Class 5t

I see him across the room on this, the first day of college. Black hair, messy, slight bruise to his cheek (knees scuffed, too: he'd fallen over, I guess); a click with his tongue when he's distracted; mark on his bottom lip from biting it; stubble; large hands. He doesn't look like he especially knows anyone and I certainly don't recognize him from school or around here. He is vaguely paying attention to the guy, a new headteacher, introducing us to the wonderful world of college, but only vaguely. Tongue click, eyes darting, hands rubbing knuckles (raw from the falling over). Hair just that bit too perfectly ruffled to be natural bed hair, right?

And me: grey eyes, blond hair, no beard, tubby without being fat, jeans too small and top too big, and already that whisper of regret: why had I not dressed better for the first day? Why was I here and not working? I'd been offered full-time work at my dad's place, so...

But not for now. Thoughts put away as we walk to our first classes and he walks my way, just ahead, casually scanning numbers on the doors to make sure he's going to the right place. We get there in the end, and he strides in with me close behind. The only one behind in fact, as I discover when I enter the room, too.

It's dark and no-one is there but us. He is sat at a desk about halfway back in the classroom, and I follow suit, taking one a few places down to the left from him. I put my bag away under my seat and go to make small talk (why? I *hate* small talk!) when he whips out his phone and starts playing with that. It's cute, the way he bites his lip as he scrolls whatever it is he is reading, and I pretend to have not noticed, busying myself with putting pens, paper, that sort of stuff onto my desk. It takes me about five times longer than usual as I am trying to think of a way to get a conversation started as I do it, but nothing pops into mind.

He's cute though. Like, cuter than any boy I think I have seen before; certainly than any at school had been, or at least cuter than those out. The closets had been nervously obvious once you looked closer and that could be fun: the rush of danger when you were sucked deep on the school field, or making out in the changing rooms' showers just before the other boys returned from their sports lesson. But then it would never be mentioned again, upon very explicit threat of harm, or just not even talked about, and they'd be there with girls who doted on them, eyes wide with mascara and lips wanting to take them deep as I had just hours before. Or maybe that was just me, seeing the tartan skirts and making assumptions. My older brother, straight, was into that sort of porn: needy college girls, all white shirts with few buttons and short, tartan skirts just begging to be hitched up, but I was always looking at the men with their hairless chests and the fact they had way more fun than the women ever seemed to. Porn was fucked up, I knew that much.

Five minutes? Ten minutes? More? We seem to have been sat here for a while now, and still no teacher. He puts away his phone, sighing and absently rubbing the bruise on his cheek and resting his hand over his trousers. I try not to look, but it's hard (and yes, I mean that in both senses).

"You here for German, right?"

He sounds thinner in his voice than I expected, which probably makes no sense, but whatever. He's pushing that hair back out of his eyes and looks uncertain.

"Yes," I say, my own voice sounding deep and steady despite my chest contracting. "Ja." A beat. "Erm, yes."

"Right." He looks back to the front of the class. "Wonder where she is?"

The teacher, he means. Frau Schenteur, the sort of person you thought you'd only see in old films about college but there she was, twinset and pearls and bad teeth. Really, really bad teeth.

"I dunno," I said. "She's normally on time." He looks confused. "I had her last year of school, she moved with my class."

"Ah," he says. "I'm new here. Moved over the summer with Dad."

I knew I hadn't seen him before. I'd have remembered.

"It's okay round here I guess," he continues. "Cinema's alright. City's okay."

"Yeah, it's okay," I nod. I've only ever lived here, but sure. It's home, and that's alright. I don't want to stay here forever though. My dad and mum were born here, lived here since then, but I want to... go. To live elsewhere, one day. There is more to life than just one place, but try telling them that. It's all raised voices and disappointment and my dad saying I'll find a nice girl around here, and my mum wincing as she makes eye contact with me across the dining room table and we share the knowledge, secretly, that it's not a girl I want to be finding, and not necessarily a nice boy, either. Just one who does the right-slash-nice things in the right-slash-nice places.

And here I am, thinking on that and not even noticing as he is looking straight at me and smiling a bit.

"Clubs are shit though," he says, almost challenging me.

He's right: two nightclubs, full of underage drinkers and smokers and virgins craving that first hit of sex, and music they may as well be streaming straight from the radio. All straight, of course.

"All straight, of course," he sighs, and I blink as I realize he's echoed my exact words from my head. It's unnerving. I must look shell-shocked because he mouths: "Yes. I'm gay."

I go to answer, when the door opens and a confused man pops in: "Oh, sorry, I've booked this out? Room 5t, right?"

"Oh!" Cute boy (Correction: cute *gay* boy!) mutters. "Sorry, I got the wrong room."

We leave, find 5v, and so the class begins with an angry Frau Schenteur. If I didn't know what "late" was in German before, I was going to be well informed very shortly, I suspected.

*

The morning is dull and long, the afternoon duller and longer, as introductory class follows introductory class. We are given huge heaps of paper outlining our courses and what to expect, and a couple of teachers give us homework, which creates much groaning from us and much anger from them ("If you can't hack it this early, shut up and get the hell out of my class," as one of them puts so eloquently).

I'm not going to lie here and say that I had almost forgotten about Cute Gay Boy by now, as he's been dotting in my mind's eye ever since we spoke earlier, but sure, he has been pushed back slightly and I am trying not to get too excited. Just because we're both gay, it doesn't mean anything. So are other boys, and they're mostly not into me, though there are a couple I rather fancy. Maybe a boyfriend for one, though the other? Just fun.

I'm not thinking about him as I go to walk home, t-shirt slightly damp with the heat, rucksack slung over one shoulder, when I feel a tap on my other shoulder. I swing round, and it's him.

"Hi," I say, and he says nothing, but smiles and holds my eyes as he walks away. He turns away and I'm just left there, slightly baffled, when he turns his head back and smiles a smug grin then walks off, and I can tell he wants me to follow him now.

And so I do. Of course I bloody do, because fuck, look at him.

He walks to the classroom from earlier, 5t, and knocks. No reply, so he slides in and I follow, dumbly, confused as to his aims but hopeful of his purpose. I'm known as out, so maybe he's heard? God knows.

Once I'm inside the class, I can't see him, but then hear him from behind, clicking shut the door and locking it, making certain the blinds are down and that no-one can see inside.

"Good," he says, and sits on a desk, "now we can talk."

I awkwardly sit on a seat and stare up at him, like a pupil before a teacher: "We can?"

"This is how it's going to work. You and me? Not a relationship, no way, no how. But. Fun, right? We can do that."

"I..." But he holds up a finger and shushes me.

"No, no talking." He holds up three fingers and slowly ticks them off. "One? Yes, I know you're gay, you're about the only decent-looking out one here. Two? You can say about this, you can tell about this, you can brag about this afterwards, but it doesn't mean I'm going to fuck you again. But it also doesn't mean I won't. Three?" His finger hovers over the last remaining one he has hovering in the air. "Three? Have fun."

It feels like I've just blinked before those trousers of his are off and I can see a thick, tight bulge beneath faded-black boxer shorts. I must just be staring, because he rolls his eyes: "Well go on then, take the fucking initiative!"

I almost nod apologetically, but walk over, eager, and go to bend down to touch him, when he pushes me away: "Like fuck you can have me just like this. You need to wait, you little shit."

I look a bit wounded, or I guess I must anyway as he blows me a kiss and pushes me back again, standing up now and taking off his top in one, practiced move, and then sliding a hand down his boxer shorts, eyes closing and lip bitten as he groans theatrically and I can see the outline of his shaft grow fatter and thicker.

I go to touch myself, but almost with a sixth sense he moves over and slaps away my hand: "No. You don't get to yet."

He sits down in front of me and peels his boxer shorts off, his fat cock thudding on the floor. It's not the biggest I've ever seen or taken, but it's smooth, clean, healthy-looking head and neatly trimmed with just the right shaped balls for sucking. He spits on his hand aggressively, and slowly stands to massage his shaft, stroking up and down rhythmically whilst keeping his eyes on me.

It's fucking hot, and I can feel myself grow harder and harder as his strokes up the pace and his face changes from acting horny to definite enjoyment and for a moment, he loses himself in the wank.

I go again to play with myself, when he darts another, angry glance at me: "Don't you fucking dare." And his head pulls back and the Adam's Apple in his throat bobs and he wanks his cock harder and faster now, firmer, leaving imprints on that perfectly dark skin of his, his chest tightening as his breathing increases and those first waves of wanting to release pass over him.

His breathing is heavier now, and I feel myself growing frustrated and aching to touch myself and wanting to take him. He is lost in himself now, and his masturbation and moaning and that slap of wet spit and damp skin as he wanks his cock harder still.

"Mmmm," he teases. "I mean, this feels fucking good. I don't think you know how good it is."

"It looks..." I pause, waiting for the command to be silent, but none comes so I carry on. "It looks hard. And hot." His eyes close again and his strokes quickly; this is turning him on, I can tell. "Look how fucking hard you are," I say, growing bolder. "Look how hard your fat, wet cock is. Look how fucking hard you are; how much you want this. Look at your dick, achingly big and just wanting to shoot its hot, sticky load all over your body and chest and skin and hands. How much you want to fucking cum for me." His lip is bitten again. "You like me watching, do you? You like me watching as you stroke that hard, fat cock of yours, eh? As you ache to cum hard and show me how fucking hot you can be? Is that what you—"

But I don't get any further as, horny as hell and possessed almost, he arches up now and crawls over to me, roughly pulling down my jeans and pants in one, swift move, and without waiting for permission, he pulls up my erect cock and takes it deep into his mouth, wet and covered in heat as he sucks and fucks it with his tongue, his lips, his spit.

And it's fine. It's okay. It's... nice? Sure. But not amazing; not mind-blowing or outstanding. It's just okay. But he can do better, and I know that I can. I grab his shoulders roughly and push him deeper onto me, making him take that cock of mine further into his mouth and throat. I jerk him forward and back, fucking his face with my dick and shaft, and I see his eyes turn from confused to aroused. This is a new one on him, I can tell.

Good.

I push him back now, my cock literally dripping with spit, and see him laying on the lino floor, curious. Animal-like, I growl and push him down again, then start to wank that cock of his, firm in my hand and hard, and then I go on: my mouth, taking it deep and applying hard, heavy pressure.

"Fuck!" he says, loudly, forgetting himself, and I smile that sickly, smug grin of mine as I start to jerk the base of his shaft with one hand, whilst my mouth and tongue go to work on his head, flitting his slit so I can taste his sweet precum, easing the motion of my head and tongue to focus more on his tip, sucking it hard and wet, teasing out those waves of desire that his clenching hands tell me he's feeling.

I move quickly, in a flash, to his balls, and play with them in my mouth, sucking them individually and licking around them whilst a free hand jerks his cock still, slower now as I suck his balls harder and tighter and his whole chest judders. I move back to his cock and bob my entire head over it, taking it deep and hard and firm and fast and wet and hot and, fuck, he's swelling before my very eyes and he looks surprised that I have the control now.

I pull of it and wank it hard, rubbing spit off my chin: "You fucking like that, don't you? You're going to give me your fucking cum, all over my tongue." And that's that: declared now, an intention, and I know it won't be long.

I put my mouth over it again, pushing and pulling hard on his cock head, fat and firm and ready, and my tongue and heart both quiver as I sense it swell and grow harder, so I increase the speed of my strokes and the tightness around his cock with my fingers, and then he is moaning and his entire body arches up and he pauses, a breath stuck in his throat, before...

... yes. He cums, hard, needy, coating my tongue and lips with fat, white globs of spunk which I greedily swallow, arching back onto his cock to suck him more, teasing out even last drop, draining his balls, making him swear loudly with intensity as my tongue plays with his slit, so sensitive and wet.

Once I'm done and I've pulled back, I notice how still he is on the ground, staring upwards and blissed out.

"Good?" I ask.

He tries for the right words, and just laughs: "Christ! Fuck! Yes!" He laughs again. "I'm so fucking glad that I knew 5t was free!"

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow.

"I did earlier, too," he confesses. "I just wanted to scope you out." He smiles. "I know every damn schedule here for us to fuck. My dad's the new headteacher."

I blink back surprise and laugh: "Clever sod."

He pulls me to him now, and tender almost, kisses me: "I taste good," he remarks, and we kiss again, softer, longer, tongues exploring. He pulls back and stares straight into my eyes as his hand searches up my top and scratches down my skin: "I reserve the right to change my mind about the boyfriend thing."

"Permission granted," I agree, wondering when Class 5t will be free again...I see him across the room on this, the first day of college. Black hair, messy, slight bruise to his cheek (knees scuffed, too: he'd fallen over, I guess); a click with his tongue when he's distracted; mark on his bottom lip from biting it; stubble; large hands. He doesn't look like he especially knows anyone and I certainly don't recognize him from school or around here. He is vaguely paying attention to the guy, a new headteacher, introducing us to the wonderful world of college, but only vaguely. Tongue click, eyes darting, hands rubbing knuckles (raw from the falling over). Hair just that bit too perfectly ruffled to be natural bed hair, right?

And me: grey eyes, blond hair, no beard, tubby without being fat, jeans too small and top too big, and already that whisper of regret: why had I not dressed better for the first day? Why was I here and not working? I'd been offered full-time work at my dad's place, so...

But not for now. Thoughts put away as we walk to our first classes and he walks my way, just ahead, casually scanning numbers on the doors to make sure he's going to the right place. We get there in the end, and he strides in with me close behind. The only one behind in fact, as I discover when I enter the room, too.

It's dark and no-one is there but us. He is sat at a desk about halfway back in the classroom, and I follow suit, taking one a few places down to the left from him. I put my bag away under my seat and go to make small talk (why? I *hate* small talk!) when he whips out his phone and starts playing with that. It's cute, the way he bites his lip as he scrolls whatever it is he is reading, and I pretend to have not noticed, busying myself with putting pens, paper, that sort of stuff onto my desk. It takes me about five times longer than usual as I am trying to think of a way to get a conversation started as I do it, but nothing pops into mind.

He's cute though. Like, cuter than any boy I think I have seen before; certainly than any at school had been, or at least cuter than those out. The closets had been nervously obvious once you looked closer and that could be fun: the rush of danger when you were sucked deep on the school field, or making out in the changing rooms' showers just before the other boys returned from their sports lesson. But then it would never be mentioned again, upon very explicit threat of harm, or just not even talked about, and they'd be there with girls who doted on them, eyes wide with mascara and lips wanting to take them deep as I had just hours before. Or maybe that was just me, seeing the tartan skirts and making assumptions. My older brother, straight, was into that sort of porn: needy college girls, all white shirts with few buttons and short, tartan skirts just begging to be hitched up, but I was always looking at the men with their hairless chests and the fact they had way more fun than the women ever seemed to. Porn was fucked up, I knew that much.

Five minutes? Ten minutes? More? We seem to have been sat here for a while now, and still no teacher. He puts away his phone, sighing and absently rubbing the bruise on his cheek and resting his hand over his trousers. I try not to look, but it's hard (and yes, I mean that in both senses).

"You here for German, right?"

He sounds thinner in his voice than I expected, which probably makes no sense, but whatever. He's pushing that hair back out of his eyes and looks uncertain.

"Yes," I say, my own voice sounding deep and steady despite my chest contracting. "Ja." A beat. "Erm, yes."

"Right." He looks back to the front of the class. "Wonder where she is?"

The teacher, he means. Frau Schenteur, the sort of person you thought you'd only see in old films about college but there she was, twinset and pearls and bad teeth. Really, really bad teeth.

"I dunno," I said. "She's normally on time." He looks confused. "I had her last year of school, she moved with my class."

"Ah," he says. "I'm new here. Moved over the summer with Dad."

I knew I hadn't seen him before. I'd have remembered.

"It's okay round here I guess," he continues. "Cinema's alright. City's okay."

"Yeah, it's okay," I nod. I've only ever lived here, but sure. It's home, and that's alright. I don't want to stay here forever though. My dad and mum were born here, lived here since then, but I want to... go. To live elsewhere, one day. There is more to life than just one place, but try telling them that. It's all raised voices and disappointment and my dad saying I'll find a nice girl around here, and my mum wincing as she makes eye contact with me across the dining room table and we share the knowledge, secretly, that it's not a girl I want to be finding, and not necessarily a nice boy, either. Just one who does the right-slash-nice things in the right-slash-nice places.

And here I am, thinking on that and not even noticing as he is looking straight at me and smiling a bit.

"Clubs are shit though," he says, almost challenging me.

He's right: two nightclubs, full of underage drinkers and smokers and virgins craving that first hit of sex, and music they may as well be streaming straight from the radio. All straight, of course.

"All straight, of course," he sighs, and I blink as I realize he's echoed my exact words from my head. It's unnerving. I must look shell-shocked because he mouths: "Yes. I'm gay."

I go to answer, when the door opens and a confused man pops in: "Oh, sorry, I've booked this out? Room 5t, right?"

"Oh!" Cute boy (Correction: cute *gay* boy!) mutters. "Sorry, I got the wrong room."

We leave, find 5v, and so the class begins with an angry Frau Schenteur. If I didn't know what "late" was in German before, I was going to be well informed very shortly, I suspected.

*

The morning is dull and long, the afternoon duller and longer, as introductory class follows introductory class. We are given huge heaps of paper outlining our courses and what to expect, and a couple of teachers give us homework, which creates much groaning from us and much anger from them ("If you can't hack it this early, shut up and get the hell out of my class," as one of them puts so eloquently).

I'm not going to lie here and say that I had almost forgotten about Cute Gay Boy by now, as he's been dotting in my mind's eye ever since we spoke earlier, but sure, he has been pushed back slightly and I am trying not to get too excited. Just because we're both gay, it doesn't mean anything. So are other boys, and they're mostly not into me, though there are a couple I rather fancy. Maybe a boyfriend for one, though the other? Just fun.

I'm not thinking about him as I go to walk home, t-shirt slightly damp with the heat, rucksack slung over one shoulder, when I feel a tap on my other shoulder. I swing round, and it's him.

"Hi," I say, and he says nothing, but smiles and holds my eyes as he walks away. He turns away and I'm just left there, slightly baffled, when he turns his head back and smiles a smug grin then walks off, and I can tell he wants me to follow him now.

And so I do. Of course I bloody do, because fuck, look at him.

He walks to the classroom from earlier, 5t, and knocks. No reply, so he slides in and I follow, dumbly, confused as to his aims but hopeful of his purpose. I'm known as out, so maybe he's heard? God knows.

Once I'm inside the class, I can't see him, but then hear him from behind, clicking shut the door and locking it, making certain the blinds are down and that no-one can see inside.

"Good," he says, and sits on a desk, "now we can talk."

I awkwardly sit on a seat and stare up at him, like a pupil before a teacher: "We can?"

"This is how it's going to work. You and me? Not a relationship, no way, no how. But. Fun, right? We can do that."

"I..." But he holds up a finger and shushes me.

"No, no talking." He holds up three fingers and slowly ticks them off. "One? Yes, I know you're gay, you're about the only decent-looking out one here. Two? You can say about this, you can tell about this, you can brag about this afterwards, but it doesn't mean I'm going to fuck you again. But it also doesn't mean I won't. Three?" His finger hovers over the last remaining one he has hovering in the air. "Three? Have fun."

It feels like I've just blinked before those trousers of his are off and I can see a thick, tight bulge beneath faded-black boxer shorts. I must just be staring, because he rolls his eyes: "Well go on then, take the fucking initiative!"

I almost nod apologetically, but walk over, eager, and go to bend down to touch him, when he pushes me away: "Like fuck you can have me just like this. You need to wait, you little shit."

I look a bit wounded, or I guess I must anyway as he blows me a kiss and pushes me back again, standing up now and taking off his top in one, practiced move, and then sliding a hand down his boxer shorts, eyes closing and lip bitten as he groans theatrically and I can see the outline of his shaft grow fatter and thicker.

I go to touch myself, but almost with a sixth sense he moves over and slaps away my hand: "No. You don't get to yet."

He sits down in front of me and peels his boxer shorts off, his fat cock thudding on the floor. It's not the biggest I've ever seen or taken, but it's smooth, clean, healthy-looking head and neatly trimmed with just the right shaped balls for sucking. He spits on his hand aggressively, and slowly stands to massage his shaft, stroking up and down rhythmically whilst keeping his eyes on me.

It's fucking hot, and I can feel myself grow harder and harder as his strokes up the pace and his face changes from acting horny to definite enjoyment and for a moment, he loses himself in the wank.

I go again to play with myself, when he darts another, angry glance at me: "Don't you fucking dare." And his head pulls back and the Adam's Apple in his throat bobs and he wanks his cock harder and faster now, firmer, leaving imprints on that perfectly dark skin of his, his chest tightening as his breathing increases and those first waves of wanting to release pass over him.

His breathing is heavier now, and I feel myself growing frustrated and aching to touch myself and wanting to take him. He is lost in himself now, and his masturbation and moaning and that slap of wet spit and damp skin as he wanks his cock harder still.

"Mmmm," he teases. "I mean, this feels fucking good. I don't think you know how good it is."

"It looks..." I pause, waiting for the command to be silent, but none comes so I carry on. "It looks hard. And hot." His eyes close again and his strokes quickly; this is turning him on, I can tell. "Look how fucking hard you are," I say, growing bolder. "Look how hard your fat, wet cock is. Look how fucking hard you are; how much you want this. Look at your dick, achingly big and just wanting to shoot its hot, sticky load all over your body and chest and skin and hands. How much you want to fucking cum for me." His lip is bitten again. "You like me watching, do you? You like me watching as you stroke that hard, fat cock of yours, eh? As you ache to cum hard and show me how fucking hot you can be? Is that what you—"

But I don't get any further as, horny as hell and possessed almost, he arches up now and crawls over to me, roughly pulling down my jeans and pants in one, swift move, and without waiting for permission, he pulls up my erect cock and takes it deep into his mouth, wet and covered in heat as he sucks and fucks it with his tongue, his lips, his spit.

And it's fine. It's okay. It's... nice? Sure. But not amazing; not mind-blowing or outstanding. It's just okay. But he can do better, and I know that I can. I grab his shoulders roughly and push him deeper onto me, making him take that cock of mine further into his mouth and throat. I jerk him forward and back, fucking his face with my dick and shaft, and I see his eyes turn from confused to aroused. This is a new one on him, I can tell.

Good.

I push him back now, my cock literally dripping with spit, and see him laying on the lino floor, curious. Animal-like, I growl and push him down again, then start to wank that cock of his, firm in my hand and hard, and then I go on: my mouth, taking it deep and applying hard, heavy pressure.

"Fuck!" he says, loudly, forgetting himself, and I smile that sickly, smug grin of mine as I start to jerk the base of his shaft with one hand, whilst my mouth and tongue go to work on his head, flitting his slit so I can taste his sweet precum, easing the motion of my head and tongue to focus more on his tip, sucking it hard and wet, teasing out those waves of desire that his clenching hands tell me he's feeling.

I move quickly, in a flash, to his balls, and play with them in my mouth, sucking them individually and licking around them whilst a free hand jerks his cock still, slower now as I suck his balls harder and tighter and his whole chest judders. I move back to his cock and bob my entire head over it, taking it deep and hard and firm and fast and wet and hot and, fuck, he's swelling before my very eyes and he looks surprised that I have the control now.

I pull of it and wank it hard, rubbing spit off my chin: "You fucking like that, don't you? You're going to give me your fucking cum, all over my tongue." And that's that: declared now, an intention, and I know it won't be long.

I put my mouth over it again, pushing and pulling hard on his cock head, fat and firm and ready, and my tongue and heart both quiver as I sense it swell and grow harder, so I increase the speed of my strokes and the tightness around his cock with my fingers, and then he is moaning and his entire body arches up and he pauses, a breath stuck in his throat, before...

... yes. He cums, hard, needy, coating my tongue and lips with fat, white globs of spunk which I greedily swallow, arching back onto his cock to suck him more, teasing out even last drop, draining his balls, making him swear loudly with intensity as my tongue plays with his slit, so sensitive and wet.

Once I'm done and I've pulled back, I notice how still he is on the ground, staring upwards and blissed out.

"Good?" I ask.

He tries for the right words, and just laughs: "Christ! Fuck! Yes!" He laughs again. "I'm so fucking glad that I knew 5t was free!"

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow.

"I did earlier, too," he confesses. "I just wanted to scope you out." He smiles. "I know every damn schedule here for us to fuck. My dad's the new headteacher."

I blink back surprise and laugh: "Clever sod."

He pulls me to him now, and tender almost, kisses me: "I taste good," he remarks, and we kiss again, softer, longer, tongues exploring. He pulls back and stares straight into my eyes as his hand searches up my top and scratches down my skin: "I reserve the right to change my mind about the boyfriend thing."

"Permission granted," I agree, wondering when Class 5t will be free again...

class

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