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Adventures at an orgy


by Steve Finan


Steadily climbing the cliff of more and more extreme sexual behaviour, I persuaded Astra to pose for a Readers' Wives type website — just home-taken shots, not a professional set. She had by now an excellent collection of sexy underwear. I egged her on to wear corsets, waspies, matching bra-panties-suspender belt sets all the time and in truth, she looked pretty fucking special. Especially when her outfits included a good pair of shoes. The photo-taking session was great fun. She insisted on hiding her face, of course. She bought a mask with feathers and sequins, the type of thing a woman might wear to a masked ball, that really set off a pair of fully-fashioned silk stockings and 1950s-style suspender belt. Her thong and quarter-cup bra had black feathers too and the ensemble was really quite striking. She drank most of a bottle of wine while we set up as pro-looking a white backdrop as we could find and took the pictures. The resulting snaps were, though I say so myself, a revelation. The girl who had walked into my office several months ago, that was pretty but shy was long gone. The ugly duckling had grown up to become a legs-spread swan.

You should always try to persuade women into letting you take naked photos of them. The vast majority, once they get started, really enjoy it. It makes them feel daring. It also gives them something else to worry about when the relationship finishes.

It was no surprise that the photo set got an excellent reception from the sad bastards who frequented the website. She was a cut above most of the running-to-fat bitches on the site and it helped that she hadn't been shy. She showed everything she had. Legs at quarter-to-three and her gash parted far enough for a gynaecological examination. It was slightly surprising how many men could type using only one hand. The point of this website where you could show off your fuckpiece to a bunch of tossers was that they would leave comments. And what an appreciative set of comments she got. We'd listed her name as “Cassiopeia” the beauty of classical Greek mythology. She was given a great deal of email addresses, most asking her to send more pictures for their “private collection”. We'd had to list an email address too, so created a one-off just for this. We got sent some pretty weird shit, lots of offers to meet up with “other couples” which were very obviously bald, fat blokes chancing their luck. A lot sent pix of females and quite a good proportion of the offers to meet up and fuck came from women who said they wanted to have a carpet-munching session with Astra while their husbands watched. There was a lot of praise, from both sexes, and even a poem which, the author claimed, was written especially for Cassiopeia. It was low-grade stuff, but Astra said “awwww” several times and assured me the writer must be a really nice person.

I was intrigued by the offers of lesbian sessions and gave serious consideration to exploring that idea, but the email that interested me most was an invite to a sex party.

Now, no-one with any sense should respond to an email invite to a sex party from someone they have never met. It would be the equivalent of walking into an axe murderer's underground maze and telling the bloke with the night vision goggles you reckon he's a bit of a pussy. But we emailed the woman, named Paris would you fucking believe. The reply was a lengthy URL, with a password — participant45. Astra wasn't keen, but I overruled her and we took a look. It was a website of a very basic design which consisted largely of photos and short videos of people fucking in various positions and in various combos of girl-girl-girl-man. The whole thing looked so amateurish it seemed genuine.

The website claimed this was the Silent Suburban Sex Silo and only for invited couples who were “proven” (their quote marks) as sexually adventurous. Only “rare people” (again their quotes) were allowed to attend. It said this was a partners-only club, catering for all levels of sexual freedom. You could go — as a couple — to watch, to swap partners or any level of participation in between. It also claimed it catered solely for adventurous and “attractive” couples (my quote marks this time as I'd viewed some of the videos and a good few of the participants were a long way from what might reliably be described as attractive). The hosts were Dean and the obviously-using-a-pseudonym Paris. They said no surnames were exchanged in the SSSS.

If the SSSS was genuine, it sounded like a pathetic bunch of weaklings who didn't love or desire their partners any more, who were staying together for the kids or the mortgage but wanted to get out and cheat but call it by another name. A bunch of sad and desperate inadequates who could do with a good kick in the cunt and reminded that if they wanted to fuck about, there's a whole world out there to do it with.

Swinger parties are more common than they ever have been before — this, the early 21st Century, is the golden age of the orgy. They are often associated with the 1970s, when couples who thought they'd missed out on the mostly mythical the free love of the 1960s thought they'd try fucking about now they were slightly older and slightly braver or slightly bored by their dull marriages. But arranging an orgy was a hugely difficult task before the advent of the internet. Where would you go to recruit anonymous strangers willing to swap partners? You couldn't just put a card in the Post Office window. There were all sorts of supposed clues about how to tell who was a swinger. There were rumours that anyone with alfalfa grass in their front garden might be amenable to letting you fuck their wife while they watched. But who would knock on the door of such a house and ask such a question? Orgies were more talked about than participated in, and that is probably still true. They are happening, though. The digital revolution didn't just apply to mugging off musicians by illegally downloading MP3s, it also gave the opportunity for a rethink about who we wanted to be now that we could achieve connections with strangers that we didn't have to know or even look at. The vast majority of people who look at group sex on the net will never take part in group sex. But even if 0.01% do give it a go, that's still tens of thousands of possible participants. And these people find each other on the web. And they talk about it some more, and they start making arrangements. Mostly, they ruin their existing relationships by doing so, which proves the internet has been a good invention.

It takes just a tiny amount of surfing to find people who are interested in putting their wives up for photo sessions, swapping, dogging, straight orgies, spank orgies, watch-the-wives orgies — almost any flavour of sexual deviancy. You have to do due diligence to make sure you aren't walking into loonyland, but there is a lot happening out there. Take your pick. The digital age has proved to be the chlamydia bacterium's greatest friend.

I told Astra we were going to an SSSS sex party.

Have you ever been to an orgy? There is one rather outstanding problem. Most males have only one shot to fire. Even the most turned-on of men over the age of 30 can only ejaculate once in roughly a three hour period without chemical enhancement, spending the rest of the time flaccidly apologetic. Women, on the other hand, have fucking machine guns. They can go on and on before they have to reload. The result is that males have to be very careful. If they are to be lucky enough to be offered several different holes to stick their cock in, they can't enjoy any of them too much or they will send their team out too early and spend the next hour or two secretly wishing all this crap could stop for a little while because Match of the Day is on.

The next thing that strikes you is the amount of wailing. Most women, and I've had quite a few, do not wail during sex. They might talk, they might say a soft “ooh” from time to time and it is almost obligatory to utter at least one “yes”, even if only through politeness. But during what is quaintly termed “group sex”, they start yowling like a herd of starving cats. The purpose of these howls is to show: A — What wonderful proponents of the sexual act they are, and B — that they really, really are enjoying themselves and, no, they really don't think of themselves as worthless cockpits that are being treated like they are merely the faceless and soulless parts of a human that is attached to a couple of holes where a man can find a few moments of sordid release.

Then there are the inevitable undercurrents of jealousy. Wives want to be desired, but they do not wish their husbands to want to fuck anyone more than they want to fuck them. A pretty girl at an orgy is hated like a dose of genital warts. All these orgies that you one-handed internet-surfers have seen look like they are full of people who have completely embraced the free-love ethos and are happy to fuck, be fucked and watch their partners fuck without a care in the world. You should not be so naïve. Anything that has humans involved in it is always much more complicated than that. There will be tension. If you throw in sex, nudity, desirability, orgasms and (perhaps most surprisingly) the complicated matter of fidelity in an infidelity-ridden situation, then it becomes very difficult terrain. Women do not want to see their partners flocking round the slim and pretty big-bosomed women at an orgy. There are dagger-laden looks, incredibly bitchy remarks and even violence perpetrated in these situations. Both partners will have had their orders before they even untie a shoelace. Most usually, the wife will be allowed to be fucked, suck some cock or pretend to be a lesbian for the evening, while the husband will have been ordered to do nothing, touch nothing and take some photos which will be gone through later by the wife, deleting those in which she looks fat, or at least fatter than she actually is.

Whatever these sort of couples get up to, there is always the “don't leave me alone” stipulation from the wife. This is partly because, even while offering up her damp bits to be fucked by a stranger, she'll still fear that something bad might happen to her if she's not with someone she knows. What that “something bad” could be, is anyone's guess. The stupid cows don't even know themselves.

But also, they fear being left alone and (and this is the important bit) ignored. No -woman would like to get her kit off at an orgy and not be approached by someone who wants to fuck them. They think they've done the most daring thing in the world by agreeing to come to a group sex event. To get there, get naked, but be left to stir your own honeypot is a fear they all have.

Then there is the gay and not gay code. Women can be part-time lesbians if they like. This is seen as adventurous and yet safe. The reason it is safe is that it doesn't involve another man and therefore can't be cast up later. It's the male side of the not-gay-code that is very important. It remains an unbreakable taboo to touch, or even look too closely at another man's genitals. You know how important it is that you don't look at another bloke's cock at a urinal or in the showers? Well it is magnified ten-fold when that cock is erect and waving about dangerously close to you. Whatever you do when taking part in multiple-person sex, never, ever, put your hand somewhere you can't see. You do not want to put your fingers round a hard cock and then have to try to explain you were really just making an attempt to reach the tits of the chubby bitch that you thought was just behind you. The bloke won't like it, the women present will be unimpressed that you seem to prefer cock to their charms and your partner will wonder if you only ever wanted to do this group thing because you are secretly a knob jockey.

Another big part is the smell. You'd think cleanliness is the first issue in your mind if you are going to get naked with people you don't know, but this is pungently not the case. The overwhelming aroma at an orgy is of sweaty feet. This must be mingled with the smell of a woman's aroused genitalia, which can range from salty and nice, to fish-like and alarmingly off-putting.

But, despite all this, after a four-week wait for the next SSSS event, Astra and I were driving the 120 miles to the postcode given to us by D & P (that's Dean and Paris, not deep and penetration). I'd spoken to Paris on the phone twice. She seemed ordinary enough, but then it's difficult to tell if someone will chloroform you and chop you into little bits on the strength of a couple of short phone conversations. She said the event we were invited to was to be largely for “first timers”. So off we went. Astra was in what can only be described by the cliché: “a right state”. I've rarely seen anyone as nervous. I don't think she'd believed me when I said we were actually going to go to this. Since the trip had begun, she'd checked with me roughly twice a minute that she wouldn't have to do anything she didn't want to do and that I wouldn't ever leave her side for a nanosecond. She said she was only my sex goddess, that she didn't ever want to be with anyone else and that she wouldn't like to see me touch another female either. And she absolutely, utterly, completely and wholly did not like the idea of some fat middle-aged bloke sticking his dick in her. Girls these days are so fussy.

We got to the address which had, as I'd been told, an orange light above the door with a chandelier hanging from it. The modern equivalent of alfalfa grass. Well, the woman had said chandelier, but cheap bits of coloured glass would be more accurate. No name on the door and the house was set back from the road by a good 40 yards with a curving, paved drive. It was a big place, in a nice leafy suburban avenue. These people were obviously well-off. I counted six cars — some nice motors too — parked in the drive or at the kerb outside. With the hosts and us, it looked like there would be at least eight couples. I'd been prepared for this to be some sort of scam or a trap. Yes, even I was wary. I reckoned I could handle most people if it came to a physical fight, but who knows what might go on tonight. I would be on guard. Those of you who are prepared to go into unusual situations should always be ready to cope with the unexpected. We parked in the drive and sat in the car for a few minutes to assess the situation and Astra was actually shaking with fear, which was amusing. She was babbling about not wanting to go in, that she didn't like the look of it, that she was scared, that she needed to go to the toilet but not “in there”. I ignored all of this and got her out of the car. The last thing she said as we walked up the drive was, bizarrely, that she wished she'd worn a wig. I laughed. Her fear made me bolder.

We rang the bell and as soon as it was answered, I knew we'd be OK. This would be a laugh. The woman who came to the door was 40-ish, mousey and about 4 foot 6, even in the high heels she was wearing, which looked like they might have been made for one of those dress up dolls. She asked us for our website username and password. It took me a few moments to realise what she was on about until I remembered — Cassiopeia and participant45. Astra, who was gripping my hand so tightly it was almost painful, popped her head out from behind me to have a look and just as quickly retreated again. Mousewoman, who was dressed in a flared skirt that was just a tiny bit short for a Women's Institute coffee morning, said her name was Desiree. I had to stifle a laugh. This woman did not, nor ever would, look like someone who should be named Desiree. She looked more like a Mabel, possibly an Edna. She said Paris and Dean and the others were inside and they'd all just been talking about how they'd been really hoping we'd come as they'd loved Cass's photos. Astra risked another look after hearing that that people were appreciating her and decided she wasn't going to faint quite yet.

We walked through a beige-coloured hallway, a beige lounge and into a large conservatory that had white uPVC windows but gamely kept up the beige theme with the carpet and furniture. There were, as expected, about 16 to 18 people but the place was so large there were two spare sofas. They started shouting greetings as soon as we came into view and it all felt a little like a video clip sent to one of those TV shows that specialise in a chair collapsing or someone's grandmother being hilariously set on fire. Astra and I said hi, or at least I did, and we scanned this collection of swingers. When it became clear that no-one was going to be set on fire or suffer their seat to collapse, we sat on the nearest sofa which was virtually in the centre of the room. It seemed we were the honoured guests.

I should have told you what Astra was wearing. She had on a dress that was a knockout. It was very simple, but when you have a figure like hers, that's a good thing. It was black and lacy and a little see-through, bare shoulders, tight around the waist with laces at the back and quite short. It showed no cleavage but clung to those magnificent tits, showing every contour. She had on hold-up stockings with scroll-like patterns down the side. But what weaponised the whole ensemble were her shoes. They were superb. The epitome of the classic ‘killer' stiletto. Teetering right on the brink of actually being too high, they were black as midnight slingbacks with a double ankle strap and a few buckles. Red soles and giving the sole of the foot an arch that make it close to impossible to walk any further than the length of a red carpet. A pair of shoes that women covet and that stir men.

She'd gone for a retro look, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, had on a lot of dark eye make-up and crimson lipstick. Her ear-rings were long, black teardrops that sparkled when they caught the light. For someone who hadn't been, or so it seemed, keen on coming, she'd certainly made an effort to look stunning. But then, she was a sex goddess these days. I had made her that.

The heel on the shoes was so high it seemed her legs went on for ever. Every eye followed her extended legs as she went to her seat. She was the best shaped woman in the room by the proverbial country mile. I swear some of the men were drooling. I'd go as far as to say I was proud of her.

And what were they like? Well none was under 30 and quite a few were over 40. All white, very few tattoos on show. Most looked quite ordinary. All looked like they were comfortably off. No dole-grabbing underclass-types here. I wondered what it was about the British that dictates that if they have a little money, they are more likely to be sexually unusual? The mousey dwarf was with a bald man with a clipped beard who looked like a science teacher. There was a woman of about 40, whose name I didn't bother to learn, who was trying to talk over everyone. She had on a red, shiny mini skirt and red shiny just-below-knee-high boots that appeared to have metal spikes instead of heels. The lower part of her legs weren't bad but her thighs were comically fat, a common female flaw. I guessed her job to be school dinner lady. The women were, I'm afraid, a huge disappointment. Scanning the room, there wasn't one of them I'd even let suck my cock under normal circumstances. They ranged from butt-ugly all the way up to plain. After they'd settled down from our entrance there was a nervous atmosphere, as if everyone was waiting for something to happen. Whenever anyone got up or even made a sudden movement, all eyes turned as if everyone was wondering, “is this it? Is this it starting?”

I studied the body language. Only a few of the women, and none of the men, looked like she was ready to fuck. The one who did look ready to go said her name was Aimee and she was one of those tubby birds that reckon the be all and end all of attracting men is a big pair of tits. She had on a red vest top that was completely see-through and no bra. Her jugs were, indeed, quite enormous, but droopy and with areola that looked about the same size a dinner plate. She was leaning back, one arm along the back of the sofa, thrusting her chest out in an obvious “look how big they are” pose. If I had to guess at her profession, I'd say accountant. Her other hand was resting in the groin area of the man next to her, who may or may not have been her partner. He looked like an unsuccessful accountant. One bloke had on a tie. I wondered if he'd been on his way to a bridge club meeting but had come to the wrong house. The hosts, Paris and Dean, never sat down as they ran about trying to fill everyone with comically strong and large drinks, I suppose in an attempt to get defences lowered and the party started. There were quite a few defensive postures, people with crossed legs and crossed arms. At least two other females had a proprietorial hand on their partner, one had linked into her man's arm, the other had sat back and put her legs over her partner's legs. This may have been to show off those legs, but in truth they weren't worth the bother. It was a “this is my man” signal. Every female, as far as I could see, was wearing a skirt and, although it was too early to tell, I guessed that every single one was wearing stockings. It is the swinger's uniform.

In the centre of the room was a Sybian.

But for a good two hours, nothing much happened. The conversation round the room had a more sexual nature than is normal. One man told a less-than-hilarious tale of he and his wife (who had, it must be admitted, a very interesting pair of black shoes with silver studs running round the rims and down the heel) getting caught fucking outdoors. Her name, or at least her SSSS name, was Zantha. I reckoned she was probably a checkout assistant. Seemingly he'd done her on a picnic table in a forest. Her on the table on her back, legs in the air, him standing thrusting, when a party of 30 OAP ramblers had wandered by. He didn't have the knack of storytelling and what had seemed to be building up to a punchline ended with him saying, “So it was quite embarrassing”. Tosser.

I was bored out of my head. Astra, or Cass as I and everyone else had to call her, had been corralled by two admiring females, both of which looked like mumsie types, who were being extremely flattering about how good she looked. The two mumsies' movement, from one sofa to another, was just about the only “mingling” that had so far taken place. Astra confessed that she was very, very, very, very nervous, probably not a big surprise to the two mummies, in the second sentence she uttered. But they had put her at ease by saying they were too and that they'd only agreed to come because they'd been assured no-one had to do anything they didn't want to at a Four-S night. “I don't think anyone will touch you, babe. Not unless you want them to,” said one of the mums. She looked like a bank worker, I decided. I didn't think this sounded very swinger-like and wondered if she was trying to convince herself as much as convince Astra. But Astra liked what she was hearing. In fact it was only at that point she completely sat down, having virtually hovered above the seat ready to run until that moment. It seemed we'd stumbled among the most genteel gathering of sexual deviants in the British Isles. But still, there was that Sybian in the middle of the room.

All the blokes were checking out the females. There were a lot of across-the-room smiles. As they were all first-timers, or so we all believed, there would be a lot of performance anxiety. Men have to feel confident about fucking. Believe me, the male worries in the room wouldn't be about whether they would or would not like the actuality (as opposed to the fantasy) of watching their wife with another man's cock up her. That was very much secondary to the fact that they were scared they would fail to get an erection. There is always the danger that a bloke won't rise to the occasion and no-one would want to be a soft cock at an orgy. Failure to get stiff has nothing to do with lust and little to do with health. It is about confidence. They would all want to be ramrod-hard, but maintaining an erection over the course of several hours is virtually impossible. The best the blokes could hope for would be that when they needed wood, they'd find it. But the more savvy would have taken pills.

A Sybian is an American invention, which confounds the general world opinion that Yanks aren't much use for anything at all. It is said to be adept at stimulating the G-spot inside a woman's vagina. I have no idea if the G-spot actually exists, there is seemingly some debate about it. It would be grossly overstating my interest in G-spots to say I didn't give a fuck if they existed or not. However, this machine is shaped like a barrel cut in half, flat-side down. Protruding out the top is a short knob-like appendage, although I think there are interchangeable tools. The idea is that a woman straddles it, on her knees, just like riding a real man, with the knob-shaped bit right up her cunt. This vibrates, thanks to the electric motor in the barrel casing, along with the plate, which are sometimes ribbed or pointed, it is situated on. It simultaneously stimulates the clitoris and G-spot (if it exists). It is said to be very effective in provoking orgasms for even those woman who say they rarely come. I'd say it fucking well should be guaranteed, because I knew the things cost upwards of a thousand dollars each.

A couple of the blokes engaged me in conversation which was largely them saying how beautiful Astra was — obviously because they optimistically thought they might get to fuck her. This subject didn't last long, because once they'd said that she was a fairly special piece of ass and, yes, she does indeed have long legs, and discovered we'd met because we worked together, there isn't many other places that conversation can go. We fell back on the universal “man” subject, football.

I was equally annoyed and amused. I'd travelled a long way, spent quite a bit of cash and had landed in what seemed to be a church tombola evening with a hefty dash of nervousness. And I was discussing the Aston Villa midfield. Now, obviously, the action hadn't started yet. Even orgies have to get started. The average British person is unlikely to walk into a room naked if they don't know what is there before they go in. As a species, we look for the little “permission” signs before we act. There are leaders, bosses and the socially inept who ignore those sort of things, but this wasn't that kind of situation. Everyone was going out of their way to be friendly. Worse, they were all trying to be nice. I had no doubt that when the alcohol took a better hold and the catalyst, because there would have to be a catalyst event, happened, the mood would radically change.

The catalyst turned out to be, to no-one's surprise, the Sybian. Paris eventually stopped running about with eye-wateringly powerful drinks and said she had an announcement. There was to be a competition. The idea was that any one of “the girls” could straddle the Sybian and if they didn't come within four minutes they'd win a box of chocolates. She announced this as if it actually was tombola. One woman said, somewhat ridiculously, “hooray”. Not a sarcastic “hooray”, she really did mean it. I think she was trying to be brave.

“Now does anyone want to go first?” asked Paris. To no surprise, no-one did. Again to no surprise, Paris said she'd “lead the way”. She downed her gin and made a few noises about this “being one of her favourite things in all the world”. By the standards of the other females, she was a reasonably good looking woman, slim, with very short hair, I think she'd like to have been described as “gamine”, but “boyish” or “lesbian-like” might have been closer. Nice eyes though and dressed in a wraparound skirt which she swiftly unwrapped to reveal the obligatory stockings but no underwear. Her pubic hair was done in the landing strip fashion, waxed at the sides. I'd wondered if she dyed her very dark hair and found myself wondering if she dyed her pubes too. She seemed at ease, even proud to be the centre of attention, and in contrast to the speed with which she'd whipped off her skirt, slowly unbuttoned her dark green blouse. She obviously had no bra on because her nipples were standing out like bottle tops. The tits were a little disappointing. Not too badly droopy, but with that apologetic air of a semi-deflated balloon that women in their 40s suffer from. She had on patent leather heels, which weren't bad but hardly spectacular, and unselfconsciously gave her cunt a liberal lubrication from a bottle of baby oil I hadn't noticed on a side table. Of course, she made brave noises as she approached the machine, something along the lines of “Give it to me baby”. Virtually all of the women, except Astra, gave her some encouragement, from “Go girl” to “You fuck it babe, you look gorgeous”. Smiling like a shark, she slipped on to the machine, a knee either side, picked up the remote control, pressed a button and began to play the part of the front end of a pantomime cow. She rocked back and forward, her fleshy pussy lips almost completely obscuring the vibration plate.

The layout of a woman's sexual organs is a subject not often discussed in polite circles. Possibly not ever discussed in polite circles. When women are aroused, the “labia minora” become engorged with blood, they usually darken or redden when in this state and become a little swollen. It's the female equivalent of an erection. Whereas the obvious “good” thing to say about an erect male cock is that it is big, the opposite is true of the labia minora. Some women have tidy arrangements, their clitoris looks like a little man in a canoe, seen from above. Other women have things that look like flesh-eating plants, with strange leaf-like growths. Slang terms bandied among blokes include “beef curtains” or “piss flaps”. Paris had a pair of blanket-like appendages that could have covered a steak pie made for eight. They were enormous. It was like someone had partially peeled her but left the peelings in place. This is not attractive. All you women with weird genitalia, you are deformed. You shouldn't be letting anyone see your strange growths. Keep them hidden. Get surgery. Go away and don't come near ordinary people.

Slightly startling the audience, Paris started wailing. It's difficult to write down the noise she made. It was somewhere between the mating call of a wildebeest and the klaxon of a sinking ship. She said “Wuh-wuh-wuh-wuuuuh, nnnnnguh, wuh-wuh-wuh.” For a second I thought she was singing “Everybody Wang Chung Tonight”, but it seemed this was not the case. A dog barked from somewhere deeper in the house where it was obviously locked in. It probably thought its mistress was in distress. I think most of us would have agreed with the dog. Paris had her eyes closed, both hands gripping the base of the Sybian and was humping it slightly. And she came. Or at least I think she did, it may have been another ditty from a Hits Of 1986 compilation album. Everyone cheered and clapped. Everyone was very complimentary, except me. I diplomatically said nothing and tried not to look at her still engorged genitals. She got out a packet of babywipes and cleaned the Sybian's knob protuberance, bending over with legs spread and treating us to another view of her frightening sexual organs. It was like the aftermath of a Jack The Ripper attack, pieces of flesh hanging everywhere. She declared, “Right, who's next?”

Everyone looked at each other, I looked at Astra, Astra looked at me.

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