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Copyright 1998 by Erin Halfelven. All rights reserved.
Email Erin@qnez.com
website at http://www.naughtywords.com

This story is mostly true. Names and dates and places have been
changed and the drama improved, but the rape in the story happened to
me. Thanks to Mat for helping me get this one out.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++


Dirty and Dangerous

by Erin Halfelven


I parked under the shade of the sycamore tree and checked my
appearance in the side mirror.  Hair, eyes and lips looked fine, good
enough for visiting an old friend. I wondered if I were
procrastinating about going in.  I didn't want Anna to come outside
and see me just sitting there so I got out of the car and made my way
up the walk to the little bungalow-style house where
Anna lived with her husband these days.

Husband. That still sounded strange. Anna and I had been lovers a few
years ago but I hadn't seen her in several months. She had called to
ask me to come and visit her and I had driven up from Newport Beach to
the little desert town where she had been born and raised.

I knocked on the door and Anna answered, her dark hair falling around
her face, her pregnant belly swelling inside a bright turquoise
blouse. I must have stared. 

"Didn't I tell you I was pregnant again?" she asked. Laughing in her
little girl, gotcha! chortle she pulled me inside. I remembered the
Spanish for pregnant, "embarrasado." It has the same root as
embarrass, both from a Latin word for carrying a burden. 

We hugged and called each other pet names in English and Spanish. Her
tummy felt like a ripe plum, tight-skinned and fruitful. "I will
always love you," I said in my broken Spanish. She looked so
beautiful, so happy and I wanted her to be happy. Why were we both
crying?

I remembered how it had begun to happen, that night more than two
years ago when I realized that Anna would leave me for a man.

*** 

I held no grudge against men, still don't. I've always liked men as
friends, in fact I have a few more male friends than female friends.
Several of my female friends are ex-lovers although most of them
aren't really bi or lesbian or whatever; just experimental. Almost all
of my friends in high school were boys. I wasn't a tom boy or
anything; my friends were mostly quiet, scholarly types, nerds in the
modern vernacular. Most of the girlfriends I had were so into boys it
was hard to have a conversation with them about anything else. Well,
maybe clothes. With the boys, I could talk about chess or art or books
or just about anything. Except sex.

See the problem of having sex with boys, or men later, was that it
felt wrong. Dirty, dangerous and likely to get me in trouble, at least
with my folks if not literally, or cause problems with a guy I just
wanted to be friends with. So, I had to decide that I wanted to try
it. Found out I liked it. Liked getting a big, old hard prick shoved
way up inside me. Liked making love to someone who was hairy where I
was smooth and had hard muscles and was lots stronger than me. Liked
exploring around a stiff dick with my hands and later my tongue while
he played with my tits or my pussy. Liked the feeling of being fucked.
Discovered my passive self, if you like.

Another problem with guys as lovers is so many of them are so bad at
it. I got lucky my first few times so I know it doesn't have to be
that way.  But some men are just better lovers than others, some know
how and some don't. Making love is mostly a matter of caring about
your partner's
pleasure and I really believe that more women are good at caring than
are most men.

But I guess Anna never really felt comfortable having a female lover.
She'd never been with a woman before she met me except for some
experimentation during high school. Almost everybody does that.

Our time together had seemed short enough, less than four months. I
felt the end getting nearer when she insisted on going to a particular
party because of a guy she had met while visiting her mother. "We'll
just go in and I'll talk to this boy," she promised. She always spoke
of "boys" and "girls" rather than "men" and "women." Maybe because she
was a hairdresser; maybe her thirtieth birthday just a bit more than a
year away scared her a little.

She snuggled against me, her slenderness spooned into my ampleness. I
buried my face in her dark hair and listened while she planned our
breakup. Lying there in the darkness of my little apartment, Anna
begged me to come with her to this party. "I'll feel safer, you'll
keep me from doing anything foolish." She might feel safer but I
wouldn't.

My two previous lovers had both left me to live with men. They both
wanted to get married, get pregnant, have kids, do the suburban thing.
I wouldn't have minded getting married if it were legal or even the
rest if it were possible but of course it wasn't. So I walked away,
smiling, when the
time came to do so. I'm still good friends with Julie and Sue; Sue's
kids even call me Aunt Ellie. Life is complicated. I felt sure that
Anna would soon become my latest ex-lover.

I kissed her  neck there in the darkness and she turned to put us face
to face, breast to breast. We made love in the way I had taught her
with the quick heat and slow passion of postponed good-byes. Her dark
bush never seemed softer, her lips never sweeter, her scent never more
dear. I seldom make noise but I moaned as her tongue brought me to a
first climax. And I cried silently as I helped her toward her peak, my
tears mingling with the dampness between her legs. 

Careful effort has its rewards, Anna and I had become very
knowledgeable in how to bring each other to the heights and how to
join our pleasure and prolong the sweet release. We slept, finally,
limbs entangled, lives askew.

I felt certain that Anna would be leaving soon. I didn't want to
cooperate but I knew I would. Just like when we went shopping and Anna
stole little things. I wanted to protest, shoplifting made me really
uncomfortable but I never said anything. I caused distractions when
she asked me to, I even
wore some of the things she stole for me. "Bad Girls Go Everywhere"
read the bumper sticker she swiped from the L.A. County Fair and
placed on my car. I loved my "Bad Girl" and did not want to lose her
but I never could say no to a lover's wish. 

Finally, reluctantly, I agreed to go to the party in the little desert
town where Anna grew up. I knew she would dress to kill, she always
did, so I planned on wearing a puffy pink blouse, deeply cut, and a
short denim skirt with high-heel sandals to show off my legs. They
look fat to me, but I know I get lots more compliments on them than on
my rather harsh Native American face.  

When we got ready that night, Anna surprised me by choosing a somewhat
conservative dress in a lively shade of plum. Conservative, but with a
short skirt. It suited her, emphasizing her slender Hispanic
youthfulness, her dark good looks.  

She fussed with our hair for nearly an hour, guaranteeing that we
would be late. She made me wash my face and helped me do a stunning
job on my make up. Nothing garish or Hollywood but I knew I would
probably be getting a lot of attention from guys. 

"Will I be the only person there speaking bad Spanish?" I asked while
she worked on her own face. She only laughed, she and her friends
always laughed when I complained about my poor Spanish. Sometimes they
mimicked my accent or word choice but I didn't really mind. Part of it
was that I spoke textbook Spanish, though badly and they spoke "de la
frontera," border Spanish. The difference was like that between
Buckingham Palace and lower Manhattan. My Spanish had certainly
improved and become more idiomatic since I had known Anna and mostly
because of her teasing.

When she was ready, I kissed her gently. She fussed and reapplied her
lipstick and we left.

She drove through the mountains into the October heat of the Southern
California desert evening. We found the party in a two story farmhouse
on the edge of town. Salsa-flavored rock music poured out of the
windows into the darkness. We were more than two hours late, the party
in full swing, not that it really mattered.

Anna disappeared minutes after we arrived while I was distracted
dancing with an assortment of Hispanic admirers. I felt awkward, out
of place; in my heels taller than most of them and probably sounding a
little retarded with my schoolgirl Spanish. I heard them talking about
"la guera alta," the tall blonde, my legs got a lot of attention and
one short man I danced with rested his head on my breast. 

When I noticed that Anna was gone, I determined to enjoy myself. I
danced with more men. Men outnumbered women by about three to one and
I had all the partners I could want. I drank a lot of beer, more than
I usually drank in a month and soon felt the need to get rid of some
liquid.

One girl directed me to the bathroom at the top of a steep flight of
narrow stairs. The whole house being in semi-darkness, I tripped
coming back down and I fell, head downstairs and legs upstairs, skirt
hiked nearly to my waist, chin and cheek smudged against a lower step.
Quicker than you can say, "Are you all right?" some guy rushed down
the stairs, spread my legs further apart and slipped me the cold hot
dog. He had to pull down my pantyhose but not my panties, he just sort
of bypassed them.

"I've been raped," I thought. I looked around and he was gone. I was
so drunk I started laughing. It hurt but it hadn't felt anything like
I had expected a rape to feel like. My pussy felt bruised, even
scraped, but my hands and knees hurt more, just from the fall. I must
have been a little wet from the dancing or it would have felt much
worse.

I was so drunk I almost decided that I had imagined it but there's no
mistaking the feel of cum dripping down your leg when you stand up. I
went back to the bathroom and cleaned myself up and threw away the
pantyhose. They were ruined, first from the fall then from being
forcibly stretched out of shape. I had to take off my high-heeled
sandals to remove the hose. 

I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked fine. It surprised me not
to see tears. I felt like I ought to be crying; I'd been raped for
God's sake. The one bare bulb in the bathroom hung on a cord from the
high ceiling, the world's most unflattering light but the party girl
in the mirror smiled at me, her blonde hair un-mussed, her makeup
still fresh.

I put my shoes back on and went looking for Anna. I found her in a
downstairs bedroom with the guy I knew must be the one she had talked
about. They lay together on a pallet in the corner of the room, Anna's
plum dress carelessly flung across the bed, her lavender panties and
bra partly
concealed by his dark body. I stared at them.

"Wait," Anna begged me. So I waited, in the darkened room while she
and her male lover had slow, quiet sex on the pallet in the corner. I
sat on the bed and watched them for awhile. The man smiled at me, now
and then, his white teeth flashing in his dark Indian face but her
back was mostly to me. I watched her legs scissor open as she took him
inside her and I drank another beer and shivered and finally cried a
little but I didn't think I made much noise.

Jaime, the man, got up and left the room, saying he had to piss. Anna
asked me if I wanted to leave. Leave, I wondered? The room? The party?
Our relationship? The room was spinning as the rest of the alcohol I
had drunk caught up with me. 

"Are you finished?" I asked. 

"No," she said. "Jaime and I want to talk about when we will get
together again." She re-hooked her bra but left the panties lying
where Jaime had tossed them on the floor. The lavender lace gleamed
against her dark skin.

"I got raped on the stairs," I said. I could still hear the party
going on outside the room. Everything seemed unreal, the party, the
near darkness, Anna lying on a pallet I now saw was made of coats,
brought to the party by guests, I supposed. I imagined someone getting
home and wondering where they had picked up that stain. I must have
been wrong because no one ever
came looking for the coats.

Anna said nothing for awhile. She sipped a beer and lit a cigarette.
"Did he hurt you? Who did it?"

"I don't know, it happened so fast. It doesn't hurt much now, but I
want a bath."

"We'll go when Jaime gets back," she said. "He'll walk us out to my
car and we'll be safe."

We sat and smoked and drank beer and Anna asked how the rape had
happened. I told her, too drunk to really be ashamed or embarrassed. I
didn't know how much Anna may have had but she did not seem drunk and
listened to the story gravely and without interrupting.

"It must have been a small man, that it didn't hurt," she said when I
finished. We giggled, drunkenly on my part, at least. I am five-nine,
without heels,  and my figure, then and now, is most charitably
described as "generous". I had no visual image of my attacker at all
and Anna had not meant a small man in a gross physical sense. The idea
of having been raped by a midget
presented an irresistibly comic scene in my mind.

Jaime came back and with him another taller man.

"We want to go," I said. The other man sat beside me on the bed. I
stared at him, another beaky Indian face.

"This is my cousin, Paul," said Jaime. "This is his room."

I realized I was sitting on Paul's bed. "Are you hungry?" Paul asked
in Spanish. I shook my head. "You want a beer?" he asked, still in
Spanish.

Jaime took back his place on the pallet. "No," I said. "I need a
cigarette." I still smoked back then; everybody at that party did,
both marijuana and tobacco.

Paul lit two cigarettes at once and passed one of them to me.
Unfiltered Camels. "You speak Spanish?" he asked in Spanish.

"Poquito," I said, meaning a little bit.  He smiled, another white set
of Indian teeth. I took a hot, ragged puff of the raw tobacco. Most of
the rest of this was in Spanish by him, broken Spanish by me or
English when I didn't know the words. Mostly we understood each other.

"I am called Pablo," he said, not Paul. "How are you called?"

"Felicia," I lied. It means "the happy one."

"Where do you live, Felicia?" he asked.

I didn't answer right away. Anna moaned on the pallet though Jaime
still had his pants on and for that matter, Anna had pulled on a pair
of jeans. Jaime's, I supposed. Or Paul's. Pablo's.

We watched the lovers for awhile, their hands in each other's clothes,
their faces so close together they became one blurry tan blob in the
darkness. We smoked. 

"Sant'Ana," I said, the Chicano way of saying Santa Ana, another lie.
Also, a pun, "santana" is the devil.

"I've been there," he said. "How old are you?"

"I'm thirty," I lied again, still not sure why he was asking questions
or I was bothering to answer them, even to lie.

He put his arm around my waist, "I have twenty-one years of age," he
said. His Spanish was pure, not the border mush-mouth mixture I had
heard most of my life but the Spanish of Mexico City I had learned in
school.

I took his hand and put it back in his lap. "No," I said. 

He smiled at me. "What is your work?" he asked.

"I'm a writer," I answered.

"A secretary?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Yes," I lied again.

He put his arm around me again. "No," I said again, and this time I
dug the nails of my hand into his wrist. I keep them a little over
half-an-inch long and it must have hurt. He did not rub the spot where
I had tried to emphasize my denial.

"You are not married?" he asked.

"No," I said, telling the truth at last.

"Then why not? You are a pretty woman, Felicia. A blonde North
American. Do you think I am not young and a man?" He opened a beer and
passed it to me. I had been a blonde only a week, courtesy of Anna's
course at the cosmetology school. 

"You must love the fat little women," I said. I'm not little but I was
smaller than he and that is the idiom, "gorditas." The modern
advertising slogan sounds vaguely suggestive in Spanish, "Viva
Gorditas!" "Hurrah for the fat girls!" Gordita is also what a Mexican
man may call his wife when
she is pregnant without being in the least insulting. Unless he is
married to a gringa who doesn't understand that she is being compared
to a ripe gourd, symbol of the Indian mother-fertility goddess, and is
not being accused of ugliness and slovenly disregard for her
appearance.

"It is true," he said. "So, shall we make love, Felicia? Like our
friends are doing?" Two pairs of pants tangled around two sets of
ankles on the piled-up coats, he can't get inside her like that, I
thought. Pablo's arm went back around my waist.

This time he did not yield when I pried at his hand, not even when I
dug the nails again into his wrist, trying to hurt him. His strength
surpassed mine and he may have been too drunk to feel the pain. He
pulled me close to him, I put a hand against his flat, hard chest and
pushed. He ignored that, too. "No," I said. The simple word is the
same in English and Spanish.

"Why not?" he asked quietly, his voice still gentle, his face right in
front of mine. I smelt his body as I heard Anna moan softly in the
corner.

"I was raped. Earlier tonight," I said. He didn't understand, I didn't
know the Spanish word for rape. "An assault, a man took me when I fell
coming down from the bathroom. By force. An assault."

"Who did it? Are you hurt?" he asked.

"I don't know. No, I am fine. The fall hurt me worse. I skinned my
hand." I showed him the scrape.

He kissed it. I thought of my skinned knees but I did not mention
them.

"Are you going to the police?" he asked.

"If I do, many people will be caught by La Migra," I said. The
Department of Immigration. Anna had some of the strangest sets of
friends.

"It is true. Many of us are illegal. All who live here." 

"Everyone must work to live," almost a Spanish proverb, I knew. "You
are farmworkers?"

"Yes. You will go to the Free Clinic?" Free clinic was said in
English.

"To my doctor," I said.

"Tomorrow, then." He bent his face to kiss me.

I put my hand in the way and he kissed that instead.

"You are an Indian," I said.

"Yes, an Aztec. Why do you say that?"

"I am an Indian, too. Blackfoot, my grandmothers were from Canada."

"It is true? How were you knowing I am an Indian?" he asked. His arm
still encircled me, pulling me closer, his face hovered over mine and
he bent again to kiss me.

"Your nose," I said. I put my hand on his nose, fingers on one side
and thumb on the other. I squeezed, hard. I bent his nose to the left
then the right. I did not try to break it but I meant it to hurt. He
had tears in his eyes when I let go. "Your nose is like mine," I said.

He touched the tip of his finger to my own Indian nose and wiggled it
gently. I laughed softly though I had not intended to. He kissed me. I
sat still. He kissed me again and nibbled on my earlobe. Taking one of
the earrings Anna had stolen for me between his teeth, he pulled,
gently. It stung a little. I kept my hands on his shoulders, pushing
him away but I said nothing.

He kissed me on my neck, sending shivers down my back. The drunkenness
seemed all gone now. I felt everything, including the wetness in my
bruised pussy. He pulled me back, laying us both on the bed,
crossways.

He kissed me again. I kept my mouth closed, not clenching my teeth,
just mouth and lips closed. He kissed my eyes and I closed them. I was
still drunk I realized, for the bed seemed to spin with my eyes closed
so I opened them again. Through a window I hadn't really noticed
before, I saw the half moon shining between the leaves of a very large
sycamore tree.

He placed a hand on my left breast, pinching my nipple right through
the fabric of my blouse and my bra. It made me ache in both nipples.
He began unbuttoning my blouse. "I only love women," I said, lying
again.

"Like Anna," he mocked me. "That is why I want you so, Felicia."

I pushed against his chest again as he rolled on top of me. "No," I
said.

"Why not?" he asked. His weight left me as he stood, stripping off his
shirt, his t-shirt and standing above me, his smooth Indian chest
glistening in the moonlight through the sycamore. He dropped his
pants, and either he wore no underwear or he dropped his shorts at the
same time. He was the least hairy man I have ever seen naked. 

His penis arced out from his body, not fully erect but seeming nearly
as wide as three of my fingers, more than wide enough. 

"God," I heard Anna whisper from her corner.

"It will hurt," I said. And I meant it. But I lay on the bed and I did
not try to get away.

"Only a little, at first," he said. He teased the end of his dick with
his fingers and it rose, bending now slightly upward, stiff and hard,
the uncircumcised foreskin peeling back as the head engorged with
blood. The first uncircumcised cock I had ever seen in the flesh.

He reached under my skirt and pulled my panties down to my knees. I
arched my neck so I could better look out the window at the moon. I
realized I had been playing with my nipples under the pretext of
rebuttoning my blouse. But somehow, sometime, he had reached behind me
to unfasten
my bra, or I had, and now it lay across my breasts like an underwire
doily. Buttoning up over that seemed silly, so I reached above my head
to put my hands against the wall. My abandoned nipples still ached but
I did not want to bump my head on the wall later.

He pulled my panties on down to my ankles, pushed my skirt completely
up to my waist and stepped into the loop of my legs. My ankles were
trapped, the panties would have to be worked over the strappy high
heels I wore or the straps undone and the shoes removed again before I
could stand or get away.

He leaned over me, bracing himself with his hands wide on either side
of my head. His cock poised above my pussy, he took his left hand and
stuck his thumb slowly part-way into my cunt. He played with it there
a little, searching for my hidden clit with his thumb, rubbing the
ball of his
index finger against the flesh above my pussy, tangling his fingers in
the dark red-brown hair. I took little in-breaths and saved up for a
moan.

He didn't like the angles, perhaps. He suddenly lifted my body with
one hand and pushed the pillows under my back with the other. I lay
there, hands against the wall, weight mostly on my shoulders, clothes
disarrayed but except for my panty hose, still fully dressed and with
my pussy pointed more nearly right at his cock.

I couldn't picture it; somehow, I still can't. Where were his feet,
his knees, I don't know. Was my ass at the edge of the bed or in the
middle, I don't remember. Being drunk will do that to you.

He smiled at me. He put something in my cunt again, not his cock, his
fingers or thumb again. I tried to lie still but my hips pulsed
against him wanting to take him deeper inside me. I forgot about the
bruising I had suffered, the rape earlier in the evening by the
pervert with the tiny cock.

I felt his blunt-nailed thumb move from my pussy to my asshole. Oh,
God, I thought, he's going to backdoor me. He's too squeamish to take
sloppy seconds. He doesn't know I've never been fucked in the ass, it
is going to hurt. But the well lubricated thumb slipped inside me more
easily than I
would have imagined and the sensation caused me to release the moan I
had been saving. He twisted his hand to bring his fingers back to my
cunt.

I tried to breathe deep and slow. I watched his face. He kissed the
air in my direction and smiled as he played with me like this for
several minutes. To keep his cock hard he rubbed it against my thigh
occasionally. I tried to relax, to go limp. My arms ached from pushing
against the wall, trying to impale myself on his fingers. My thighs
ached from the effort of not squeezing him between them.

I lost track of time, of what was happening. His cock was in me, his
loins thrusting against mine, our breathing meshed and I felt him
inside me, filling me. I came and I lost myself in the sensation; not
caring that I did not know this man; that I preferred soft, gentle
women to hard, insistent men; that I had been raped earlier in the
evening.

Surprised, I realized that he was withdrawing. That he had not come,
his dick still hard against my thigh. I tried to clasp him, to prevent
his escaping. But he completed his withdrawal. His smiling face looked
down at me as he shifted position.

Then he was in me again, thrusting, harder than before. I felt one
tight flash of pain, and I realized that this time he was in my
asshole, his big prick in my virgin ass. I wanted to come again but it
wasn't happening. He shuddered and moaned, his eyes closed. I knew he
was pumping his jism into my backdoor and I wanted to come, too.

When he withdrew his dick, still semi-hard, I did come. A softer
orgasm, satisfying but not as thrilling as a pussy-fuck. I've never
had another orgasm from being fucked back there. I felt sore, I cried
a little and he stroked my hair, my back and my arms. I didn't really
mind that it had hurt, that he had hurt me.

We lay together for awhile, his naked body atop my partially clothed
self. We kissed and this time I kissed back. He asked me to marry him,
"You will have a young husband who knows how to make love to you and I
will have a blonde gordita for my wife. Also I will be able to stay in
the United States and become a citizen." I told him no. He offered me
ten thousand dollars. I
wondered where a twenty-one-year-old campesino would get ten grand but
I still said no.

We sat up. I straightened my clothes, not sitting on my skirt, letting
the jism ooze out of me through my panties onto Pablo's bed. We lit
cigarettes and shared a beer. We talked with Jaime and Anna. A third
man who had been sleeping in another corner got up and asked for a
cigarette. 

I wondered if we had woke him up and how long he had lain there awake.
I had never noticed him until he stood up. Pablo spoke sharply to him
but seemed more amused than angry. I buried my face in Pablo's
shoulder to stifle embarrassed giggles. His skin felt cool and smooth
and hard. The
third man left the room to look for a tree, I think he said.

We lay back, right way round on the bed. I held him and let him doze
for a few minutes then I woke him and told him in my bad Spanish that
I needed to get cleaned up but was afraid to go to the upstairs
bathroom. I needed to pee so bad I feared jaundice. He dressed and led
me to a larger bathroom on the ground floor. I sponged off and then I
went back and collected Anna from the arms of her male lover and we
went to her mother's home where we slept on a foldaway bed in the
family room.

Anna left me and married Jaime within the month. Jaime gave her enough
money to start her own beauty shop with what she had saved but that
wasn't why she did it. I could have given her the money if she had
asked. But I couldn't tie her to me with a wedding ring . 

***

Two years later, I came to visit Anna in her little house near her
shop. I said admiring things about the way she looked in her maternity
clothes.  I teased her by calling her "gordita," and she blushed in
pleasure.

"I'm not working now," she told me. "No chemicals, no drinking, I even
stopped smoking. This time the baby will live." She smiled, bravely,
and I tried to manufacture reassurance in my own smile.

Then she wiped her nose with the back of her hand, a gesture I knew
meant she had been crying. I think we both were, I used a tissue to
dab at my eyes.

She seemed to change the subject, but really, it was another echo of
that night years ago. "Did you know that Pablo, my Jaime's cousin was
killed in traffic?" she asked.  "He got caught by La Migra and tried
to cross the border again so he would not lose his job. A truck hit
him on the freeway near Escondido."

I didn't say anything, just thinking. I thought about Beejay, my
current lover, waiting for me at home. I had never told her about the
night I was raped. I thought about Pablo and his insistent seduction
of a woman who did not care for men, especially right at that time and
place. I thought of Indian noses and felt my eyes burning again.

Anna turned to look out the window, south toward Mexico and, somewhere
nearer, the place where Pablo died. "He asked about you the last time
he was here," she said.

------------------------------------------
Copyright 1998 by Erin Halfelven. All rights reserved.
website at http://www.naughtywords.com
Email Erin@qnez.com

-- Read any NaughtyWords lately?

-- 
If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author.  Your comments
are their only payment.  Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is
copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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