Welcome to Blood Trails. A podcast that features World’s Worst Crimes. My name is Chase Austin - Bestselling author of Sam Wick and Axel Monk Thriller series.
And this is behind-the-scenes story of a Controversial OnlyFans Model who plans to have sex with 1,000 men in 24 hours after already sleeping with 101 men in 24 hours.
Just to be clear, Her parents support her in this.
This is a behind the scene story that includes fact and fiction to show how it must have gone when she slept with 101 men in 24 hours.
Listen to the Part 1 of this 2-Part story
Website: https://www.thechaseaustin.com/
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Transcript
Welcome to Blood Trails. A podcast that features World’s Worst Crimes. My name is Chase Austin - Bestselling author of Sam Wick and Axel Monk Thriller series.
And this is the story of a Controversial OnlyFans Model who plans to have sex with 1,000 men in 24 hours after already sleeping with 101 men in 24 hours. Just to be clear, Her parents support her in this.
This is a behind the scene story that includes fact and fiction to show how it must have gone when she slept with 101 men in 24 hours.
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Listen to the Part 1 of this 2-Part story
Chapter 1: The beginning
The autumn sun slanted through floor-to-ceiling windows in Emily Phillips's (Name Changed) Chelsea penthouse. At 23, she'd come a long way from her family's Derbyshire estate. Her MacBook displayed a newspaper’s headline: "Controversial OnlyFans Star Aims for 1,000 in One Day."
"Bit dramatic," she said, scrolling through the article. "They make it sound so scandalous."
Her phone buzzed. Another message from her mother who handles her finances.
She reportedly grew up in a wealthy family, with her parents making enough money to splurge on luxury cars such as Land Rovers and Porsches as well as a number of properties.
"People assume my parents disowned me," Emily said, typing a quick reply. "Reality's way more boring. My mother is my manager. My brother is my assistant. My dad supports all of this. My father’s friends subscribe to my OnlyFans account."
The contrast was stark – family WhatsApp messages about investment strategies while Twitter exploded with reactions to her latest announcement. Her phone lit up with another text, this time from her brother:
"He's an ethical hacker," she explained. "Spends his days finding ways people might try to hack me. Then prevents them."
The Sheffield University withdrawal letter hung framed on her wall – a reminder of choices made. She dropped out of Sheffield University to begin working in the adult entertainment industry.
According to Phillips, she established her OnlyFans account while she was still studying at Sheffield. “Back then, no one really knew about it,” she explained. “I’d wanted to do it for a while, but it felt slightly disrespectful to my parents to do it under their roof”.
She then began filming adult films with men and making money from her content.
After sleeping with 101 men in one day, controversial OnlyFans user Emily Phillips has unveiled her next challenge – to multiply that number by 10 in the first month of 2025.
“I want to be the first person to be with 1,000 guys in one day,” the 23-year-old told the Daily Mail. She said that she aims to achieve her goal by the end of January 2025. “I’m quite excited,” she added. “"The logistics are scarier than the act. Try getting insurance for something like that. Or finding a venue with enough bathrooms but its not daunting. Sleeping with over 100 men in October was a “little warm-up” to “limber up for the big one”. Like doing a 10K before the marathon. And it is like a marathon! I carb-loaded the night before with a huge bowl of pasta.”
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Chapter 2: The Journey to OnlyFans
She sat cross-legged on her leather couch in her apartment, her manicured fingers absently stroking her dog's fur while she told her story.
"Everyone has this idea that I must've been desperate or damaged," she said. "Truth is, I was bored in lecture halls while making more in a week than my professors made in a month."
She reached for her phone, thumbing through a digital archive of her journey. "Look at this," she said, holding up a photo. It showed a younger Emily, barely recognizable in modest lingerie, peace sign held high. "My first post. Super tame. No nudity, nothing explicit. Just me in my dorm room trying to look sexy."
The memory made her smile. "God, I was so nervous. Took like fifty shots to get one that didn't look completely awkward."
That first post earned her enough for a weekend of drinks. The second bought her a new outfit. By the third month, she was making more than her friends who worked double shifts at the campus coffee shop.
"My roommate thought I was crazy," Emily said, rolling her eyes. "She'd watch me count out hundreds and say, 'You're going to regret this when you're looking for a real job.' Well, guess who's working sixty hours a week at some accounting firm, and guess who just bought a house in Chelsea?"
She paused, reaching for her water glass. "But here's what nobody gets - it wasn't about the money. Not really." Her voice dropped lower, more intimate. "I was already sleeping with half the guys in my dorm. The football team, the debate club president, that hot professor from Economics..." She grinned wickedly. "Okay, maybe not the professor. But I wanted to."
Her phone buzzed - another notification. These days, it wasn't just beer money. Last month's earnings could have bought a luxury car. She had a team now - nine people on payroll, handling everything from security to social media. Her "hobby" had become a full-fledged empire.
"The turning point?" She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Last summer. I did this - 23 guys in one day. Everyone said I was insane. My best friend tried to stage an intervention." She laughed, but her eyes stayed serious. "But afterward? Lying there, completely spent, covered in... well, you know. I felt powerful. Like I'd found my superpower.”
The memory brought color to her cheeks. "The next day, my inbox was flooded. Everyone wanted to know when I was doing it again. That's when I knew - this wasn't just a kink or a side hustle. This was my calling."
“I consider myself a feminist and I want to de-stigmatize the word ‘slut’. I do what I want and I do it because I enjoy it... I've only ever felt empowered by the fact that I am making money off something that, I think, guys will do anyway. Guys are always going to sexualize me so I may as well try to profit off of that a bit."
Her assistant popped her head in - time for the next appointment. As Emily stood, stretching like a satisfied cat, her phone lit up with more notifications. She didn't even check them anymore; her team handled the day-to-day operations now.
"People ask if I regret not completing my degree," she said, gesturing to the framed diploma. "But I am loving what I am doing now."
She moved to her bedroom to change, calling over her shoulder, "You know what's funny? In university, they taught us about supply and demand, market gaps, unique selling propositions. Well, I found mine. Turns out there's a lot of demand for a girl who genuinely loves what I do."
When she emerged, she'd transformed - every inch the successful businesswoman, albeit in an unconventional industry. Her heels clicked against the hardwood floor as she headed for the door.
"My mom always said to find a job I loved and I'd never work a day in my life," she said, pausing in the doorway. A mischievous smile played across her lips. "Pretty sure this isn't what she meant, but hey - she's not wrong."
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Chapter 3: Behind the Scenes
"Watch your step," Emily called out as she led the way up a spiral staircase. Her home studio occupied the entire second floor of her Chelsea townhouse - a transformation from the dorm room where she'd first posed in hand bras and cute underwear. "Welcome to where the magic happens."
The morning light streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, catching the metallic gleam of professional equipment. Ring lights circled a central area like technological totems, their black stands casting long shadows. Multiple cameras perched on tripods, their lenses reflecting the sunlight like curious eyes.
"This is command central," she said, gesturing to a sleek desk setup with three curved monitors. Her PA Sarah sat there, headphones on, fingers dancing across the keyboard as she edited footage. The screen showed multiple timeline tracks - a symphony of adult content in progress.
"Most people think this job is just looking pretty and taking your clothes off," Emily said, adjusting a light with practiced precision. "But there's actual technique involved." She grabbed a remote, dimming the overhead lights. "See how the shadows fall now? That's the difference between looking amateur and looking like a goddess."
A massive cupboard in the corner caught her eye, making her laugh. "That's new. Had to upgrade after what I'm calling 'The Great Camera Massacre of Last Month.'" She opened it, revealing an organized chaos of professional equipment. "Broke three cameras trying to get the right angle for this crazy position this guy requested. Now we've got backups for everything."
Her phone buzzed - another custom request. She glanced at it and smirked. "This guy wants me to play an innocent virgin who's never seen a man before. Ironic, considering what's happening this weekend." She winked. "But storyline videos are my favorite. Way more interesting than straight gonzo."
"Gonzo?" I asked.
"Just raw footage, no plot. Point and shoot." She shrugged, moving toward another part of the studio. "Some guys prefer that authentic feel. But I love getting into character. Yesterday I played a desperate housewife seducing the plumber. Even learned how to hold a wrench properly for authenticity."
She moved to a locked cabinet, punching in a code with manicured fingers. "And this..." she said, swinging open the door with theatrical flair, "this is where the real magic happens."
The cabinet was a wonderland of adult toys, organized with military precision. Each shelf held different categories - some items looking more like modern art than sex toys. "Each one has a story," she said, picking up something that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi movie. "This bad boy? Made more in one video with it than I did in my entire first year of university."
She pulled out another drawer. "These are for the more adventurous customers. Had to get special training to use some of these properly." She held up something that looked both intriguing and intimidating. "This one's for the finale of the hundred-man marathon. If I can still feel anything by then."
Sarah's voice cut through from her desk. "Emily, your Brazilian lady is here."
"Perfect timing!" Emily clapped her hands. "Maintenance is key in this business. Want to come along? It's quite the process getting ready for a hundred-man marathon."
Two hours later, freshly groomed and glowing, we hit the luxury boutiques on King's Road. Emily flipped through racks with surgical precision, pulling out pieces that cost more than a month's rent in central London.
"The trick," she said, holding up a barely-there lace ensemble, "is finding something that looks good on camera but won't disintegrate after the tenth guy. These designer pieces look amazing, but they're not made for industrial use." She grinned, adding it to her pile anyway. "Maybe I should buy in bulk."
The saleswoman approached, all professional smile and practiced charm. "Special occasion?"
Emily didn't miss a beat. "You could say that. Planning a rather large gathering. Need something that makes an impression but is easy to take off. Multiple times."
The saleswoman's smile flickered but held. Professional to the core.
Back at the studio, Emily laid out her purchases across a velvet chaise lounge - an array of lingerie that would make a Victoria's Secret runway show look tame. Sarah was still at her desk, now coordinating the weekend's shooting schedule and vetting potential participants.
"It's basically running a small factory," Emily mused, sorting through the garments. "Every video needs a hook, something unique. Can't just be another naked girl on the internet." She held up a particularly daring piece that seemed to be made mostly of straps. "This one's for the finale. If it survives that long."
Her phone buzzed again. She glanced at the screen and her eyes lit up. "Oh, this is interesting. Guy wants a custom video where I play a CEO who seduces her entire board of directors." She laughed. "Finally, a chance to use my business degree."
Moving to her prep area, she began organizing her makeup station. "The real secret is preparation. Like any performance, you need the right tools." She opened a drawer filled with false eyelashes. "These babies are industrial strength. Waterproof, sweatproof, everything-proof."
Sarah called out from her desk, "Don't forget your 4 PM custom shoot. The guy with the Shakespeare fetish."
"Right!" Emily's eyes lit up. "That's going to be fun. Had to actually read 'Romeo and Juliet' for that one. Though I don't think Shakespeare imagined Juliet quite like this."
As she headed to change, she paused. "You know what's funny? In business school, they taught us about vertical integration and maximizing assets. Well..." she gestured around the professional studio setup, "I'd say I'm putting those lessons to good use."
Her phone chimed again - another booking for the hundred-man marathon. "That reminds me," she called to Sarah, "make sure we stock up on towels. Like, all the towels in London."
Sarah didn't look up from her monitor. "Already ordered. Industrial supply. Along with enough lube to fill a swimming pool."
"This is why you're the best," Emily laughed, disappearing into her dressing room. Through the door, her voice carried: "Time to make some Shakespeare fans very, very happy."
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Chapter 4: The Business Side
Emily sat at her glass desk, three curved monitors glowing before her like altars to digital success. Her platinum AmEx card lay beside her keyboard - a far cry from the student debit card she'd used just two years ago. Behind her, a wall of whiteboards displayed complex content calendars and revenue projections.
"People think this business is just about looking pretty and getting naked," she said, pulling up a sophisticated spreadsheet. "But check this out."
The screen showed meticulous organization that would make a Fortune 500 company proud. Tabs for every revenue stream: custom videos, live calls, special requests, merchandise, exclusive events, private sessions, and a mysterious column labeled "unique items."
"See these formulas?" She pointed to complex Excel functions. "They automatically calculate profit margins, track customer retention, and flag our highest-value clients. Each subscriber gets a score based on their spending patterns."
Her phone buzzed. Sarah, her operations manager (she'd been promoted from assistant last month), appeared with an iPad. "The Dubai client is asking about another private session. His usual rate?"
"Bump it up twenty percent," Emily said, checking his profile. "He's been subscribed for six months, and his special requests are getting more elaborate. Tell him we can do Thursday." She turned back to me. "Video calls are where the serious money is. Basic rate is hundred pounds for five minutes, but our VIP tier pays up to two grand for a half-hour custom experience."
She clicked to her first month's earnings report: £13,338. "I actually cried when I saw this. Called my bank thinking it was fraud." She laughed, switching to a more recent statement. The number made my eyes widen. "Yeah, that first month looks cute now."
Sarah reappeared. "The gentleman with the... collection request is on line two."
"Ah, bottle guy!" Emily's eyes lit up. "Put him through." She pressed a button. "Hi darling, about your special order... Yes, that's right, completely authentic... Of course I can verify it... The DNA test results will be included... Yes, labeled with the exact time and date..."
After hanging up, she explained: "He's paid five figures for a collection of... personal items. Started with just spit, now he wants everything. Had to hire a lawyer just to draft the authenticity certificates."
Her project management software pinged - another custom request. "Oh, this is delicious," she murmured, scanning the message. "Investment banker wants me to dress up as his board chairwoman and berate him about poor quarterly performance. While wearing nothing but Louboutins and holding his actual company reports."
Sarah brought in a stack of legal documents. "The hundred-man event paperwork needs your review. Legal added new clauses about social media embargo."
"Perfect." Emily grabbed her Mont Blanc pen, signing with practiced efficiency. "Each participant signs an NDA, liability waiver, content release, and health declaration. Plus special addendums for international clients. My lawyer bills twenty grand a month now - she's named her new beach house after me."
She navigated to her analytics dashboard. Real-time graphs showed subscriber activity across multiple platforms. "We track everything. Peak viewing times, most profitable scenarios, client demographics, even preferred camera angles." She pointed to a heat map. "Turns out Wednesday at 4 PM is our golden hour. Something about corporate guys getting bored in late meetings."
A notification popped up - a six-figure deposit had just cleared. "Monthly subscriber bonus," she explained. "This whale pays extra to be the first to view new content. He's never shown his face, but his blockchain wallet is very attractive."
Her CRM software flashed another alert. "Interesting," she mused. "A tech CEO wants to book the whole team for his company's private event. Sarah, call the girls - full NDAs and double regular rates."
She opened her production calendar - a complex matrix of color-coded blocks. "Morning meetings for content strategy, afternoon shoots, evening for live sessions. Different time zones mean we're basically running 24/7." She pulled up another spreadsheet. "Each girl has her specialty. Emma does the girl-next-door stuff, Jade handles fetish requests, and I take the high-end corporate clients."
Sarah knocked again. "Your 3 PM is ready. The professor with the detention fantasy."
"Wonderful." Emily stood, smoothing her skirt. "Time to teach someone a lesson about proper classroom behavior." She winked. "Did you set up the blackboard and ruler?"
"And the vintage teacher's desk he requested. The one that costs more than my car."
Emily's laptop pinged - another special request. "My word," she laughed, reading it. "This one wants me to explain derivatives trading while doing advanced yoga positions. Naked except for reading glasses and a Bloomberg terminal in the background." She shrugged. "Add it to next week's schedule. But double the rate - I'll need to actually research derivatives."
Walking to her studio, she gestured at the operations floor where a dozen people worked at standing desks. "Content editors, social media managers, data analysts, legal compliance - it's a proper corporation." She paused. "Though I doubt Morgan Stanley has a Chief Fetish Officer."
Her phone buzzed one final time. "Oh!" she exclaimed, checking the message. "Remember that bottle guy? He just booked our platinum package. A hundred grand for..." she smirked, "well, let's just say he's diversifying his collection."
"Want me to update the unique items spreadsheet?" Sarah called after her.
"Please. And order more bottles. The crystal ones from France - nothing but the best for our collectors." Emily disappeared into her studio, calling back: "Time to make Professor Johnson very, very sorry about his poor homework performance."
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Chapter 5: Event Planning
Emily stared at her phone screen, thumb hovering over the "Tweet" button. Sarah and the rest of the team huddled around her desk, the afternoon sun casting long shadows across the office. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Once I post this, there's no going back," Emily said, reading the draft one last time:
Looking for 100 lucky subscribers for a special one-day event in London. DM for details. Must be verified. No limits.
"Those last two words are going to cause chaos," Emma, her content manager, muttered. She'd been with Emily since the early days, back when "crazy" meant two guys in one night.
"That's the point," Emily grinned, and hit post.
The response was instant and overwhelming. Her phone erupted with notifications, buzzing like an angry hornet's nest. Within minutes, hundreds of DMs flooded in. The office screens lit up like Christmas trees as applications poured through every platform they operated on.
"Holy shit," Sarah whispered, watching the numbers climb. "We've got over thousand applications already. How are we going to sort through all these?"
Emily's organization skills kicked in. She pulled up an elaborate spreadsheet template: columns for ID verification, STI testing, payment confirmation, location, background info, physical stats, and special requests.
"First filter: no ID, no play," she declared. "Second filter: anyone who can't follow basic instructions in the DM gets cut. I don't want to deal with someone who can't read simple directions when I'm on guy number 87."
The team split into groups, each taking a different aspect of the planning. Emma set up at one desk, scanning through social media profiles of applicants. "Got a minor celebrity here," she called out. "Reality TV guy from Love Island."
"Which season?" Emily asked, interested.
"Last year's. The one with the abs and the crying incident."
"Add him to the maybes. Good for marketing."
At another station, Tom, their legal counsel, was drafting release forms. "We need separate ones for the international participants," he said, rubbing his temples. "And the liability waiver needs to be airtight. I'm adding clauses about potential physical strain."
"Physical strain?" Sarah raised an eyebrow.
"Think about it," Tom replied. "A hundred men in one day. That's like running a marathon, but..." he trailed off, blushing.
"But way more fun," Emily winked.
Mike, the security consultant, wasn't amused. He spread building plans across a conference table. "We need to talk serious safety protocols. I want metal detectors, pat-downs, secured exits. No phones allowed inside - too much blackmail potential."
"Pat-downs?" Emily smirked. "Might get the guys too excited before we even start."
"I'm serious," Mike growled. "A hundred strangers, all hyped up on testosterone and god knows what else. One wrong move..."
The room sobered. Sarah pulled up another application. "This guy's offering ten grand to be first in line."
"Add him to the VIP list," Emily said. "But he goes middle of the pack. I need to be warmed up but not worn out."
The medical team liaison, Dr. Rachel, joined via Zoom. "We need to talk logistics. Hydration stations, emergency supplies, proper ventilation. And the STI testing requirements need to be stricter."
"How much stricter can we get?" Emily asked. "We're already requiring tests from the past month."
"I want full panel tests, not just the basics. And they need to be from approved clinics only. Too easy to fake the cheap ones."
Emma raised her hand. "Got another interesting one. Guy from Dubai. Says he's royalty."
"Probably lying," Sarah said.
"No, I checked. He's legit. Distant prince or something. Offering to fly in on his private jet."
Emily leaned back, considering. "Add him to the VIP list. But warn him about the no-phones policy. Don't need any international incidents."
As night fell, they ordered pizza and kept working. The applications hadn't slowed. Tom was on his fifth Red Bull, drafting separate contracts for the content rights.
"Here's something we haven't considered," he said, looking up. "What if someone dies?"
"Jesus, Tom!" Sarah exclaimed.
"No, he's right," Mike cut in. "Heart attacks happen during sex. Especially with older guys trying to prove something."
"That's why we're age-capping at fifty," Emily said. "Unless they're really hot," she added with a wink.
Dr. Rachel's voice crackled through the laptop. "We need a medical station. I'll be there with a nurse. And we need to talk about... friction management."
Sarah choked on her pizza.
"I've got that covered," Emily said. "Ordered industrial supplies. The lube company actually called to verify it wasn't a mistake."
A new application popped up on the main screen. Everyone stopped to read it.
"Well," Emma said slowly. "That's... ambitious."
The applicant had attached a full PowerPoint presentation about why he should be chosen, complete with testimonials from past partners and a training regiment he'd been following to prepare.
"Add him to the list," Emily decided. "Anyone who makes a PowerPoint deserves a shot."
Mike wasn't finished with security concerns. "What about drugs? We need to check for that too."
"No one's bringing drugs," Emily said. "They won't need to. Trust me, the natural high from this will be enough."
Sarah pulled up the venue details. "The Airbnb host thinks we're having a meditation retreat."
"Well," Emily grinned, "there will be a lot of heavy breathing."
By midnight, they had their preliminary list. Fifty definites, thirty maybes, and twenty spots being held for last-minute VIPs. The team was exhausted but buzzing with nervous energy.
"One last thing," Mike said. "Safe word. We need one."
Emily rolled her eyes. "For a hundred different guys?"
"One universal safe word. Anything goes wrong, anyone can call it, everything stops."
They all looked at each other. Finally, Emma spoke up: "How about 'marathon'?"
Emily laughed. "Perfect. Because that's exactly what this is going to be."
As the team packed up for the night, Sarah lingered behind. "You sure about this? Really sure?"
Emily looked at her screens - dozens of eager faces, all waiting for their chance to be part of history. "Honestly? No. But that's what makes it exciting." She grinned. "Besides, think of the content we'll get. This could fund our retirement."
"If we survive it," Sarah muttered.
"That's the fun part," Emily winked. "We won't know until we try."
Outside, London slept, unaware of the history about to be made in one of its luxury Airbnbs. Inside, Emily kept scrolling through applications, imagining the possibilities. After all, she thought, the greatest rewards come from the biggest risks.
And this was going to be one hell of a risk.
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Chapter 6: The Day Before
"You're doing what tomorrow?" The makeup artist's hand froze mid-stroke, eyeliner hovering dangerously close to Emily's eye. The cramped backstage room at Newcastle's Blinkers nightclub smelled of hairspray and desperation.
Emily grinned at her reflection in the mirror, surrounded by flickering bulbs that had probably seen better days in the '90s. "A hundred guys. One day. World record attempt." She checked her phone. "Well, ninety-eight now. Two just dropped out."
The artist's hand trembled slightly as she finished the wing. "And you're here tonight because?"
"Six thousand horny university students equals six thousand potential new subscribers." Emily's phone buzzed again. "Make that ninety-seven guys."
Sarah's increasingly frantic texts lit up her screen:
Three more backed out. Train strikes.
Dubai prince got cold feet. Says daddy found out.
Love Island guy back with ex. She threatened to go public.
That weird PowerPoint guy? His presentation was plagiarized.
We're down to 82 confirmed. Getting scared.
The club's bass thumped through the walls, heavy enough to make the makeup bottles dance. Danny, her social media manager, burst in, face glowing with sweat and excitement.
"Holy shit, these numbers," he said, thrusting his phone at her. "The announcement tweet hit two million impressions. Your OnlyFans subscriber count jumped twelve percent in three hours. And you're trending in four countries."
"Fantastic," Emily muttered, "now we just need eighteen more guys who can actually get it up tomorrow."
Her group chat was exploding:
Mike (Security): Local cops asking questions. Someone leaked.
Need more guards. Current team says event is "beyond scope."
Metal detectors arrived. No batteries included. Fucking Amazon.
Tom (Legal): Found lawsuit threat online. Guy claiming discrimination.
Release forms have typo in section 8. All need reprinting.
Insurance company getting suspicious. Asked about "nature of gathering."
Dr. Rachel: 33% of test results need verification. Some look photoshopped.
Need to discuss hydration strategy. And friction burns.
Local clinic reports surge in rush testing. They're asking questions.
Sarah: Airbnb host googled you. Having "moral concerns."
Backup venue wants £20k cash deposit.
Caterer canceled. Says event violates their "family values."
Emma: Lube shipment stuck in customs. Label says "industrial lubricant."
Local shops cleaned out. Someone's reselling our supplies on eBay.
Found guy hoarding Viagra prescriptions. Wants to "negotiate.
The club manager knocked. "Five minutes. Place is mental out there."
Emily stood, adjusting her outfit - a barely-there number that would make Instagram's moderators have collective heart attacks. "Time to find some backup dick."
The crowd's roar hit her like a physical wave as she walked onstage. Six thousand faces looked up, phones recording every move. Between poses, she kept checking messages. The situation in London was approaching nuclear:
Sarah: Neighbors called council about "suspicious gathering."
Someone posted event details on Reddit.
Four more cancellations. Guy 43 taking guys 67 and 89 with him.
Mike: Need to discuss crowd control. Fans found the location.
Security team wants hazard pay.
Found three guys selling their spots on eBay.
Tom: Release forms need witness signatures.
STI test verification process possibly illegal.
Need your signature on 47 urgent documents.
Dr. Rachel: Concerned about physical stamina.
Need to discuss recovery protocols.
Found medical ethics bulletin about "extreme encounters."
Emma: Participants asking about "performance supplements."
Guy 28 requesting specific positions. Says he's double-jointed.
Temperature control issues at venue. AC might not handle body heat.
Danny showed her the backup list on his tablet. "Most of these guys can't get to London in time. And the ones who can..." He grimaced at a particular profile. "Well, let's just say quality control might need to be flexible."
After her stage appearance, Emily huddled with the team in the club's office. The room, with its decades of cigarette smoke embedded in the walls, felt like a war room.
"What about the Bristol guys?" she asked, scrolling through profiles.
"Train drivers' strike," Sarah's voice crackled through the speakerphone. "They're trying to book private cars, but..."
"Book them helicopters if you have to," Emily snapped. "Just get them there."
Danny looked up from his laptop. "The venue situation is getting worse. Backup location wants proof of event insurance. Every company I've called has hung up when I explained the details."
Emily's phone rang - her bank's fraud department. Again.
"Yes, that was me trying to order three thousand condoms. No, it's not a mistake. Yes, I need them delivered by morning."
The club's bass continued its relentless rhythm. Outside, students chanted her name, probably filming more content that would complicate tomorrow's logistics.
Sarah texted: Guy 12 requesting special accommodation. Says he's allergic to latex AND polyurethane.
Then from Mike: Security team demanding psychological counseling coverage.
From Emma: Found underground lube supplier. Seems sketchy but desperate times.
Dr. Rachel: Need to discuss muscle fatigue protocols.
Recommend hourly pH testing.
Concerned about repetitive motion injuries.
"It's fine," Emily said to the room at large. "This is fine. We've done this before."
"The thirty-seven guy event had six months of planning," Danny reminded her. "This has had six days."
The club manager reappeared. "Car's here for airport pickup. Though with weather, might want to leave now."
Emily gathered her things, stomach churning with equal parts excitement and terror. Her phone wouldn't stop:
Guy 75: Can I bring my own camera crew?
Guy 91: Is there a dress code?
Guy 16: Do we need to bring our own lube?
Guy 44: What's the refund policy?
In the car to the airport, through increasingly heavy rain, she rapid-fired messages:
To Sarah: Buy more release forms. And pens. And backup pens.
To Mike: Hire ex-military if needed. Budget unlimited.
To Emma: Check adult warehouses. Buy everything.
To Dr. Rachel: Order electrolyte drinks. And protein bars.
To Danny: Start social media blackout protocol.
The driver eyed her in the rearview mirror. "Rough night?"
Emily laughed, borderline hysterical. "Just wait until tomorrow."
Her phone lit up one final time. Sarah's message made her blood freeze:
Airbnb owner called police. Claims we're organizing illegal rave.
Backup venue flooded.
Dr. Rachel threatening to quit.
Guy 69 (ironic) tested positive for everything.
Need new venue, medical team, and 18 men in 6 hours.
Thunder cracked overhead as the car sped toward Newcastle Airport. Six hours until the biggest event of her career, and everything was falling apart.
"Well," Emily muttered, already searching for backup venues on her phone, "at least it can't get any worse."
Her phone immediately proved her wrong:
Health Department asking questions.
Someone called The Sun.
Your mum's trying to reach you.
"Fuck."
What happened next? Emily's story continues in Part 2, now available on your favorite podcast app.
Thanks for tuning in.
