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Subject: New TG: Girlfriends by Vickie Tern 1/6
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New TG: Girlfriends by Vickie Tern  1/6 femdom, wife, humiliation 
M,F,m,f (mix and match)

If you like consensual feminization (persuasion, no pain, no
extortion or blackmail, no magic), this story's for you.  If you're
under any relevant legal age, it isn't.










                              Girlfriends

                             by Vickie Tern




                                 One

"What are you doing, honey?"

My wife Tracy's voice calling me from downstairs.  Tired, but
trying to take charge nevertheless.

She was home from work late again, after a wearying day.  As she
explained it, she was responsible for lots of special projects, she
didn't want to talk about them, and the company had downsized too
far, and her job was to see that whatever had to be done got done
nevertheless, by whatever means necessary.  Her Boss rode her hard,
she said, so she had to stay on top and ride everyone else hard. 
That meant long days to avoid late nights and weekends, but late
nights and weekends anyhow.  When she mentioned quitting to her
boss at my urging, he raised her salary -- doubled it in fact --
and promoted her.  "We can't afford to lose you," is what he told
her.  He even gave her a new title and a department of her own. 
"It's called 'Personnel Services'," she said to me, pronouncing it
as if spelled "personal."  "I'm the head, but there's no body yet. 
Nobody to help do the work, apart from my secretary."  I asked when
she'd be able to hire at least an assistant.  She looked at me and
said "The position's cleared.  When I can find the right person. 
I'm working on it, believe you me, honey."  And she sighed.  

Today was especially rough.  I could tell by the long silence after
our heavy front door latched shut.  I pictured Tracy leaning
against it with the weight of her whole body.  Soon she'd gather
energy enough to find the living room and flop face down on the
couch, and eventually to stagger upstairs.  But first she had to
call out to me, to know what was happening.  I suppose she'd heard
the running water upstairs.  "Hon?" she called again. 

"Just rinsing out some undies, dear," I called down.  I wished she
could just let her mind go blank when she got home.  My work wasn't
that demanding, so I was getting home as early as I could and then
doing everything I could to ease her through this stressful time. 
 Running the household in effect.  Even so, she heard sounds and
had to ask, couldn't let anything get by her.  I suppose that's
what made her so good at her work, why she'd been promoted when
others were being let go, and why she was coming home exhausted. 

"Yours or mine?" 

"Ours," I answered.  It was true enough.  When I'd gotten home I'd
found our lingerie hamper stuffed to overflowing again.  Heaps of
panties, pantyhose, stockings, garter belts, bras, slips, and
teddies, hers and mine all tangled and crammed in and tamped down
in a mass of hot pinks and ochres and beiges and blacks, tricots
and satins and lace nets.  All crumpled, many stained, some there
for weeks.  

"That's good," was all she could reply.

Eventually she'd come upstairs, remove her dress or suit and hang
it up, and then limp into the bathroom.  She'd pull down her
panties from her beautifully turned rump, lift her slip over hair
she'd piled high on her head, unclasp her bra from the curves of
her breasts, let them all fall to the floor, and when I nodded,
sink into the hot tub I'd just run for her.  I'd drop her intimate
things into the hamper for her, and then go fix dinner while she
soaked in the suds and bath oils and gradually recovered herself.

Until she began to come home so bushed, my panties and bra would
often follow hers into the hamper, and I'd follow her into the tub. 
We wore pretty much the same kinds and sizes.  Tracy liked pastels
and I preferred darker shades, so we could always separate them out
again.  But our after-work baths were always a special joy for both
of us, even before we got married.  We'd undress together, smile at
each other, then slip into the tub and then, soaking in warm water,
make love.  

Often at work I'd daydream about those moments.  The feel of her
slick, soaked pussy under water as I massage soap and bath oils
into her tender slit.  The uplifted curve of the underside of her
breasts where it rises to meet her perky nipples, often jutting out
stiff even before my finger tips can reach them.  The way her
breasts feel pressing softly against mine as I hug her.  Her
languorous stretching out and her soft ecstatic groans when I begin
to caress her most private areas.  Then, the feel of her warm, wet,
oiled pussy on what is by then my bone-hard cock, when finally she
mounts me and I sink into her, and she wraps her legs around my
waist, and we rock back and forth, the water swaying and splashing,
and gently pump into each other.  So very sweet!  

I soon found my skin was as soft as hers from all the bath oils,
and my whole body more tender, more erotically aroused, especially
around my nipples and cock.  When I mentioned this to her she just
smiled and said, "I'd hoped so."    Our part-time office manager
Connie had obligations that often took her elsewhere, but when she
was with us and checking on the staff in her charge she never
missed anything.  She'd noticed Tracy's bath scent lingering on me
almost immediately.  "Nuit d'Amour isn't it?" she'd asked. "Your
wife's?  That's her scent, isn't it."  I nodded, a little concerned
about what she might say next, but she added only -- "I thought so. 
It's very nice.  You two must feel very close.  Most men would
never dare use a perfume that feminine as an after shave." 

I didn't correct her.  Nor could she guess that the scent was
partly from the sachet in my underwear drawer, that under my proper
suit, shirt, and tie I was wearing the same perfumed, wickedly
provocative panties, bras, slips, teddies, girdles, bras, or
whatever else my wife was also wearing that day.  This was another
intimate bond between us.  Tracy had thought it would be nice for
me to wear them, and though it seemed silly, finally I had agreed. 


Why?  Because it seemed to mean so much to her, mainly, and at
first I myself didn't much care one way or another.  She'd
suggested it the first week after we moved to this town as
newlyweds, and knew no one.  It seemed at first a casual request,
almost a whim.  We'd each of us started our jobs and arranged the
furniture, and begun settling into our new lives together.  In fact
she proposed it the same day she'd persuaded me to shave my body
and to keep it that way, all velvety smooth for her to caress and
cuddle.  Now that my skin was so smooth, she said this time, it
would give her even greater pleasure to think of me working at my
desk in the same kinds of smooth, silky underwear she was wearing. 


At first I thought she was joking, or teasing me.  Her job required
that she look stunning all day "to impress the locals" she said,
and her underthings were extremely seductive and romantic because,
as she said, "It gives me confidence for my job -- I like to feel
feminine from the skin on out."  She'd been amused to ask me to put
on one or another item now and then even before we were married, to
see how I looked -- I'd say "Silly!" and she'd say with a
half-smile, "Nooo, not at all!  Sexy!"   But now, she was
persistent.  Every day she kept urging me to try on her things,
always when we were caressing each other in the bath tub, my cock
clasped snug inside her pussy under water and my senses utterly
enraptured.  After a week or two I said "Sure, why not?."  The next
day my boxer shorts and T-shirts were gone.  She'd gone shopping
and replaced them all with delicate little lace-frothed nothings,
the same kinds she wore.  So that was that.

I felt a little queer at first, dressed like a woman under my
clothes.  I worried that my pantyhose might show above my shoes for
example, and expose me as a sissy.  But when I mentioned this to
Tracy, she only shrugged and said, "So what!  Because you like the
way women dress?  That's why we dress that way, so men will like
it!  If that makes you a sissy, be proud and enjoy it!".  No one
did notice I think, and after a few days I began to find wearing
even the pantyhose or panties and garter belt enjoyable.  They
didn't bind, and really did feel tantalizingly silky, clinging to
my skin while other clothes slipped around on them.  Now I wouldn't
wear anything else.  It wouldn't be proper.

I did balk at wearing a bra at first.  It made no sense -- I had no
tits to contain and support and shape, the way she did.  I told her
that.  She just said, "No. But I can tell from the way you behave
around mine that you'd love to have a pair of your very own,
wouldn't you?  You adore breasts!  C'mon, confess it!"  

Certainly I adored hers, though her logic from then on was a little
twisted.  Yet, the moment she hooked one of my new brassieres onto
my chest, I could feel immediately why she wanted me to wear it. 
"See, it gathers you up in front and shapes you, doesn't it?  And
your nipples feel a little more sensitive protruding that way,
don't they, a little more feminine, more sexy?  It feels really
nice, don't deny it.  Think of the band as me hugging you, and the
cups as my palms holding your breasts up and molding them,
massaging them gently as you move.  Think of this bra as my love
surrounding you and containing you."  

A little far-fetched, but I could feel some of that.  It was kind
of sexy.  In fact it was a lot sexy -- even as she spoke my nipples
engorged.  She did agree that I didn't need to stuff anything into
the bra except myself.  "All I want," she said, "is to know that
close to your heart you're dressed as my dearest friend, my very
own secret girlfriend, as well as my especially darling husband. 
That you're dressed like me and only I know it.  I do so love you
for it.  Oh, I do!"  She was fastening the clasp on the bra and
still standing behind me when she said that, and she reached around
to hug and grasp and mold my breasts with both hands, and to tweak
those aroused nipples.  What could I say after that?  

Anyhow, that's how come I started wearing bras and hosiery and the
other fripperies of women's underwear.  We all take pleasure
satisfying our wives' harmless kinks, I suppose, and it really did
feel nice!  Mine liked playing Barbi doll with me I guess.  Then
too, Tracy had a severe streak of jealousy in her.  She'd been
uneasy when she first heard that in my office I was a lone male
surrounded by a dozen females, even though the reverse was true in
her office -- she was a lone female among dozens of males and it
didn't bother me at all.  In fact she'd tried at first to get me
employed at her place, so she could be close by, but there were no
openings.  I figured privately that my undies were her way to stake
a claim on me in her absence.  Why?  To keep me faithful to her? 
All the girls at my office already knew I was married.  Maybe to
remind them, if I should start to stray, that I was taken?  Or to
suggest I was too queer to bother with?  Or to remind me to stay
straight?  To help me feel myself a part of her, and her a part of
me?  Well, I had no intention to stray, and I did want to feel that
we were part of each other.  I still do.  I love Tracy, and she
loves me.  Though not the same way, now.

I suppose I didn't need my own lingerie -- except for cup sizes we
could have shared all our underthings, and that would have been a
bond too.  But she'd shared all her clothing with her sister when
she was a girl, and as she said, now she wanted her own things kept
exclusively her own, and she wanted me to feel possessive about
mine too.  Except for emergency borrowing, as can happen.  "We can
be like college roommates and borrow from each other now and then,"
she'd said.  "Like when one of us has a special date and wants to
look especially nice for later on, when he wants to get intimate." 
I looked startled, but she took my hand and looked into my eyes. 
"Girlfriend, no matter how many guys there are in the world, you
are always my special date."  Then she kissed me.  And that's what
she called me from then on when she was feeling especially
affectionate.  Standing there in a brand-new gift bra and panties
set as I was, I could scarcely object.

I was happy I'd pleased her, and she was happy I'd made her this
little concession and gotten to enjoy it.  Sometimes we did behave
like roommates when deciding what we'd wear each morning, giggling
whether Tracy should look especially daring on days when she had to
report to one of the company VPs.  Wouldn't they be surprised to
know she was wearing crotchless panties for example, or thongs that
left her delectable ass cheeks fully exposed.  Or how would they
feel when they saw she'd gone really leggy in black net stockings
with seams?  Those days I might suggest she go all out, and then
I'd dress rather daring too, though of course my undergarments were
covered with pants, and Tracy's were barely covered at all by one
of her equally daring all-out micro-minis.  I'd be amused to think
how her appearance affected her work associates -- not an approving
eye among any women, I'd bet, and not a limp prick among the men. 
And especially I'd smile at what my own associates didn't know
about me.  I began to love the look as well as the feel of really
sexy lingerie on both of us.

Her work was demanding almost from the first day, though nothing
like recently.  Often she was too tired to rinse her things out, so
I'd do it along with mine.  "Take care of these," she'd said when
she'd first gotten them for me.  "Hand-wash them only, to keep them
pretty.  A machine can stretch out dainty lace work, and ruin bras
and stockings altogether.  I'll always want to know all day long,
no matter what how stressed out I may be, that underneath you're
still sweet and fresh and feminine.  You have no idea how cheering
it is for me to see when you strip down that my hubby is still my
cute, sexy girlfriend."  She reached for my cock, now tucked
between my legs by the panty girdle I happened to have on, and
squeezed it.  "Even when you're not undressing to make love, even
when all you mean to do is put on a housecoat, and maybe freshen
your makeup a little before we sit down to dinner."  

I reminded her that I don't wear makeup, that her imagination was
running away with itself.

She didn't miss a beat. "Oh, lover, you really should!  It goes
with all your lovely things.  And that's how I like to think of you
anyhow, really beautiful, your face as attractive as mine.  I like
to imagine that at quitting time you're in the Ladies' painting and
primping with the other girls, getting ready to come home.  So they
tend to think you're one of them, and it never occurs to any of
them to come on to you, or even try to flirt.  But of course you'd
never do that, would you?  Paint and primp and make yourself
beautiful for me, I mean?"  

I just looked at her.

"You would?  I wish you would!  Please, at least when you're home? 
>From now on?  Please?  For me?  You'll look gorgeous I know, so
much more like me, and it would be so reassuring for me to know we
share that too.  It would be one more bond, one more intimate thing
we know about each other.  Please?"

I thought about it.  This new notion seemed a little extreme, but
I suppose it was no worse than wearing women's underwear.  And
again it didn't matter that much to me, but it did to Tracy in some
odd way.  She wanted to safeguard me from other women even at home? 
It didn't make sense!  I reassured her again about that, but she
just repeated, her beautiful eyes looking into mine, "Please?" 

So each day when I got home I'd put on makeup, lightly at first,
then elaborately as I got more expert and learned more by reading
the women's magazines.  Don't get me wrong, only at home.  Once a
stray streak of eye liner or a smudge of mascara or something must
have raised speculation among the secretaries, because a bottle of
makeup remover appeared mysteriously on my desk one morning, and
then disappeared a few hours later after I'd used it.  And it was
a few days before I realized that lip-liner doesn't rub off like
lipstick, and some of the girls at the office must certainly have
noticed my mouth outlined in scarlet.  But Tracy didn't care, she
was rapturous.  She even bought me some negligees to wear so I'd
look really beautiful when she got home, and a perfectly gorgeous
peignoir I just loved!  Now and then I'd greet her wearing one of
them.

At first I felt foolish, putting pretty colors on my face, but I
soon got expert enough.  It's nothing much, really, and it can be
great fun, like painting or water coloring when you're a kid, only
it's you that looks good afterward.  Just a few strokes of lipstick
-- choosing which shade is the hardest part -- and maybe lip liner
first, and eye liner of course and mascara, and a few shades of eye
shadow spread with the tip of your finger, and some blush whisked
over the foundation cremes I needed to cover my beard.  That's all.

That is, foundation cremes I once needed.  Tracy urged me to spend
two weeks of my vacation in Dallas, where they do fast
electrolysis, getting my facial hairs zapped away.  When I returned
my cheeks and jaw were as smooth as hers.  My reward for all that
pin-pricking and inflammation came the first time I went down on
her.  She was absolutely ecstatic!  "Your new face feels like a
woman's, I mean the way a woman's would feel!" she told me, beside
herself with joy.  "As silky as your cock!  Only, a cock with bones
and bulges and a tongue and other delicious things squeezing into
my pussy from all around!  Oh, my!"  So I couldn't complain. Having
no beard saved me the time and trouble of shaving, and it saved my
collars a lot of beige makeup stains.  

I know all this sounds peculiar, this getting me to play being her
pretty hubby, her girlfriend, and all that.  But not to me, not as
I got used to it.  It was what my wife wanted, and I love her
dearly, and it all seemed harmless enough.  

I wasn't really surprised by it.  Even before we decided to get
married I knew she liked me looking a little androgynous.  She
bought me wide-legged slacks to wear on dates, with no fly in front
at all, tight in the crotch and buttoned on the side, and it was
some time before I realized they were women's slacks, not some mod
style of menswear.  She got me tailored shirts that buttoned the
wrong way, cut a little generous in front, with tiny, pale flowers
printed on them, and rounded collars.  Occasionally I'd  wear one
to the office when my regular shirts weren't back from the laundry,
and give the secretaries even more reason to curl their lips
mischievously when they saw me, then to just shake their heads
silently when I asked them why.  

And when other girls were urging their boyfriends to get short
brush hair cuts, Tracy wanted mine long.  On weekends and other
times too she'd experiment with rolling and curling and styling it. 
Once after we were married she asked me if I'd mind getting a perm,
there were so many more things she could do with my hair if it were
permed.  I drew the line, though she persisted.  "Not even a body
perm, then?  It'd hardly show!"  Eventually she let it drop.  

So only a year or two after our marriage, well-settled into our
home and our work, I'd pretty much become my wife's secret
girlfriend as she wished.  It didn't threaten my masculinity any. 
I was a man when we went out as young couples do, or we had friends
over, or went to concerts and sporting events, and so on.  But at
home it was fun pretending I was a girl like her, one of the
softer, gentler sex.  At odd times I'd practice using feminine hand
gestures, or imitating the ways girls toss their heads.  Tracy
always noticed, and always appreciated that I was trying.  

It was just as well.  During one of the rare times at my office
when everyone had to work late, the office manager and I found
ourselves heading together toward the corner coffee shop for a bite
before beginning a long evening.  We sat and ordered.  Connie
looked at me with an amused smile.  "You know, it isn't necessary
to smooth your skirt under you before you sit down when you're
wearing pants.

I looked at her as if not comprehending.  

"I can pretty well guess what's happening," she added.  "Better
than you think.  I may even know more than you know.  Your wife and
I are from the same town originally -- I bet you didn't know that. 
We knew each other in high school.  Dated some of the same boys."

"Really?" I said, leaning forward, genuinely surprised.  I was 
about to ask Connie what Tracy was like then, but she continued,

"Yes, and some of the same girls, too."

That stopped me.  I stared at her.

"You didn't know?  Really?  You are an innocent!  Haven't you
wondered why I don't join the other girls in their endless chatter
about boy friends and stroking male egos and cocks, and how to get
a boy to perform properly in bed?"

"Because you're the office manager and shouldn't mingle?"  I asked. 
"Because you're a little older than they are?"  I was about to say
"Because you're a bit of a prude?" when I noticed for the first
time, really, that Connie was no such thing.  Her draped blouse was
open almost to her belt.  No bra?  She always dressed smart and a
little provocative, I realized.  She was extremely attractive.   
Then it struck me.  "Because the man you're living with doesn't
want you to talk about it?"

"Almost right, my dear.  The girl I'm living with doesn't want me
to kiss and tell.  She's in the closet to her folks, who think I'm
only her roommate.  So I have to keep quiet about me too, or people
will add up one and one and decide she's also a lesbian."     

Our sandwiches arrived.  I just stared at her some more.  "I never
would have thought it, Connie," I said after swallowing hard. 
"You're so...."

She laughed.  She liked me I knew, and knew that I liked her.  We'd
always gotten on well.  But this well?  These confessions?

"Normal?  I don't look like a Dyke?  No, honey, I'm not butch, or
femme, or a Dyke, or any of your stereotypes.  Just your average
red-blooded American girl who has never felt attracted to boys but
feels very strongly drawn to her own sex.  To Tracy too once, when
we were mid-teenagers."

"Oh?"

"Yes, 'oh!'  We were quite an item for a while.  I wouldn't be
kissing and telling on her even now, but I thought you already
knew.   You must certainly know that Tracy is sexually...
venturesome, sometimes.  She was one of us for a year or two, maybe
more.  We called our little group 'Loving Friends,' and we taught
each other all kinds of ... things.  Then she found there were two
things about boys she liked after all, their ready-to-wear,
pre-installed, preheated cocks, the bigger the better, and that
they were easy to manage.  So she drifted back to them."  

These were astonishing revelations to me, but Connie just kept
chatting, her eyes never once leaving my face.  "Not altogether I
guess.  When you started turning up at the office wearing perfume
and makeup, or trying not to, with bra straps and bra cup wrinkles
visible through your shirt, I figured that with you Tracy was
returning to my side of the aisle but trying to keep the best of
both worlds.  I phoned her to suggest she either tone it down or go
all the way, the girls in the office were speculating about you
instead of working, and we chatted a while about her new pretty
hubby."  She smiled at me, and evidently decided not to say
anything more.  "But it was none of my business.  It still isn't."

"Connie, I don't know what to say!"  I was blushing bright red, I
could feel it.  

"Then don't," Connie replied.  "Maybe you know what you're doing,
and maybe you're in over your head.   It's between you two.  If
you'd ever like to talk more, you know where I am.  Meanwhile, do
you think you'll have the Callahan invoices ready for faxing by the
time we quit tonight?  I've got other several places I need to be
yet tonight, I almost always do.  And would you pass the mustard,
please?"

So now I knew what I should have suspected.  Among other things my
wife has a suppressed lesbian streak in her, or she's at least
bisexual.  I decided that the more I respected this impulse in her,
and gratified it, the happier she'd be, and the more secure our
marriage.  This seemed confirmed when she proposed that now and
then and maybe for a while we make love like women, like "loving
friends" she called it maybe for old times' sake.  No penises.  I
agreed that whenever she wanted to, we'd use only our mouths and
hands on each other, the way I guess lesbian women do, and that I'd
even try to restrain my erections.   

Mouths and hands can be very sensuous.  On "loving friends" days
she'd tickle my "clit" with her tongue while I did hers,  and then
though I'd have loved to push my boner down her throat, she'd only
give it little nibbles after I'd begun to nibble hers.  As we
heated up, our heads drove further and further between each others'
legs, pursuing a peculiarly elusive urge, a sensation of desire
that grew slowly, until the craving was intense and we both felt
blown away, and scarcely noticed that our faces and thighs were
drenched in each other's juices.  That craving spread, until
finally our legs were clamped so tight around each other's ears and
our mouths were so buried in each other's crotches that we could no
longer scream as powerfully convulsive waves washed over us.  I'd
had no idea mouths and hands could do all that!

Then too, there was much mutual caressing and touching and sucking
and kissing of our breasts.  I loved fondling hers.  And one of our
"loving friends" sessions got me incredibly worked up, with her
lips and tongue pulsing on my nipples while her hands molded my
bosom and our bodies writhed on each other.  My prick was still
soft, when all of a sudden a sublime passion mounted in me, and
crested, and I came spontaneously.  I lay blissed out while Tracy
continued to make love to me, my penis now soft, spasmed and
drained.  The feeling was different from anything I'd ever felt
before.  It was as if my whole body had begun to coil up tight and
squeeze itself into a delicious reaching, then started to throb
with incredible intensity until finally, it eased back and
stretched itself out voluptuously.  Utter Heaven!  I felt so
marvelously luxurious afterward, lounging back in my negligee
trying to catch my breath, while Tracy beamed down and kissed my
mouth and my breasts ever so tenderly.  

She knew what had just happened, and was delighted for me.  I'd
just had her kind of orgasm, a woman's orgasm, felt through my
whole body, not just located in my crotch.  She'd wanted that for
me, she said.  In fact, she told me there'd be others, because she
was arranging for others.  When I asked her how she only lapsed
into silence. "You'd only say 'No!'" she said.  "Like with your
perm.  I could give you such a lovely hairdo if you had a perm!  So
I won't tell you.  It'll be a surprise.  There'll be more of them. 
You'll see."  Then she added with a smile,   "A lot is going to
happen slowly, but it'll happen!"  

I had no idea what she was talking about.  

Soon after that she proposed we enhance our "loving friends"
sessions by using dildoes on each other.  She meant each of us use
fake penises to pleasure each other, the way women do when they
make love, me tucking my real penis between my legs and strapping
on a much bigger rubber cock to fuck her with instead, and Tracy
doing the same thing to me, but pumping into my ass.  

I'd said "No!" right off, fairly forcefully!  If my own prick was
out of bounds, I said, why should I agree to let some other cock
fuck her,  even if I was doing the actual fucking, especially when
I couldn't feel any of it myself?  And anyhow, I said, my ass is
strictly a one way street, strictly mine!

She'd replied that I was being selfish.  She reminded me that even
though the dildoes wouldn't feel anything, when I used one on her
the rest of me would feel her whole body respond lovingly, rising
and pressing close against mine.  I'd always know how much pleasure
I was giving her.  And she'd enjoy the different ways different
kinds of cocks felt inside her, compared to mine.  Did this make me
feel jealous?  How silly and insecure was I, to be feel jealous of
a dildo of all things?  She argued that this was one way she could
get to feel a variety of cocks tucked into her, all the while it
was me making love, her lawful husband, the man she loved above all
others being the girlfriend she preferred.  "You know how I love
feeling stuffed by a really stiff cock," she added.  "It drives me
wild!  You've had plenty of reason to know that!  And sometimes
when I want it more than a few times you can't provide it.  This
way at least there'll never need to be a problem."  

end 1/6
Vickie Tern@AOL.COM

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