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Double-Dated by Throne
🕑 Added 2025-10-14 22:08:20 +0000 UTCDouble-Dated
by Throne
After a wife discovers her husband posing in drag in their bedroom, she makes some changes in his life. She keeps him dressed and eventually wants to take him out for a meal with one of her friends, while he's in feminine mode. It does not go well for the husband.
Double-Dated by Throne
My wife Carla said, "Let's see how you look, Taffy." She took a few steps back and eyed me up and down.
I cringed under her gaze. "Do we honestly have to do this?" "The plans have been made. We're expected to show up."
With a sigh, I agreed. "Fine. We'll hook up with your friend for dinner and get it over with."
She smirked, as if there was something she knew that I didn't. "Yes. With my friend." Her brow tightened. "But I want you to look your best, like me."
Well, I had to admit that she looked great. Carla is slender but has attractive curves. Her long reddish-blond hair frames a cute face. The sleeveless pullover top and tight slacks she wore were lovely. As she considered my appearance, I mentally inventoried my own image, which I had just seen in the panel mirror mounted on the inside of the bedroom closet door. My true male gender was expertly disguised. There was a short wig with golden curls. My make-up was overdone, but only slightly. Under an orange sweater, the fake boobs she had saddled me with thrust out dramatically. A loose grey skirt, ribbed yellow knee
socks, and Mary Jane shoes completed my image. There were panties -- lime green -- under the skirt. My nose is long and my thin lips can be improved only so much with liner and lipstick. The end result was that I resembled a homely girl who guys would be attracted to mainly because of a big bust. My wife fussed with the sweater, as if my chest needed an even better presentation.
"Okay," she concluded. "You're ready to go." She kissed the air about six inches in front of my mouth.
Carla hadn't kissed me directly in the six months since she found out about my secret hobby of crossdressing. The discovery might never have occurred, except that I had a few glasses of pink wine and she got back from an executive meeting at her office earlier than expected. When she walked in on me, I was admiring myself in the aforementioned mirror. What I had on was a lacy pink bra and pantie set, stockings in the same color, and bedroom slippers made of clear plastic, tinted guess-what- color. Over all that I wore a champagne-hued nightgown with sleeves that got wider as they descended. Oh, and the bra was made for overinflated knockers, which I had replicated with appropriately large breast forms.
So, there I was, posing and primping and preening, when I saw her
reflection in the mirror, over my shoulder. I was paralyzed but did manage to turn and face her. Though I don't remember exactly what I said, it was all improbable, like "This isn't what it looks like" and "I've never done this before". Nobody would be likely to believe any of it, including her. The bad news was that she was incensed with me. The good news, if you could call it that, was that when she cooled down at least a little, Carla decided to use my dress-up habit to her advantage. It certainly gave her a lot of leverage. She declared that, if I wanted to stay married and not be exposed, I would do exactly as she said, without question.
Too bad for me that a controlling wife wasn't one of my fantasies. But I needed to be adaptable, so I agreed to go along with whatever she demanded. That turned out to be wearing panties under my trousers at work. Then there was modelling some of my fashions for her, doing all of the housework, and becoming a submissive partner in bed. The latter was perhaps the toughest. Carla found that she enjoyed receiving oral service and equally took pleasure from denying me release much of the
time. When I was allowed to finish it was always with my own hand, while she watched, made comments, and issued instructions. She also made sure to remind me that my penis is below average.
She would say, "You should be glad I'm allowing you to finish at all. Once a week is plenty for you." And there would be, "Slow down, dear. Finger your nipples while you stroke yourself. Behave or this will end up dry, with your swimmers staying inside your balls." Of course, there was always plenty of, "No matter how much you tug on that little thing, it's not going to get any bigger," and "Just use your thumb and one finger. That's more than enough on your puny pickle."
Somewhere in all of that, she rechristened me with a female name. I went from being her husband Terrance, Terry for short, to becoming her submissive sissy, Taffy. She also began to use the 'S' word to refer to me, like when she called me Sissy Taffy.
Then came the new additions to my wardrobe, courtesy of my spouse. She insisted that I go with her to the mall, where there was a branch of a popular chain that specialized in naughty lingerie. Though she was initially subtle about who the items were for, I was scared that others might figure it out. At one point, in front of a cute young salesgirl,
she held a baby doll nightie up against my body. Carla probably only kept it there for seconds, but to me those felt like long minutes. In a department store that was one of the mall's anchors, she found pantyhose for me. The two pairs she bought were a size too small for me, on purpose. My wife whispered that she was sure they would effectively compress my small genitals. That gave her an inspiration. We doubled back to the previous shop, with me carrying the red shopping bag with their name proudly emblazoned on it. When we got there, she asked that same clerk if they had any pantyhose with open crotches. The girl tittered and led us to a small display, hidden away in a corner, as if even in that place some things could be too wicked for prominent display. Carla locked eyes with me as she said she would take them. To me, it was as if she was telepathically communicating to the employee just who would wear them.
As soon as we got home, she wanted me to change into some of her purchases. I was stressed from the shopping trip but felt I had no choice. Carla took pity on me, but only enough to provide a glass of red wine. I was grateful for how it soothed my nerves. My anxiety was
lessened but not gone. She had me strip down. By that point I was regularly keeping my body hair off with a depilatory. It was so strange to see myself in the mirror that way, pink and smooth all over. I donned the regular panty hose. They smooshed my male parts tightly against my body. She thought that was hilariously funny. Her laughter stung.
She didn't miss an opportunity to disparage my three-piece set, saying, "Your junk looks even smaller like that. It's almost as if you don't have anything down there, beyond a female mound. That's what happens when your winky-dinky is so dinky."
After she had me peel off that pair, she decided I had to get into the ones with a cut-out between the legs. I donned them reluctantly. Having my bald nether region exposed that way was so humiliating.
"Look at you," she crowed. "The pantyhose frame your inadequate stuff perfectly. What I'm seeing gives new meaning to words, 'That's below the legal limit. Throw it back.' Since I found out about the Taffy inside of Terry, and switched our sex life from screwing to you using your mouth on me, I feel free to keeping talking about your miniature manhood."
Carla also found goodies at thrift shops for me to wear. They were pieces that I definitely wouldn't have picked on my own. There were loud tops like something from a time when good taste didn't exist. Then came ugly slacks covered with patterns that screamed 'tacky'. She even managed to turn up some ugly hats in a variety of styles. I didn't mind how feminine they were, only how tasteless.
Along with all that, she coached me in improving my body language, movements, and voice. I even got better at applying my make-up, though I had to strive for the styles she dictated, whether they were understated or outrageous.
While all that was happening, she introduced and maintained one other element. It was to mention the possibility of her cheating on me with another man.
"You know," she pointed out, sounding reasonable, "with you not allowed to have real sex, and not being equipped for it anyway, I should be free
to seek alternatives. Instead of that wee willie of yours, I need something closer to a police-issue flashlight. Just imagine some stud with one of those, who could bone me until I yowled like a cat in heat, Taffy."
Often, she was less direct about it than that. Carla would point out men on the street when she was driving me somewhere. If we were watching TV, she would admire handsome actors. She even put photos of male models with prominent bulges in their pants onto my phone. Please understand that this went on for months. It wasn't a traumatic attack but more like slow conditioning. Buried deep in my mind for years, from before she caught me primping, was a dim fantasy of exactly that. The idea of being cuckold was simultaneously erotic and unthinkable. Carla's frequent comments about it as an actual possibility disturbed me but also drew me like a moth to a flame or, if that image is too much of a cliche, perhaps like a fly to flypaper, where it would become inextricably caught.
Okay. I covered a lot of ground since getting away from the starting point of my story. Let me take you back to the evening in question, when she had gotten us ready for a meal out. I had only been away from the house while in drag a handful of times. It started with drives where I was seen only by folks in nearby cars and pedestrians. Even then, I had a strong fear of being discovered. That got worse when she stopped and took me for a walk in the park. To others we may have resembled two young women out for a stroll, but I couldn't stop thinking about someone pointing and making a loud comment. While we were in that outdoor setting, my wife found more masculine men to cite as my superiors. There was no lack of male joggers and cyclists. We finally graduated to stopping for coffee and then light meals. My appetite was never hearty on those occasions. I didn't find out until later that it
had all been to evaluate and prepare me for our special night out.
There I was, in the outfit I described, which was built around that orange sweater and the double-bubble, faux tits beneath it. In the car, she told me to fasten my seatbelt with the attitude of a mother dealing with a distracted child. She drove us into the city, with me overly aware of how visible I was to others. When we came to a halt at traffic lights, I was convinced someone would stop and stare, at the very least. But we reached our destination without incident. There was even a private lot alongside the restaurant, with an attendant to provide
security. I was relieved not to be parking on the street. What if we had been forced to pull up to the curb a block away? Or two? And then to have to walk from there, with me consciously taking small steps and putting one foot in front of the other, in the low heels that I had become adept at wearing while moving. There was a side entrance. We went toward the front of the room, where a hostess waited. When Carla gave her our party's name, she took us onto the main floor. As we wended our way between tables, I tried to understand why the name had been unfamiliar to me.
A bigger surprise than the mystery name was waiting for me. We would be joining not one of my wife's female friends, as I had assumed, but some man in sport coat. He stood to greet Carla, showing himself to be tall and plainly at ease. We sat and she introduced me.
"This is Taffy," she said, "who I told you about. She's become very comfortable in my little home."
The man introduced himself as Paul. I forced myself to smile and nod. We sat, with Carla's chair next to his. He leaned over and kissed her lightly. That was totally unexpected to me. This couldn't be happening, but it was. They chatted about someone I didn't know, named Don. A few minutes later, the hostess returned, this time with another guy.
Paul said, "Hey, Don. So glad you could join us. I'd hate for Taffy to have to be a third wheel, with nobody to pay attention to her while Carla and I are gazing into each other's eyes."
Again, I was taken off guard. How long had my wife known this Paul person? And what were they saying about Don being there for me?
Don sat by my side and said, "Hello, Taffy. I've heard about you from Carla, but meeting you in person is so much better."
Holy crap. My wife was the hot girl and I was the less desirable friend who had to have a date arranged for her. Try to put yourself in my place, a guy in drag, being introduced to an interested man, while your wife is right there, flirting openly with a capable and easygoing first- prize of a guy. Thank goodness Carla had fine-tuned all of my girlish attributes, including my modulated voice, so that I didn't panic about
passing. I told myself that if I simply stayed calm, I could get through the next hour or two without going into a public meltdown.
With Carla and Paul all wrapped up in each other, exchanging hushed words, Don had the perfect opportunity to make some moves on me. He put his hand atop mine and looked into my eyes. I was so taken off guard that I didn't pull away my hand. He complimented me on what I was wearing and how exciting I looked in it. By the time I realized that leaving my hand under his sent the wrong signal, enough time had passed that it would seem odd for me to suddenly do anything about it.
She smiled and said, "I love that shade of lipstick on you."
All of a sudden, his fingers were resting lightly on the side of my
face. It only lasted a few seconds but was a smart move on his part, establishing the next level of physical contact. I modestly draped my free arm over those jumbo jugs I'd been given. Don's eyebrows went up, like he was trying to read whatever signal I might be sending. My effort all at once seemed too artificial, so I slowly reversed it. That provoked a smile from him, as if I had somehow indicated that it was open season on my chest, not there in the restaurant but whenever we were away from curious onlookers. With that unintended encouragement, he brushed his lower leg against mine. This was going rapidly from bad to worse. With my wife otherwise occupied, I had no one to turn to.
A server appeared, granting me some welcome if temporary relief. Don sat up straight, no longer touching me anywhere.
He told me, "I know the menu here. Would you like me to order for you?" Without thinking, I told him, "That would be fine. Thank you."
Terrific. Now I had presented myself as meek and willing to be led. The slippery slope I was on grew steeper. I barely heard what he was telling the young man with the order pad to bring me. Then he selected his own food, and the others did the same.
Once it was just the four of us again, Don said, "Now where were we, Taffy?" Unseen, his hand settled on my knee. "Oh, right. We were here."
He hadn't actually gone that far before, but all I could do was offer a sickly grin, which would probably also be misread. Making one more effort to find help from Carla, I turned toward her, only to see she and Paul kissing tenderly. When I swiveled my face around toward Don, he was waiting. His lips met mine. At the same time, that hidden hand moved higher. The two-way assault on my attempt at distancing had me so confused that I automatically parted my lips. Just that quickly, his tongue was introducing itself to mine. The kiss last only briefly, but
it was many times too long for me. When he sat back, smugly satisfied with himself, I could only try to catch my breath. Most likely, that made it appear as if I had enjoyed and approved of what he had done.
Matters settled down after that. Our drinks arrived. What Don had picked for me was in a tall glass and tropically colored, with a long straw. My first sip told me it was potent. At least I could keep my mouth safe from that invading tongue. Then there were appetizers. During those, the conversation turned to movies, and the other three all had opinions on what they liked. I smiled and nodded, like the unhip girl who was happy simply to have been brought along. Our food appeared, with all of us getting light meals.
Don noted that and slyly declared, "Just in case there's anything going on later that we don't want to do with a full stomach." There was an implied wink in his delivery.
I picked at my food and kept nervously returning to the sweet beverage. At some point my empty glass disappeared and was replaced by a full one. This time it had a cherry, skewered by a long toothpick.
My unwanted date got his hand on my lower back, from where it travelled smoothly to my rear. He said smarmily, "There's your cherry. I wonder how long it will be before it's gone."
As heavy-handed as his quip seemed to me, the others laughed lightly at it. Don pawed the upper portion of one of my butt cheeks. It was like I was a piece of meat he was checking for tenderness. It would have been bad enough for a girl, if that was who he was getting handsy with. Think how horrid it was for me, an unwilling man in drag, to be touched that way.
After the meal was over and there was nothing in my glass, we headed for
the car. My legs felt somewhat unreliable. I found myself leaning on Don for support. He took that to mean I wanted to touch and be touched, with his hand revisiting my rump for a longer stay with greater access. The two of us ended up in the back seat, where I didn't want to be. I tried to rebuff his advances politely. He slowed down but didn't stop altogether. There was another penetrating kiss. When we got to our place, Carla invited the fellows in for a nightcap.
"Just a nightcap?" Don said smirkingly. "Don't we get pajamas to go with that?"
Again, there were three people amused and one faking it. Inside, I found myself on the couch with Don sitting closer than I wanted. He cupped my chin in his hand, turned my head toward him, and gave me a kiss that went from external to deeply internal in no time. Paul was in the armchair across from us, with Carla happily occupying his lap. She squirmed her bottom like she had ants in her panties. He didn't mind at all.
Carla's voice was thick with passion when she announced, "You guys were so sweet to take us out to dinner. I'm trying to think of some way we can thank you. Maybe if Paul and I went into the bedroom and talked about it, we could come up with something."
She slid off his lap and there was no way to miss the telltale tenting of an erection in his slacks. He made no effort to conceal it as he stood. With his arm around her, he started toward the room where I should be going with my wife.
Looking back over her shoulder, the woman I cherished said, "You be nice to your new friend, Taffy. I'm certain he'd like to get to know you a whole lot better."
No, no, no. This was madness. I was being left alone, while passing as
a girl, with a rapacious guy. He took my wrist and laid my hand on his crotch. Paul would have come in second if they compared erections, and mine would have been a distant third. That was when it struck me that I was in jeopardy again, with the truth of my gender once more vulnerable to revelation. It didn't take a genius to figure out that I needed to
keep his hands out from between my thighs, and do something to take intercourse off the menu. My throat constricted as I admitted to myself
what the only alternative was.
From the bedroom, I heard male and female laughter. Hadn't they even bothered to close the door? Was my wife really going to hit the sheets with another man? She plainly wasn't trying to dissuade him. Carla let out a loud moan. What had provoked that sound?
"Well, well," Don commented. "Those two aren't wasting any time. We'd better get busy or they'll be back out here while we're right in the middle of it."
I stupidly replied, "Right."
My fingers were still on his enviable hardness. I gripped the impressive length through his pants, tightening and relaxing my hand several times.
Don announced, "There are two ways we can do this. I could stand up and you could stay on the couch, to suck me from there." He nodded to himself, as if considering that option. "Or I can stay where I am and you can get down on your knees to do it." He pursed his lips and tightened his brow, like he was in deep thought.
All I could do was sit where I was, with my hand still resting on his rampant rod. I wanted to stop touching it but figured I was too deep into this scenario to do that without it seeming odd. I tightened my thumb and first finger on it, near the head. That reminded me of how my wife sometimes made me hold my own dick. From the bedroom I heard female moaning that was unnaturally loud. Was my wife raising the volume intentionally to make sure I didn't miss it?
After making me wait a few more moments, Don reached his decision. "You know, Taffy, from the way you made yourself look, it's obvious that you've got a slutty side. I'm going to help you get more in touch with that by having you kneel. Once you're down there, in your natural position, I want you to take your time. Give me a nice slow blowjob, a real wet one. Oh..." he added as an afterthought, "... and I like to
have my balls licked. A lot of girls won't do that but I can tell
you're not like them. In fact, I'll expect you to tell me how much you're getting off on it while you go all ho on me."
My guts were twisted by revulsion. With the sounds of sexual activity from the pair in the bedroom -- OUR bedroom -- as background noise, I slid off the couch and put myself where Don wanted me. He leered down at my humiliated position. Carla cried out with delight, which was the last thing I needed to hear at that juncture. I got my hands on Don's belt. He made no effort to help me get it unbuckled. I suppose he liked me being the one who had to do it. Then I unhooked his pants. Finally, I lowered his fly, which was made slightly difficult by that huge swelling behind it.
"Here you go," he said, as he got to his feet. "I don't want it to be too hard for you to get to what you're hungry for."
Remembering what he had said about how I needed to give a sort of narration about what was happening, I told him, "Thank you, lover. I can't wait to..." To what? I improvised, "... to get my hands on it."
"Not just your hands," he said with a cruel laugh.
"Of course." It was like someone else was speaking through me, saying the opposite of what I wished for.
"So...?"
"I just..." My heart was racing from fear. "Just let me take off your shoes and get everything else out of the way."
"Good girl. I can tell you've had a lot of practice doing this."
I slipped off his loafers, tugged his pants over his feet, and took his shorts with them. I was confronted by his superior cock. How could I accommodate that jumbo joint? Was I supposed to remove his socks as well? He made an impatient sound which led me to skip that step.
Wrapping my fingers around the base of his tool, at least as far as they would reach, I told him, "It's so thick. And warm." I gave it a few uncertain strokes. He sighed. Maybe I could cause him to finish before I had to get my mouth involved. "I guess I'd better use both hands."
With one set of fingers above the other, I slowly pumped him. His knees drifted further apart. There was a cry of passion from the bedroom.
He chuckled. "Sounds like I'm not the only one getting their kicks. I know Paul is taking good care of Carla. After a night with him, she'll be spoiled for any other guy."
That remark was particularly painful. I still harbored hopes of repairing my relationship with my wife. I tightened and loosened my hold on Don's girthy cock.
"It's so hard," I said breathily, as if that fact thrilled me.
"Just like Paul's while he's humping that bitch in the bedroom. Listen to all the noise she's making."
"Yes." I didn't want my attention called to that. "But let's concentrate on you."
"Sure. Concentrate with your mouth, Taffy. Let's see if your jaws stretch like taffy." He snickered at his wordplay.
I wasn't going to be able to avoid the disgusting act that faced me. How did girls orally deal with men the size of him? I opened wide and descended toward it. Then I retreated.
He told me, "I can feel your breath on it. Give it a lick under the head. There's a really sensitive spot there."
"I want to do it just the way you like."
I closed my eyes and let my tongue slide out over my lower lip. My upper hand was directly under the place he wanted me to target, so it was easy to find without being able to see it. I felt his cock against the flat of my tongue. I could even recognize the narrow strip of tissue under the head, which I think is called the frenum. When I stimulated it, he mumbled some words of encouragement.
"You like that?" I said, trying to sound enticing. "Want some more?" "A lot more, bitch. And then get the knob into your mouth."
Oh, crap. I fulfilled his first request, now with my eyes open. A bead
of clear fluid formed on the tip of his organ. I licked it off. Then I made my first attempt at swallowing, if not all of him, at least the most receptive part. When I engulfed the end, it touched the roof of my mouth and pressed down on my tongue at the same time. My tongue made lazy circles around the widest part of the crown, which I remembered from somewhere is called the corona. His hips twitched. I took one hand off his shaft and cupped his large balls, being careful not to squeeze them. Instead, I moved my fingers gently under them, Along with that, I gave his cockhead a few sucks, moving my tongue on that sweet spot I had licked before. I had to breathe through my nose. From elsewhere, Carla squealed with excitement.
Removing Don from my mouth, I gulped in air. Once I was capable of speech, I said, "That thing is gigantic. Ginormous."
"Not like what some dudes are packing. I've had girls compare me to
their boyfriends or even husbands. They tell me that what they get at home is nothing compared to mine. If they're stuck with a baby dick in their own beds, I don't blame them for wanting mine."
He had no trouble praising himself. As much as I hated to, I added to
his ego-boost. "A wife would be within her rights to cheat with a man who's so much bigger than her husband, where it matters most." It was like I was betraying myself. "No girl could refuse a whopper like yours."
I punctuated those words with another round of licking and sucking, accompanied by a resumption of stroking and gonad massage. He was loving it all, judging from the heavy breathing going on above me.
He coaxed, "See if you can take a few inches."
I took him as far as the back of my throat, before the gag reflex kicked in. Don let me continue having him that deep, while I did my imitation of a vacuum cleaner with its High setting turned on. I kept hearing 'Heh, heh' from him, as if he was amused by my choking, probably because to him it was confirmation of his impressive penis dimensions.
Once more, I had to take a break. The head of his cock glistened with my saliva. I ran my tongue all over it.
"Oh, Don," I said, giving my best impression of a girl enamored with an oversized prick. "I could do this all night."
"That would be fun," he said, "but my nuts are due to be drained. You can lick them before you take me the rest of the way."
Nauseated, I nevertheless ducked down to lap his sac. Unsure what else he might want, I kissed it. Then I sucked on it. I didn't think I could feel any worse about myself, but this phase of my degradation took me to a lower level of my private hell.
"Okay," he said. "Get back to the main act. When I bust my nut, keep lots of spunk in your mouth, so you can show it to me after."
YUCK. I adjusted my hold so the pads of my thumbs were on the seam running along the underside of his member. As I moved my hands up and down, I fastened my mouth over just the helmet of his cock. Paying attention to what I was doing, I applied the techniques that he liked. Don let out a contented wordless murmur. Then he changed to groaning behind clenched teeth, as I took him toward an orgasm. There was no way for me to avoid the inevitable end result of my ministrations.
He grunted and spat out words that included 'bitch', 'whore', 'tramp', 'slut' and the unexpected 'pussy mouth'. Don obviously liked to degrade his women and, because he thought I was female, was happy to give me that treatment. He blasted out gobs of goo. Somehow, I gagged down a sufficient amount of it to keep my throat clear, while still retaining enough that I could show him a mess on and under my tongue. After I had milked out the final drops, I opened my lips and displayed the evidence of his conquest, a bit of which rolled out of the corner of my mouth and down onto my chin. He must have relished that extra testimony to the output of his testicles.
Moments after his ejaculation, there was a climactic cry from the bedroom. Carla was orgasming from the expert sex she was getting from Paul. He made some animal noises that I figured meant they were finishing together, something she and I had never done. I imagined how he was pumping her full of his cream, and could even see in my mind how his final strokes caused excess to be forced out of her quivering quim.
Don, never the gentleman, ordered, "Open up your cock holder again. Let's have another peek at what's in there."
I did as I was told, revealing once more what I'm sure was an awful mess. He grinned with self-satisfaction, nodded, and told me I could swallow, but only after licking my lips. I did the latter, which got his spunk onto the outside of my mouth. Then I forced myself to gulp it down.
He wanted to know, "What do you say now, Taffy?"
Because I understood, we didn't have to play guessing games. I made myself smile and declared, "Thank you so much, Don." Without thinking, I added, "Let's do it again sometime." Bad choice of words.
"Soon," he assured me.
Carla wandered out from the bedroom, in a short robe I had never seen before. Her eyes met mine and she showed no regret or guilt. I, on the other hand, knew I was projecting the shame that filled me.
My wife said, "You've got something on your face, Taffy," and then giggled.
Since then, we haven't been on any more double dates. Instead, she goes out with Paul and leaves me at home in a baby doll top and panties or something equally exposing. The panties are always dark, to make it more difficult to discern that there's a penis in them. That's important because, with the argument that she doesn't want me to be lonely, Don has a standing invitation to come and keep me company. He never declines. That means that several times a week I have him in my mouth. Carla bought me a dildo so I can practice having something fill my throat. Don is delighted that I keep taking more of him each time he visits. His promise is that the first time his balls rest against my chin, he's going to give me something pretty as a gift. Somehow, I'm not as thrilled as he seems to expect me to be.
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