Message-ID: <1476eli$9706161123@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!not-for-mail Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.moderated Subject: NEW STORY: "Show Us All, Sarah Jane"/Mr.Spraycan Disclaimer: Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough to be reading this. If you don't like exhibitionism and spanking, this isn't for you. This item is of fictional nature. All persons and places in it are imaginary and no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. *Copyright* is claimed (c) 1997 by Baton Rouge ThoughtScapes, and for the author, Mr.Spraycan, who chooses to be 'anon'. For entertainment purposes only. No commercial use is warranted without permission. Do not repost. Store only with this notice intact. Note: This story first appeared as a guest post on Topbit's famous xib site a couple of months back. This is an extended version that went to the spanking groups in past two weeks. Full of reverence and respect for women's dignity, as ever. Dedicated to the dozens of readers who requested I keep on posting here. [And to the one or two pinheaded flamers: "Go fuck yourselves, because no one else will."] SHOW US ALL, SARAH JANE/Director's Cut by Mr.Spraycan Time to reminisce. Did I ever tell you about Sarah Jane? Well, she was the most 'show me' girl I ever met, in the 'show me' state. We're talking about Missouri in the early 1980s. Sarah Jane's about the least voluptuous retired cheerleader you ever saw. Normally, these girls are all tits and teeth, and stay that way. Not her. In fact, they must have been pushed for a squad to have let her in. But they had: she had several photos of herself in the stupid slutty get-up. And not looking so bad, meaning, the others were pretty rough-looking too! I bet the team never won a damned thing. But I digress. And I'm not being nasty about her. She may not have been a beauty, but she made up for it in many ways. When this story takes place she's matured into a tall skinny woman. With small, slightly sagging breasts -- but big chocolatey, highly responsive nipples -- and a wide, spankable ass. She has spindly unshaven legs, skinny thighs that don't touch at the top, a very hairy muff, and signs of a little potbelly, because she is very fond of Budweiser and french fries. She has some stretch marks from up-and-down diets, but remains pretty thin from hyperactivity, I suspect. She's no beauty queen or supermodel, you've gathered. She has some adult acne and scars from teenage zits, and always looks a little dirty. That's compounded by her big mop of straggly frizzy hair, which she mostly wears up, pinned elaborately. Fashion hasn't passed her by when it comes to clothes, but there's something 1950s about her. I suppose being in rural Missouri has a lot to do with it. She wears cheap, big plastic framed bifocal glasses, and makeup to her is confined to lipstick, in fairly minimalistic colors, like pink. Not that make-up is going to change her much: she has a Streisand-like big nose, big lips (yes, mouth and fanny!). Her teeth are okay, a bit yellowy from smoking too much, not all that even, but she has a nice smile. Which goes with her naturally friendly disposition. She is in her early 30s. We grew up together, almost, living on the same suburban block, then parted when we both went away to college. She did a year or two in the Army, and didn't like it. I worked for IBM, designing brochures, ditto. She was briefly married, but doesn't say much about that now. Now I'm at the local high school, heading the art department, and she's working at the local bank, as head teller. Sarah Jean likes sex, it's her principal hobby. She fucks and sucks, all the time. But she just loves to show. She's a classic exhibitionist. It must be something she picked up at college or in the Army, because I don't recall her being that way as a teenager. And me? I don't mind the occasional crazy stunt, but I prefer to watch her, set things up for her. We do dares. The night time streaks, various 'no pantie' things at bars in neighboring towns, skinny dipping, lots of driving around nude. One day, when she was stuck with drive-up teller duties, I sat in the back of the tiny air-conditioned lock-up booth and watched. She was being her usual friendly self, but I wonder if even one of the hundreds of customers knew that all she was wearing was her tee-shirt and the slide in her hair? Exhibitionism has a point for her: it makes her horny, gets her juices dripping. She knows it's a perversion, and usually talks about being spanked for it. We don't do that every time, because circumstances aren't always right (Like, I've got such a boner I can't wait, or she's having contractions that would bend a steel pipe and can't lay still long enough to have her backside reddened.) And we talk about it a lot when we're fucking, and at other times. She always wants it to be more daring. Being left naked on a back country road is her favorite fantasy. Apparently, this really happened to one of her girlfriends in school, though not one I knew. The local football team had watched her strip her on the bus, one night, and on a whim had turned her off in the middle of nowhere. Of course, you know the rest of the story. An hour later, a car appears in the distance, she thinks she's going to be rescued, and flags them down. The cops? No. Her parents? That would have been funny. No, it's the ringleaders, hungry for sex. Which they proceed to extract from her, in exchange for the ride. Sarah Jean rubs herself into a frenzy over this, out of belated jealousy. I tell her it's a rather disturbing story: a gang bang at least, maybe rape if you complained and found the right prosecutor. She argues, no, that the girl had wanted it that way all along. Had maybe even planted the idea. And being multiply penetrated in a seething clusterfuck by a pack of horny teens was something so astounding, her friend still thought fondly about it, every now and then, even though she was a mother with four kids herself. So, it's inevitable that we'll be trying something along these lines. Eventually. We do it. But in style. I drive her 30 miles out of town, into the middle of nowhere, deep into farm country, off the main state highways, heading for the marginal land near the Ozarks. I invite her to get out. And she doesn't need much persuading. She stands in the middle of the highway, and takes everything off, slowly. She's savoring it. It's spring, a little chilly, but the sun is warm enough. She's smiling charmingly as she gets nude. Seen like this, she's quite pretty, and her obvious excitement makes her prettier. The clothes are gathered up, put in a wicker hamper, and locked in the trunk. She sits on the hood of the car, makes a big gooey kiss mark on the shine. I invite her back in. We drive a bit more, while she rubs herself, which she loves to do. It perfumes the car beautifully. She thinks she ought to keep her shoes on. I tell her 'no,' reminding her: "we've had this discussion already. Being barefoot will increase your sense of vulnerability." She unlaces them, puts them on the back seat. Her feet are big and bony, like the rest of her. Rather dirty, too. Then, sensing that I've found the right kind of area I stop, and let her out. We're on some half-made back country road, so little used it has grass growing in the middle. There's nothing for miles in every direction but fields, barbed wire fences, circling crows, a hawk. A few cows, miles off in the distance. I promise to be back long before sundown, but remind her she's completely on her own till then. As I drive slowly off, she's standing spread-legged in the middle of the road, fingers of one hand sunk in her cunt, rubbing wildly with the other. A nice sight for a rearview mirror. Now, as you've guessed, I don't show up. For a while it doesn't bother her, she's having too good a time. But eventually, common sense comes over everyone who exhibits, even the craziest. Just how *will* she get back from here, anyway? The hours pass. She gets desperate as it gets later. She tells herself, she has to do something. Barefoot, she can't walk the ten or so miles to the nearest houses. And if she did, what would they think of her? A bedraggled naked woman, stinking of sex. Once or twice, cars are heard. First time, she thinks it's me. Then seeing it isn't, she dives into the ditch. She regrets it after. Brambles, tangled overgrown bushes, oh, not what you want to leap into at all. It takes her a half-hour to pick all the thorns out of her, and she has some good scratches to show for it. Later, she watches another truck filled with teenage boys cruise slowly by, eyes scanning in every direction. They have rifles, and are hunting. She's hidden herself more carefully, and squats low and stays very still. Suddenly, she doesn't want to meet up with them, at all. Even though it represents a perfect 'gang bang' opportunity. Isn't that strange? She masturbates wildly after they've gone, though, regretting this loss. Hunters, naturally cruel. She'd have been fucked raw, driven home trussed up, naked, tied to the hood of their truck, she fantasizes. She comes three times, and licks her fingers. There are flies buzzing round her, and she's very sweaty and dishevelled. Finally, she decides she has to act. To get brave enough to leap out and stop a farm truck. It's one she thinks she recognizes, and as it chugs closer, she sees it is driven by someone she knows, Jack Henderson. He pulls up with a screech of brakes and leaps out, doing the whole "What in the hell's going on here, Sarah Jane?" routine. He seems really concerned, distracted. He rages about stupidity of college boys and their pranks -- that's his guess, and she doesn't correct him -- and he gives her a cardigan and a blanket to drape round herself. But despite this show of empathy he's interested in her, and it shows, with a big bulge becoming increasingly obvious in his pants. They talk. She says it was just a crazy dare, nothing to get excited about. He decides she has three choices, as he sees it: first, to be driven back to her parents. She vetoes this with a quick "No!" Her hard-drinking ex-Navy dad will go crazy, she explains, diplomatically. Or, second, he'd be happy to take her to his own farmhouse, where some spare clothes could be rustled up easily enough: he has four teenage daughters and a wife. Or, the final choice is for him to get on the CB and find me, the bad guy, and have me fulfil my bargain and retrieve her. To her, it's obvious. Choice #3. I'm found with a few calls. I apologize, say: "I clean forgot about the time, damn! Tell her I'm sorry, and I'm just getting on my way." Henderson laughs, and says she is hopping mad. I counter: "Yes, I'm sure. Well, since she has a lift now, how about saving a few minutes? You can just come back to town with her, and drop her off. It'll be okay." I hear his disappointment, but does she? It's something to do with his wife, but he won't say. A few miles further on, he pulls into a side road, stops. He's emboldened. He says that she looked good, leaping out into the road naked. She blushes. He asks her for "a little show." Which, inevitably with her, turns into a big one with her rubbing herself until she's drooling, talking dirty, really debasing herself. Before she'll be allowed to go on -- it's the truck or walk, after all -- she's easily talked into giving him a blow job. Which is her favorite way of saying 'thanks,' learned the hard way from drill sergeants in the Army's basic training program. To prove I'm genuine, there's a single article of clothing waiting in a brown bag stuffed in the mailbox at the end of the driveway to his house, before they get on to the road to town. He gets it for her. There's a $50 bill in it too, for him. It's a beret, raspberry colored. Pinned inside, an invitation. It says merely "Sarah Jane: Come to the high school, art department, back entrance, wearing just this." She puts it on, unpins her hair, lets it down. He's amused to see her repeatedly looking at the note, then touching herself, all the way to town. He tells her with a chuckle: "Man, I don't believe this. I always thought you were such a nice young lady, when I came by the bank to cash checks. Now look at you. You just can't leave that hairy old thing of yours alone, honey. You're a real nympho for sure." The strange thing is, she agrees with him. She often argues with me about that, saying she isn't, really. But it's only a question of interpretation or degree. Before long, she hands him back the blanket and cardigan. She's often driven through town naked with me, so it's not such a big dare, though his truck windows aren't tinted anything like as dark as mine. Shamelessly, she plays with herself again. He drops her off in the car park. She climbs out, stands there nude, hands on her hips and says, teasingly: "Next time, Jack, don't be so good-mannered. Please? I'm not infectious or anything. Fuck me, okay?" then races away to the back entrance, her hair flying, her little tits bouncing. I'm waiting there for her, and seeing me, she remembers she's supposed to be mad. The door's locked. I fold my arms while she rages about being abandoned, where was I?, etc. Until she realizes where she is and what she's doing, and calms down. Then I unlock, and let her push pass. "Where are my clothes?" "Oh, do you really want them? It smells like you've been having far too much fun like this, without them." She rages again, for a second. "You bastard, I'll kill you!!" I grab her wrist, and with a gesture I point out that she has semen in her hair, round her mouth, some dripmarks in the road dust on her neck and tits. She's very embarrassed, because she hadn't noticed. She's also a bit pinker than before, from the sun. "Calm down, " I order. I lead her down the hall, toward my office. School's over, so there's no one around. We stop, I pin her against the wall, kiss her, stroke her tits and ass. She's still annoyed, but she can't help responding. It's been a long, sexually charged day for her. I get three fingers in her cunt without any effort at all. She's overflowing, and she's wriggling with pleasure. "Has this been good for you?" She's making little grunting noises, humping her hips busily. "Oh, baby . . .yes, yes. I can't believe I did it . . ." I sniff her a little more. Sarah Jane is always a little fragrant, but today she's in spectacular form. As smelly as she is when she's spent a night with me. Maybe more so. Who knows how many times she's come, already? The smell of sweat is strong, because she doesn't like deodorants much, and they've all worn off. And pussy? And how! Her normal shrimpy odor is now full-fledged fish, all metallic and enough to make the hairs in your nostrils quiver. Rather disgusting if it wasn't sending so arousing a message. White streaks on her thighs, snotty dribbles in her matted pubic hair tell the reason why she smells so strongly. "You've been very naughty, Sarah Jane," I tease her. "Yes!" she gasps. "Please . . ." "I think you deserve to be spanked, young lady . . ." "Ohmigod, yes!! Please, do it. Please?" "This way." I lead her through a darkened doorway, up three or four steps. "Look through here," I say, pulling a curtain back a tiny bit. We're looking into a brightly-lit room. An adult student mixed art class, about 30 people, just setting up for the evening. "They were planning on doing still life. But, they just finished life class a week or two back, so they're well set with technique. They won't mind a switch of plans. I mean, I was thinking, why waste a chance to try out a new model . . .?" She's staring at me, her nostrils flared, turning quite pale. "W-What are you saying?" "Isn't it obvious, baby? I think it's an excellent idea. I think you ought to go in and pose for them, sweetie." "O o o oh! No!!" The expression on her face is priceless. She knows she's been had, but doesn't want to give me the satisfaction of admitting it. And how did I plan it? Well, I knew she wouldn't go home, and Henderson was a set-up, frankly. And likely to yield a good result, either way. If she'd gone there with him, she'd have gotten an equally big surprise, because his wife and four daughters are something else, as I'll tell you some other time . . . Violent, predatory, very disturbed. And, to my way of thinking, quite fun. So, If Sarah Jane had showed up there in Jack's truck, naked, then there could only have been one outcome. The five harpies would have righteously professed shock and rushed her to the barn for an old-fashioned whipping, under the pretext that public nudity was a sin that must be properly punished. In reality, the women of this household get off on this kind of thing. My consolation: Jack would have called me, and he and I would have been invited to witness her whipping, and even to join in. Well you can't have everything. Some other time, maybe. And I do have a good plan for her, here. She stares at me. I see tears in her eyes. Anger, other emotions too. At the far end of the room on a desk, there's the hamper, with a little padlock. I show her the key, tucked in my hand. "See the basket? Remember it? Your clothes are in there. You can have it if you want to walk in . . ." "No, that's enough. I can't do it. Please, be reasonable. You go and get it." "No, it's not enough, Sarah Jane," I correct her. "You haven't exposed yourself to my satisfaction, or even your own, if half of what you say to me is true." It is true, and she knows it. She's really torn. "But I know so many of these people! I went to school wth some of them!" "That's good, then. I'm sure they'd like to see you without the silly outfit and the pompoms. In fact, they'll love it. I'll give you the key when they're through with you." She shakes her head, but she's staring in the room again, breathing deeply. I can see she's tempted, just a little. She's touching her slit gently. She swallows, turns to me. "How long?" "Only a few hours, hon, we're supposed to shut at 11pm." "What will I wear?" "Right, very funny. Nothing, of course. Just like you are, that's perfectly fine . . ." "Oh, Jesus. Are you going to pose me?" A loaded question. "Yes . . . you know I am." "How?" "The way you're always talking about. How else? Legs wide apart, so you can be a freshly fucked whore. Up on the table on the stage, at eye-level so they can see your juicy underparts, perfectly." "Oh my god. No! That's disgusting!" So disgusting, she's got one hand on her pussy, the other squeezing a breast. She has her mouth open, and she's nervously wriggling her tongue. "That's the entire idea. Complete exposure. And it's your own idea, as I recall." "I didn't mean it. . . " "There's no such concept, when it comes to sex. You always mean it . . ." "Please, you can't really want to see me to do that. I'm all dirty and smelly." "Good. Authenticity. They'll like that a lot, seeing your cuntjuice dribbling down your legs. Your twat hair all sticky and matted. And yes, I do want it. A lot." "Oh, no, please . . ." "Oh, yes, Sarah Jane. It is kind of revolting, but it'll intrigue everyone . . ." She shakes her head in disbelief. "And you can make it even better. We'll stop every 15 minutes or so, let you touch yourself, for even more authenticity. I want you nice and bedraggled and sweaty, darling. Those nipples and pussy lips are going to be purple and aching, lovely and sore, when you're through. No one'll mind if you keep rubbing until you come, in fact, I think it'll be better for you, and much more fun for everyone else, if you let it all hang out and do so . . ." "Please. no, don't ask me to. I can't." "Okay, we'll leave your clothes there and I'll drive you home to daddy's, drop you off nude in the driveway. Perhaps I'll call to warn him, so he can get ready for you. Remember what he said about 'whoring around,' Sarah Jane? What he promised? The strap next time, however old you are. Wasn't that it?" "No! You mustn't!" "But you like to be spanked, Sarah Jane, don't you?" "Not by him!" she protests, then presses closer. "By you, yes. You know I do! And I want it tonight. I've been so bad! Don't cheat me, baby. Please?" Her tongue is in my mouth again. She is not giving up on this. I pull back. "You won't be disappointed, sweetheart. But you have to do what I want first . . ." "In there, you mean?" I nod. She takes a deep breath. "Go on, then. Get your slutty ass in there. And do as you're told . . ." She kisses me, hard. I know she's going to, now. "Baby, I'm scared," she whispers. "Good," I tell her. "But you'll live. Total exhibitionism, Sarah Jane. What could make a pervert like you happier?" I open the curtain a little. She hesitates, then steps out onto the stage. Now, she's committed. No going back. There's polite applause from the women, a first flurry of nervous laughter from the men. There's more leering as I lead her down the steps, and around the class, introduce her by name to the few who don't know her quite well already. There's a lot of licking of lips and staring going on. People who'd seen her dressed, and maybe even had a thought or two about what might be under her clothes, were now seeing her shamelessly naked, and even more shocking, sexually aroused. She's getting some old-fashioned looks for her big untrimmed pubic bush, not to mention its rather aromatic and sticky nature. The women are also trading glances about her unshaven legs, her underarm hair. I hear one, of her own age, scold her with a little smile: "My word! Sarah Jane, you're a disgrace! You need to wax. Come by my beauty parlor this weekend . . ." Guys are a bit tongue-tied in these circumstances, with other women watching them anyway, but there are some comments about how 'liberated' she is, and how 'hot' she looks. Then I lead her back to the front of the class, and up on the stage. I have her climb up on a low table there and lay down. I have her open her legs wide and pull on her pussy lips for them. "Come on, Sarah Jane. Pull your crack open. Lots of pink. Don't be a prude. Show us what a slut and an exhibitionist you are, hmmm?" I whisper. "Can you all see her okay?" I ask loudly. There's a hoarse request from a guy at the back for her to spread her thighs more, "uh, so we can see her asshole, too?" Several others murmur their interest in this, and in seeing her show more of the landscape of her crease. We figure out a pose that's not too uncomfortable, and shows her to perfection. There are some wry smiles at how hairy she is, and at how messy she is too. "Ah, that's so good," I hear one woman say, as she sketches furiously. They catch on quickly. No ordinary model would do this, and sights as blatant as this haven't even been seen in biology class here. Sarah Jane is flushed and excited, though she has a look of hurt confusion on her face as she sees just how many of the portraitists have adopted the new idea of bringing a camera along. Click click, snap snap. Oh no, she whispers to herself. But she touches her cunt as she says it. I think, how nice for her, and for the guys at the local photo lab. Will there be many in town, outside of the most stiffnecked churchgoers, who won't have a perfect idea of what she looks like naked, soon? Doubtful, I think. And how appropriate for someone who wanted to show off, so badly. She's going to inspire a lot of masturbation in, ha ha, coming days. Buckets of cum, that's for sure. It's even better. She's also rather taken aback by the frank sexual interest several of the women are showing. There are some whispered propositions, murmured promises that the rigidly heterosexual Sarah Jane finds quite shocking. How lovely! I had half-wondered if she would be shameless enough to masturbate. Why did I doubt it? There's quite a bit of excitement in class, some nervous laughter, as she rubs herself to a hearty climax, even yelping out "Oh oh oh, fuck!" as she comes. When it's time for her to take a bathroom break after an hour or so, two of the older women follow her. She's gone a while. When she comes back she's trembling, tearful, even more bedraggled than before. She sobs to me: "They fucked me! The bitches!" "Good," I tell her. "Now, back in position please, and hold those big fanny lips open until they're pouting properly again." She's shaking with anger, but she does, opening up for everyone again. I ask gently: "What happened?" She whispers: "It's too disgusting. They put their fingers in me. Told me I stank. That I should stop rubbing my cunt and get busy with theirs, oh . . ." she was stroking herself, and the sight of her huge floppy clitoris, like a slice of raw liver, was provoking some excited comments. The paintings and sketches are good. Better than I've seen here in years. Oh, there's nothing like inspiration, is there? At the next break I escort her to the men's room instead. The row of guys peeing at the urinals get to see her squat, because I hold the stall door wide. And they see her wait while I wash my hands, comb my hair. When we're back in the art room, I have her change her pose. There's some giggling as I maneuver her into a kneeling, head down position, holding her ass cheeks wide open for them to show off all her underbelly. Someone's been to the Value Drug and brought back lots of refills for the cameras, which is just as well. And at the last break, I have her switch to a standing pose, legs and arms flung wide in greeting, head back. After all her selfish pawing, this yields a disgusting flow of juices down her legs, and she's blushing with shame at the filthy spectacle she presents. Just before the class breaks up, one of the two female abductors comes over to me. Joan, a neighbor of mine. I hadn't suspected. She has a proposition. Could they borrow Sarah Jane for an hour or two? Maybe. Why? She tells me: "Take her to my place, the wedding photo shop? So we can video her, rubbing herself off. Get some good quality close-ups of her pussy. And as it's late, maybe we could get her to walk down Main Street in the nude." It's not much of a dare here, the place is so quiet. We'd done it ourselves once, holding hands, a little later at night. But I agree. "There's just one thing," I tell them, gesturing at the spreadeagled model. "Sarah Jane is piddling herself in anticipation of having her ass paddled, and I've made her a promise. So, can I come along and watch? And then I'll let her have it, afterwards. Just so long as I can get her home before 2:00 or so. Oh, and you'll need to give her a bath when we're done, judging by the state of her." "The horse trough in front of City Hall?" "Perfect! Cold, though." "Exactly. In the janitors' room, we found a bucket with some big scrubbing brushes, and some liquid detergent and scouring powder . . ." "You're reading my mind," I laugh. "Do you paddle her hard?" The other abductor asks, appearing at Joan's side, her eyes narrowed with anticipation. Oh, these spankos, they're everywhere. "Yes, pretty hard. Bare handed over the knee, or with a paddle. Or my belt. All depends on the situation. She's very into it, sees it as the right penalty for her sexual perversions . . ." "Would you let me . . .?" she asks, quietly. "I'd love to." "Provided you're firm with her. No playing, or just teasing. Yes, it could be good. She's scared of you two, I think." "Pleased to hear it," says the newcomer. "Well, look, you do what you want with her. We won't be embarassed. Fuck her if you like, spank her before and after. Then, give her back to us. We'll probably tie her up . . ." "Ah, good, she likes that . . ." "Do you tell her in advance how much spanking she'll get?" "No, it's always 'until she's had enough.' Why play games? It's always quite a lot . . .I like tears." "Good, me too! Well, I'll promise her fifty, or something, but I'll spank her as long and as hard as she needs. Oh, she's going to feel sorry for herself in the morning!" "That sounds just right. She's been shameless today. A good punishment. She wouldn't expect any less . . ." "I have a cane I could use, too. . ." Joan intervenes. Her as well? "That could be very exciting for her. Yes, good idea. After her dip in the trough, maybe? Oh, I think she'll be getting home very late tonight . . ." And so she did. But where's Sarah Jane now? She moved away just a few weeks after that eventful night, though I wasn't surprised. The stares, the whispers, the public comments. Few in the little town didn't know, and most had seen too, either in person, or in photos. She couldn't hold her head up any more. It was a shame, and I accept the blame in some ways. But she needed to move on, anyway. We still keep in touch. Right now, she's working in Germany, as a video technician. Great job. Still single. Quite unapologetically bisexual, very much into spanking. Hasn't changed in many ways. Still exhibiting herself whenever an opportunity presents itself. Every now and then, I get very erotic 150KB JPEGs, always of her, attached to E-mail. Next time I see one, I'm going to post it somewhere, and put a note here so you can all share. She'd like that. After all, she's still a 'Show Me' girl. Copyright (c) MrSpraycan, 1997. Note: There's a homepage at , with lists of dozens more stories, synposes and reviews. Feedback is welcomed and encouraged. If you want to talk to the author, in a virtual sense of the word, send e-mail to . 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