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Sweet Dreams (Dream Weaver)

It was nearing the end of the night and your mom was blitzed. On top of that, she had a fat ass. Always did. Making her a target for men of high worth and equal confidence, or men with no worth and overinflated confidence, alike. Alpha males, and pickup artists and her coworkers and creepy hangers-on all lined up at the carnival game, trying to win her and take home the ass attached to her and all the real or imagined tunnels and hallways to pleasure associated with it


But none had succeeded.

But tonight was different.


Because your mom had never been this wasted before.

And just how did she get so tipsy, on this the night of your prom? She was one of the volunteer parent supervisors, much to your embarrassment, so she should have known better than to let herself get this out of hand. On top of that, your mom wasn’t much to drink anyways.

But, luckily for mankind (emphasis on the “man” part), your mom had been pried open by the machinations of multiple fresh enterprising souls who took it upon themselves to spike the punch with a little bit of various concoctions slipped in through the vehicle of water bottles and flasks stolen from their dads’ liquor cabinets and desk drawers back home.

Your mom was what the cool kids called white girl wasted, just like so many basic individuals before her, including some female classmates this night who stole sips of forbidden liquid in the limited privacy of the hall’s washroom stalls. But your mom was anything but basic. Being afflicted by the negative proclivities of much more simple souls was beneath her.

So what happened exactly? What made this night different?

Well, the explanation was as simple as it was stomach churning. What had happened was a wrench had been thrown into the machinery and the natural order had been all thrown out of wack. This was to be expected whenever young men were involved. Lots of hormones and no real, concrete understanding of consequences, or, at least, the blind confidence that they wouldn’t be caught, or maybe even the lack of callousness to emotional highs making them feel like any risk was worth it. Either way, it all translated to a *blug blug blug* as foreign liquids were spilled into the hidden red embrace of the surface of fruit punch.

And they were caught. Not by the principal. Not by their teachers or the councilor, or any of the other volunteer parent supervisors. Not even your mom. They had been caught by nobody. Nobody but you. Which meant nobody who would stop them.

When you saw them spike the punch right in front of you, you said nothing. One of the guys, catching your eye, threatened you just to make sure you wouldn’t talk. He didn’t have to. You had no intention of talking. And when you saw your mom’s thirsty face as she took sips of the witches brew not long after, her ass, gorgeous and round in its dress, sitting below like a fact of life, as if it were at all separate from the consequences of what was happening above, you knew you had made the right decision in keeping your trap shut.

Your cock grew nice and hard in your pants and your legs felt like they were about to give out underneath you. Your thighs and calves were wet with hot sweat and your shoes struggled to contain your jittery feet. When all the other adult supervision began drinking from the same tarnished bowl, you could feel soil being poured over the roof of this hall, sealing it all in from the rest of the world. The tyranny of your school hallways, which you faced down from monday to friday every week, the hallways you thought you were finally free from, had now infected and entrenched itself within the four walls of this remote location miles away. The whims of the same young men who put so much fear into your heart for the past 3 to 12 years was now the hand that played all the teachers and staff and parent supervisors like ivory chess pieces, and your mom, your dear mother, being the queen piece, at least in terms of value and use, but the king piece when it came to capability for escape, reliance on others, and focus of this whole entire game to begin with.

You swallowed deeply as your teeth chattered.

You had already known that your mom coming to this thing was a bad idea. But of all the “bad” ways this night could have turned out, the way it was playing out now was the most agreeable to you. In fact, this was the most agreeable night of your life. Your palms tingled as you saw all eyes on your mom’s ass in anticipation, and on her arms, legs, hands, lips and eyes in sober focus and logistical data gathering, looking for signs of promising increases in inebriation so they could chart where she was, where she is now, and where’d she be in an hour, hoping that the rise would be, at the very least, steady, and always forward facing. The ladle always getting good use by her very hand, and the rim of her cup always making contact with her lips. All of these, devilishly good signs.

You looked around at your graduating class. Those clean, square jaws holding grinning lips. You were never going to see any of these faces or bodies again. Not that you ever enjoyed seeing them before this night. But you were just now growing sentimental. Your mom would make for the perfect sendoff present, from you to them. Their sendoff present for all the sneers and wisecracks and each bead of sweat and stray tear they extracted from your forehead and eyes. It was all worth it as a buildup for the erection you had now. No pain, no gain.

You had to take breaks from being out on the disco ball-lit floor (or rather, sitting in the foldout chair at your empty table in the shadows next to it) by ducking into the lobby to use the men’s washroom, the one nobody was using, so that you could celebrate by making cramped but joyous noises with your mouth still closed under the bright fluorescent lights and in front of the mirror. You could clearly make out your own bulge in your black slacks. You adjusted your cock so it sat up straight in the papoose of your tighty-whiteys, then you traced its outline with your finger, feeling every nerve go electric as your little finger (who knew it had such power) brushed past each centimeter of your thankful prick.

Once you composed yourself, you fixed your hair and walked, as if floating on a cloud, back into the dark embrace of the dance hall, the hidden cove where the trap had been placed so sweetly. A nice and delicate booby trap. Every getaway you took to escape from the bathroom, you’d come back, and, almost on cue, you’d see your mom in some state or action or progression of motion which indicated clearly to you that her inebriated state had been elevated. Elbows and jeers followed by interested onlookers. You’ve seen all those faces, and had the misfortune of knowing them like the back of your hand. You had never seen them with this amount of glee. They were being driven wild by the meat being lowered into their zoo exhibit.

Her ass cheeks popped, cupped fondly and suggestively by her dress, conspicuously, and you thought of them as soft, pink camel humps, which instead of being filled with water, were now running over with pure, clear liquor. Either that or it was all punch, the liquor being rerouted up to her brain where it needed to be. In all actuality though, it was neither. Your mom’s ass was as fat and delicious tonight as it was on any other night. It was just that now your mom’s ass was trapped in the sticky web of an 18 year old boy’s fantasy. And every second she spent there was a second she embedded herself deeper into that web. And it was this ignorance and helplessness, and ignorance in her own helplessness, which made her so attractive to you. Her ass a sweet treat just ready to be plucked from its low-hanging branch like a fresh plum glistening with dew.

You wondered how this was going to work. How it ever worked. Would one of them swoop down, now or later, and make his move on her? What was his move? What was involved in bringing a woman home with you? Or getting her to remove her clothing in a crowded environment? Would she need to be more drunk? What series of words had to be said?

What magical phrase kicked off these moments, moments you knew happened so often in the world just past the peripheries of your ever-searching sight?

The confusing logistics of these questions didn’t bother you as much as they should have. You had always known yourself to be incompetent in every way, so you assumed, wrongly, that your more quick-witted and socially-skilled peers just knew what you didn’t through some sort of magic you had no understanding of. After all, why would they kick this plan into motion without understanding how to finally pull it off when the time for its final action took place?

What you didn’t account for was that the young mind doesn’t think that far into the future. Ever.

And as the night wore on, and your mom sunk deeper and deeper into her velvet bed of drunkenness, made for her with sheets washed and pillows fluffed by devils, the finishing stroke of this master plan hung suspended over your mom’s ass, waiting to drop and penetrate her. But nobody was there to drop it. It was as if they were more afraid of your mom now, just minutes away from zero hour, than they were of her as that untouchable unicorn on the hill, that golden ass encased behind security glass. They were frozen with indecision along the sidelines.

And you were unaware of all of this, as you sat with bated breath waiting, excited, so excited you forgot to breath or swallow. And that made it all the more alarming when the vice-principal, who, you just realized that up til this very moment, you hadn’t seen him drinking anything except for water from the fountain, approached the crowd of mumbling so-called supervision and grabbed your mom delicately by the crook of her arm and brought her over, directly to you.

“Looks like your mom has been having a bit too much fun. I guess I’m giving you guys a ride home.”

You just looked up at him from your chair. The suddenness of this moment blindsided you. Hard. You looked behind him and your mother to see your peers with wide eyes and the occasional open mouth. “Ummm, I-”

“Okay, let’s go.”

You just sat there.

He looked down at you quizzically. “Look, your mom’s pretty hammered. I know you’re having fun here, but it’s not a good idea to stick around. If I just give her a ride, you won’t have anyone to take you home. Your mom can’t drive in this condition.”

“Uhhmmm. I-”

“Come on.”

“…… uh”

There was a moment of silence. You couldn’t say how long. Likely for a few seconds, closer to 20 than 1. The look on his face was one of concern and discomfort, mixed in with a bit of sternness, rounding it off, and polluting the air with the very same authority you thought the root-like twists and turns of this night had freed you from..

He finally sighed, exasperated. “Okay, listen. I know you don’t think about your mom in these terms, she’s your mother after all, but I’m going to tell you something you need to know for tonight. I’m pretty sure somebody spiked that punch,” he pointed at the near-empty punch bowl, and then he pulled your mom by the crook of her arm lightly for emphasis, “your mom and the teachers and everyone had some and now they’re pretty drunk. Now I don’t know why one of the guys did this, whoever it is, they don’t seem to be thirsty for punch themselves, so my guess is they told you guys not to drink and just wanted to have a laugh watching us grown-ups stumble around and make jackasses of ourselves. My guess is that’s as far as this goes.”

You trembled in your chair as you struggled to keep eye contact with him, looking down at his pristinely polished shoes more often than not.

“But regardless of why they did it, it’s one thing if they get a few laughs at the expense of their teachers and parents before graduating. With all of them,” and he gestured over to them, a rogue’s gallery of different forms of inebriation presented perfectly behind him, “they’re only at risk of losing the barely-had respect of their students, and it’s the last day they’ll ever see them anyways. But with your mom,” he said and sighed, “with your mom, it’s different.”

You felt your arms disappear as you sat smackdab in the reality that he was now implying just what everyone knew about your mom but nobody ever said out loud, least of all you. He waited for your response, and when none came, he continued:

“Okay, listen kid. If we don’t leave, now, your mom’s in danger of leaving here without her dress, underwear and purse and with all of her forgotten memories from this night stored away for her to see later on every phone of every guy in your graduating class. Do you understand now?”

You tremble below him, listening to him spell out the night that almost was, and that still might be according to your most naive heart-of-hearts, which was hanging onto this possibility by a twig hanging over the cliff’s side, rocks and rapids hundreds of feet below with nothing else to latch onto but humid air.

“You still don’t get it, do you? Okay, you ever see J. Lo. Or Kim Kardashian. Or Iggy what’s-her-name? Or how about Jessica Biel? You see them? You like them, don’t you? Or maybe you don’t swing that way, I don’t know. But have you ever seen them in your classmates’ lockers or on the screens of their Iphones? You have, right? Okay, now…” he was struggling to get it out, “that’s your mom. Your mom is just as good as that, but better, because she’s real and here in the flesh. So if we don’t get her out of here soon, they’re going to take out all that frustration from all those hormones - you know what I’m talking about, you have them too - they’ll take them out on your mom. It’s going to get ugly. And, because you can’t fight all of them, you’ll going to just have to sit back and watch it. Because once they build up the courage, they won’t be able to stop themselves. And no one will be able to stop them. Not even me.”

You whimper, almost audibly, finding it unbelievable that it existed just as vividly in his head as it did in yours. The flesh and the sweat and the anger and the smell of booze. The sounds and the energy. And the point of no return. It existed all within his head just as it did within yours. The only difference was that in his version, you had to be dragged away screaming by other boys, mad at you for trying to stop their onslaught on your mom, as is she was owed to them, all waiting their turns, putting their athleticism to good use in the mean time making sure you don’t commit the cardinal sin of ruining their now limitless free-fall called fun, watching gleefully what they’re helping create underneath that disco light, and what they’ll soon be on the ground participating in when its their turn. That was the one variable in his estimation which strayed from yours.

In your version, you stood off to the side, only feet away from the action, half covered in shadow, knowing that this was your last day with any of these people, and in a context where adult authority was no longer a factor, leaving you free to remove your pants in front of everyone, and to do what you normally did so well in the privacy of your bedroom now in front of everyone, letting them see your gorgeous approval for what it was.

But your vision had a broken variable as well: the idea that you were free from all sober adult supervision.

“So! You don’t want to see that happening to your mom now, do you?”

Yes I do. Yes I do. More than anything else in the world. You screamed internally, letting it echo through the caves of your mind. What came out your mouth instead, as quiet as a peep, was “….no.”

“Okay. Get up and let’s go.”

You reluctantly pushed yourself off of your chair, letting it slide off from under you. You took a second, as if stalling mid-motion would give you the time you needed to stop the sudden change in your tides. But, inevitably, you were completely upright, unable to believe that you were. You grabbed your limp-like mother by the other side and began walking with him. Walking towards the dance hall exit, wishing it was miles away. As two and a half of you shuffled out from the hall (your mom half shuffling, half being dragged) and into the hotel lobby, you looked back to see a dozen or more horrified male faces floating there, being lit inconsistently by the light of the disco ball. And as you helped drag your ripe mother down the hallway, you saw two more faces, chuckling as they came out of the lobby washroom, suddenly change from playful mischief to slack-jawed horror as they saw you and the vice principal take your almost-cracked mother past them and away from their tendrils and the tendrils of so many other boys. Squid-like tendrils that were all groping for her impotently as she was chaperoned away from them, violently smashing the picture frames and vases of the lobby, maybe even taking out a light or two or a support beam. But all for nought. She was gone.

The final door was opened and the sobering night air hit the three of you. And though it had no affect on your mother, it sobered you up alright. So much so you could feel the tears welling up behind your eyes thinking about how you’d never see any of them again. This night would never come to be again. And that’s when the first tear escaped.

He heard you: “It’s okay, buddy. You didn’t know. Luckily I was there. Don’t think about what would happen if I wasn’t.”

That’s when the waterworks really gushed forth.

“it’s okay, buddy. It’s okay,”

You both put your mom into the back seat of his blue sedan and you got into the passenger seat. You took one last look at the hotel as he pulled off into the dead air of the night and away from its bright signage. It’s tagline, projected in bright yellow WHERE SWEET DREAMS MEAN GREAT DAYS.

And that’s when the panic struck. It was so close, so fucking close, you thought. So close to happiness. So many things in the right place at the right time. Fate had only lined all your planets up like that just to mock you. You should have known it was just too good to be true. You felt like screaming or headbutting the passenger-side window.

Your mom’s shining guardian angel, your cackling demonic tormentor, looked in the rear view mirror to make sure that she was alright. There she was, nauseatingly clothed and offensively removed from the wild and savage energy of men half her age. Just here in this little cramped automobile, sitting in a bone gray seat with boring ole’ you, and Mr. Responsible vice principal. Never there to stop you from being bullied, but there, right on time on a white steel-plated mare, to give you a hand and rescue you from finally getting something good out of this whole deal. There to drag you kicking and screaming away from your reward for having put up with so much. The friendlessness, the kisslessness, the fear and the nausea and the sweat every time you walked down the hallway from one class to the next. The terror of one of those hands on your shoulder, grabbing you, keeping you from going on on your mousy way. All of this, it would have all been worth it for tonight, only had this idiot either not came, drank punch like a normal person, or decided to leave early. Now it was all for nought. You had nothing to show for 12 years of monotony and fear. Nothing to be prideful or joyful about. Not even an education worth its time in years and teardrops.

While looking back at your mom, biting your bottom lip, you heard a fluttering noise next to you. You looked at the steering wheel to see your vice principal’s hand trembling on it. When he notices you he says “sorry, it’s just that those little shi- excuse me. Those guys make me so angry. What they tried to do to your mom. She volunteered, taking her own valuable time, just to watch you guys and make sure nothing bad happened, and this is how they treat her. They almost ruined your prom night in the process. This is supposed to be the night to leave you with something great to remember. Not the time to scar you forever by dragging you through a living nightmare. It just makes me sick.”

His lack of self-awareness was appalling. Thanks Captain Planet, you thought. Maybe to repay him you should have offered to clean his goody two-shoes in the morning.

You looked up at him disgusted, but you were taken aback for a second when you saw something. It was so subtle and sudden on his face, and gone just as quickly, that you didn’t know if you saw anything at all.

When he pulled up to a street that was familiar to you, you were surprised to see him pull up along the house that he did. He pulled up and over just short of the house you thought he was going to pull up to. You remember your brother telling you about egging the principal and vice-principal’s houses on that gate night all those years ago, and you could have sworn he said he egged 267 and not 266 which is apparently where the vice principal actually lived, if tonight was any indication. I guess your brother had been egging the wrong house all those years.

He put on the brake and shut off the car and said “okay, let’s go.” You got out and back into the sobering night air, and you and him grabbed your mom and dragged her to the stoup. You held her up in your arms as he fished for his keys and unlocked his door and then all three of you spilled into his house.

You both brought your mom over to the living room couch and set her down. You both looked down at her, you marveled at her body and trembled with righteous indignation at the fate set out for it, a fat that it had cruelly escaped exactly at the worst possible time. In contrast, the vice principal stood next to you, with a smile plastered on his face from punchable cheek to punchable cheek, seemingly proud, as far as you could tell, about the beauty he took it upon himself to destroy.

“So,” he said, “are you going to be able to get any sleep tonight?”

You just looked at him, unsure of how to answer.

“I know you’re probably full of adrenaline from what almost happened. If you need any sleep medication I got a lot of it.”

“Umm, no thanks,” you said.

“Okay,” he said, and he pointed down the dark of the hallway, “It’s just the last door on the left.”

“Excuse me?” you inquired.

“Your room. Just the last door on the left. See?”

“Ummm, yeah,” you said. You looked down the hallway, obscured in shadow, with little versions of you, him and your mom being reflected back at you through the mirror at the end of it. You turned around and went to go pick up your mom when suddenly you felt his hand on your wrist.

“No, no. Just leave her here. She’s fine.”

You were taken aback. That and flustered. You had at least resigned yourself in the car to the thought that you’d at least get to peel the dress from your mom’s soft skin and get a good look at what the guys back at the hotel were missing. Look and maybe touch as well. Touch and take pictures of it to post online, your mom’s ass, face and all. Now even that was being robbed from you. But why?

Why was he dictating who sleeps where? If he only dropped you off at your house, he would have no say in what you did. And you lived only two blocks away. Two blocks away, and he knew that. But now you’re here, and he gets to decide who gets which room. He insists upon it. And your mom, the damsel in distress, is now on his couch. Of all the places in the world, his couch. His couch, which he stood over top of now, smiling. With your mom, lying unconscious below him.

He continued to smile. “Good night!” he said.

You had the misfortune of being as familiar with your vice principal’s face as you were the back of your hand, but you had never seen his face with such glee plastered to it before. Like a zoo animal, standing over its meal.

You looked down at what was left of your mom. Fully clothed in gorgeous extravagance. Just a few motions away from being fully nude. It would take no effort at all to get her that way. Just few motions with one’s fingers and some privacy. Your teeth chattered. Your cock twitched. Oh god, you almost let slip out audibly.

“Good night” you said softly, and you turned around and walked down the hallway, step by step, and with each one, you wrapped yourself more securely in the little web you now knew you were caught in. A web weaved underneath you so delicately and sweetly that you never heard or seen it being constructed and didn’t know of its existence until you fell down, clean into its center, where you were now embedded. And though you knew you had been caught, you felt like you were floating, suspended over the ground in the middle of the humid air, safe from gravity and the rocks and rapids below. You turned around for a second, just to see what was behind you, and you saw him there, just standing, looking at you.

“Just a few more steps,” he insisted, “then the door on the left. The last one.” He made an arm motion indicating for you to walk inside. Eager for you to walk inside.

You turned back around and continued, taking one last look before disappearing behind that doorway. He was still standing there, waiting for you to make it into that room, looming gigantically over your peaceful and oblivious mother, who was bathed in his large shadow.”

“Sweet dream!” was the last thing he said to you that night. It was appropriate.

You listened in the dark staring up at the roof as your mom’s clothes were peeled from her body. “ohhh goooodddd” You heard, as delicate and slight as a pin drop, but deliberate as a sand castle on the beach. It didn’t take much imagination to conjure up just what he uncovered which would elicit such a response from him.

If you hadn’t been listening so intently, you never would have heard it. But the same internal force that spurred you on to listen so intently was the same force that caused you to pull out your rock hard cock and whisper your own jubilations into the darkness. Jubilations which he wouldn’t be able to hear over the sound of your mom breathing, or the loudness of her bare ass which demanded the attention of all five senses, even in the dark.

Those little shits,” he whispered, with no one there (no one conscious) to hear him, “put her here right in my lap. this ass. I can’t believe it’s here.”

Neither can I” you whispered to yourself. “Neither can I.”

And when you heard the subtle and sweet sound of kisses, it took you very little imagination to visualize where they were aimed at. And then you heard his belt buckle being played with, it’s sweet jangling, and his pants being dropped clumsily, making a thud in the night. Then the waistband of underwear being jostled passed waist and thighs, calves and feet. Then after a bit of silence you heard his gasp. Even from this distance, you could hear the tremble in his voice as he did. He had done it. He was in.

Just you, him and your mom (sort of). You were the only people who existed that night. Just in an island unto yourselves. A world of sweet sensations and whispers. Two impossible hard cocks and on unbearably soft ass filling one happy, happy pelvis. Filling it as full as could be filled, the cup runneth over in fact. Everything leading up to this moment, chronologically and logistically didn’t and never did exist, and everything that was to come after, would never come. Just those sounds in the night. Your mom’s ass being slapped by his sweating pelvis was the beat that drove the universe. It was a treat licked and swallowed by the darkness. Your mom’s ass gummy and sweet, and his cock tangy and sour. A fine dish for the magic of this night.

You eventually mustered up the courage, and you somehow regained some command of your own body, to open up your door quietly and crawl, ever-so-slowly, now to an unmuffled soundtrack, down the hallway until you were but feet from the driving moment. You could barely make out anything in the dark. Just a rectangular piece of your mom’s ass, cut in two by her butt crack, shining white in the moonlight, rippling back and forth. Even through that tiny window of visibility, it would be obvious to even the most casual observer that your mom’s ass was gargantuan. The piece of visible butt crack told that tale to the pattern seeking male mind through very little.

That and the large satisfying sounds:

*thwap thwap thwap thwap*

As time passed, you couldn’t say how much, you became able to make out your shaking forearm before you, and you could see the outline of the cock you were receiving so much pleasure through up til now. You could now just barely make out your mom’s full form seeming to float in mid-air, as well as the form of the man hunched over her, thrusting back and forth fiendishly. You knew you had to duck out of the way, or soon enough you’d be completely visible, masturbating on the floor there in the sunlight. So you slowly crawled behind the dining room table (you had to feel around for it), which sat on a solid base and you watched as your mom, second by second, become more real to you. And then, finally, you could see her. See her in broad daylight. Day light everywhere, except in the confines of her head.

Her ass, now bare to you for the first time, and what a way to be made bare to you, was completely visible, the focal point of this night and the last, and the focal point of life itself when all was said and done. You always wanted to see it. But you expected its reveal to be sudden and thunderous, instead of creeping up on you as you watched it take form. You wouldn’t have had it any other way though. A barely heard whisper, slowly turned up on a dial underground, made imperceptibly louder with each passing second, until it was nothing but a plain, clearly audible statement in an otherwise silent room. The statement:

Your mom’s ass is being fucked by your vice principal.

So precise and clean. And made all the more simple because it was true. Undeniably true. And undeniably good. It was a fact within the universe you lived in and it would never not be a fact within that universe. It would be as true on mars as it was here. It would be as true on uranus as it was here. It would be as true within the center of the sun or on the dark side of the moon. Your mom had been caught within his web and he was now enjoying her without tired or strained caveat. No irritating filter or ifs, ands or buts. Your mom’s ass was being fucked by your vice principal and that’s all there was to it. It was the fact you would cherish most in life. The fact that all other facts existed for. Your life now had meaning.

And when he was done making you more whole with each pump, he put on his clothes and left, leaving your mom to crawl on the floor, as if trying to find her way out of his web but never making it far.

As you heard his car pull away, you stood up and watched your mom’s gorgeous but pathetically duped ass. Had there ever been a more pitiable creature? But now was not the time for pity. Your mom’s ass was going in circles, in search of an exit that wouldn’t exist until she remembered how to stand on two legs again. The day was far from over for her.

You pulled out your phone and you filmed the comical mess you normally called mom, and then you sent the video to all the worst guys from your graduating class, the ones who put in all the work but had yet to see a single paycheck for their efforts, along with the message “Hey guys! I forgot to give you my parting gift. Come to 266 Bluejay Lane. That’s 266, not 265. It’s BYOB. Make sure to bring enough to keep the festivities going. See you soon!”

While masturbating, you lifted your foot up to your mom’s left cheek and lightly pushed her over with it. Her ass fell to the ground, and it didn’t get up, as if it were stuck.

You smiled down at your mom, ready for what was to come next. It was all in your hands now.

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