from biting myself, and a very clear calendar thought already forming.

Read the book first. Don’t walk in blind. Know your enemy. I mean that. Anyone that picks Scott up in a club for a random hookup, is in big fucking trouble. But, if you get the same quiet reply I did, try not to do what I did and assume you are going to be the girl who is only mildly impressed. You’re not going to beat him. You are going to go in, surrender, and let him do what he has spent years perfecting. You will come out of the other side broken and exhausted. But you’ll also come out with an experience that’s so different to anything you’ve ever had before.This isn’t sex, or a hook-up. I don’t know what it is to be honest. I just know it’s fucking wild.

I wasn’t mildly impressed.

I was ruined in the specific, dripping, holy way women mean when they say it and then refuse to explain in public.

I am going back.I’ll go back as many times as he allows to me to.

Scott Article Sources