Adultery Me, Mom's milk and new neighbor's Heat!

[theHero]

Check my profile for my other Stories :

1. Hot kinky mummy chud gai sabse!
2. Sexy Mummy ka doodh naye pati ne piya!



The apartment was quiet in the early hours, the kind of thick, humid silence that settled over the building when the rest of the city still slept. I stood in the doorway of the kitchen and watched my mother move barefoot across the cool tiles, the slim full-length nighty clinging to every deliberate curve of her thirty-three-year-old body.

The thin fabric stretched tight across the heavy, milk-swollen weight of her breasts, the dark points of her nipples pressing clearly against the material whenever she reached up for a cup. Her waist dipped in sharply before flaring into the full, soft hips that swayed with each slow step. She was traditional in every quiet way that mattered—shy, soft-spoken, still carrying the modest habits of a woman who had once sold far more than just her body and now lived only to protect the quiet life she had built for the two of us.

My name is Kabir. I was eighteen. I loved her with a fierce, protective hunger that never left me. There had never been a father. I was the only man in this house, the one who held her when the old memories pressed too close, the one who made sure the money from those earlier years kept us comfortable. And every morning I watched the same slow, private struggle as her body reminded her of what it still produced.

Milk. Thick, warm, insistent. She had fed me with it once, long ago, when I was born into the life she had since abandoned. She had also offered that same milk to the men who paid for it, letting them drink from her while she looked away in quiet shame. The profession was gone. The lactation was not. Even now the soft undersides of her breasts felt heavy, the fabric of the nighty already showing faint, darker patches where a few drops had escaped in the night.

A low, masculine voice carried through the open balcony door from the flat next to ours.

The new neighbour moved in on a quiet Thursday afternoon. I watched from our balcony as the movers carried boxes into the house next door. He was impossible to miss—tall, broad-shouldered, dark skin gleaming under the afternoon sun, thick black hair covering his arms and chest where his shirt was open. A heavy beard framed a strong face. He looked like a man who could break things without trying. From the way he paused once to check the direction before continuing. Beside him, a small toddler clutched his leg, quiet and wide-eyed. The little boy is Rayan, quiet most of the time, with the same dark eyes as his father.

No woman came with them.

Later that evening, my mother stood at the kitchen window in her soft cotton nighty. The fabric clung to the full, heavy curve of her breasts and the narrow dip of her waist before flaring over her hips. At thirty-three, she still looked like the woman men used to pay to see, only quieter now. Softer. The past was a locked room she never opened. Only I held the key.


“He’s alone with the baby,” she murmured, fingers resting on the glass. “Poor thing.”


I came up behind her, close enough to smell the mild coconut oil in her hair. “You don’t have to worry about them, Ma.”
She gave a small, shy smile without turning. “I know. Still…


That night I heard her in the bathroom. The quiet, frustrated sound she made when her breasts were too full. Even after all these years of leaving the prostitution industry, her body still produced milk. Habit, biology, whatever it was—it never stopped. Sometimes she used the pump. Sometimes she simply pressed a towel against herself and waited for the ache to ease.


The neighbour’s name was Karim. Builder. Worked mostly from his phone. The first real conversation happened three days later when the power went out in the afternoon and both our houses lost electricity.


I found my mother already at the shared boundary wall, speaking softly. She wore a pale yellow saree, the pallu dbangd carefully over her chest. Karim stood on the other side, the toddler balanced on one powerful arm. Up close he was even larger. The hair on his forearms looked almost coarse. His voice, when he answered her, was deep and surprisingly gentle.


“No problem, madam. Generator will start in ten minutes. Please don’t worry.”


My mother’s eyes flicked once to the child, then away. “If you need anything for the baby… just ask us.


“I manage,” he said. Not rude. Just final. Then his gaze dropped, just for a second, to the damp patch darkening the front of her saree where milk had leaked through the thin blouse. He looked away immediately, respectful, but the knowledge sat between them like heat.


That night my mother was quieter than usual. She changed into a soft black nighty after dinner and sat on the edge of my bed while I pretended to study. The fabric was almost sheer under the lamp. Her breasts sat heavy and full, the dark outlines of her nipples visible when she leaned forward.


“He seems kind,” she said eventually.

“He looks scary.” I said.


“Kind people can look scary.” She reached out and brushed my hair back from my forehead the way she had since I was small.


“You protect me too much.”

I caught her wrist gently. “Someone has to.”
Her pulse jumped under my fingers. She didn’t pull away at once. For a moment the room felt smaller. Then she stood, the nighty shifting over the full shape of her hips, and left with a soft “Good night, beta.”

Continues....

[theHero]

The next afternoon rayan started crying and didn’t stop. High, thin, exhausted sounds that carried over the wall. My mother looked tense and worried.



I watched her from the doorway.



That evening she barely ate. Later I found her in the living room, sitting in the dark, nighty pulled tight across her swollen breasts. Milk had soaked through in two clear patches. She didn’t notice me at first.

“Ma.”

She startled, then tried to cover herself with her arms. “It’s nothing. Just… too much today.”

I sat beside her. The air between us smelled of warm milk and the mild soap she used. After a long silence she whispered, “In the old days I used to… give it away. On camera. To strangers. It was just work. Now it feels different. Wrong. Like my body doesn’t understand the difference.”

I didn’t answer. My hand found hers in the dark. Her fingers were trembling.

Outside, through the open window, we could hear Karim’s low voice singing something soft and rhythmic to the child. A deep, steady sound that somehow made the night feel closer.





That night, as on every night, mom came into my room after the lights in the rest of the house were out.

She closed the door softly behind her, the slim nighty already sliding from her shoulders before she reached the bed. The fabric pooled at her feet. Completely naked, she lifted the blanket and slipped beneath it, the full hourglass of her thirty-three-year-old body seeking the familiar warmth of the mattress beside me. Her heavy breasts settled against the sheet, the soft weight of them still faintly scented with the milk her body never stopped making. She always slept this way—bare skin under the blanket, nothing between her and the cool cotton—because it was the only way she found true comfort. I remained in only my underwear, the thin fabric the sole barrier between us as her bare thigh brushed mine and her arm settled across my waist the way it had for years.



Her fingers traced a slow, absent line along my forearm. The blanket covered everything, yet the heat of her bare skin remained a constant, intimate weight against me. Outside, through the thin wall, the low murmur of Karim’s voice rose once as he spoke to Zain, then faded. Mom’s breath caught almost imperceptibly at the sound. She said nothing more. She only settled deeper into the shared warmth of the bed, fully naked beneath the blanket while I lay in only underwear.



I waited until her arm rested across my waist the way it had for years.

“Mom,” I said into the dark, “what was it like… before?”

She went still. The soft weight of her body tensed for a second against mine.

“Before what?”

“Before you stopped. When you still did that work.”

A long silence stretched between us. Her fingers, which had been tracing absent circles on my forearm, stopped moving. I felt the heat of her bare thigh press a little more firmly against mine, as if she needed the contact to steady herself.

“Why are you asking this now?” she whispered.

“Because I want to know. You never talk about it. I ask, and you change the subject. Tell me.”



“I asked, Ma… how many men were there in a day?”



She exhaled slowly, The full, naked curves of her body remained pressed to me under the blanket, the nipples of her milk-heavy breasts grazing my skin with every small breath she took.



She looked down at our joined hands. For a few seconds she didn’t answer. Then her thumb moved once against my skin, almost like she was steadying herself.

“Some days three… some days five. Rarely more. They paid a lot because they wanted it rough and long. I was… known for that.”

“Known for what?”

Her cheeks darkened even in the dim light. “For taking big men. Heavy men. The ones with thick waists and thick… everything. The ones other girls could not take.”



I shifted closer on the bed.



“Tell me properly. What did they do to you?”



She swallowed. Her free hand rose and pressed lightly against the leaking breast, as if the memory itself made the milk push harder.

“They didn’t joke. They rarely showed mercy. They would come into the room already hard. Most of them were older, married, big-bellied, hairy. They smelled of sweat and money. They would push me onto the bed or against the wall and just… use me. Hard. Deep. For a long time. Some of them liked to hold my waist with both hands and pull me back onto them while they stood. Others wanted me on top so they could watch my breasts bounce and leak while they thrust up.”





Her voice stayed quiet, almost ashamed, but she didn’t stop.

“You leaked so much after me?”

“Yes.” A small, shaky nod. “That’s why they asked for me specially. I was producing milk after… after you came in the world. They would suck first, hard, until it sprayed, then they would fuck me while milk kept running down my stomach. Some of them came just from drinking. Others made me sit on their face and feed them while they licked me. The ones with the biggest stomachs liked to lie under me and hold my hips so I couldn’t get away. They would bounce me on their cocks until I was shaking and crying from how full I felt.”



I felt my own breathing change. My thumb stroked the soft skin on the back of her hand.

“Did it hurt?”

“Sometimes. Especially the very thick ones. The ones who were almost too wide. They would force it in slowly, watching my face, and then keep going even when I tried to push their chest. They liked that I was tight and that I still produced milk. They paid extra for both.”

She finally looked at me. Her eyes were wet at the corners, but not from sadness alone.



“I used to hate how my body reacted. Even when it hurt, even when I felt dirty, my breasts would keep leaking and my… inside would get wetter. They noticed. They would laugh and call me a good cow. Some of them would milk me with their hands while they fucked me from behind. Squeeze and pull until the milk hit the sheets. Then they would rub it over my skin and keep going.”



“A few. The richest ones. They would fuck me three or four times, sleep with their mouth still on my breast, then wake up and take me again in the morning. I used to walk strangely the next day. My mother… my old mother… never asked why.”

She fell silent for a moment, staring at our hands.

“I stopped because of you,” she whispered. “When I found out I was pregnant I left everything. Took the money and ran. I never wanted you to know that part of me. The part that used to open her legs for any heavy man who paid enough and then feed him her milk like it was nothing.”



“And after years? Why did the milk never go away?”

“I do not know.” Her voice was softer than before, shy and a little ashamed. “It just stayed. Even now. You see it every day. How it makes me feel heavy and hurt.



Under the blanket her naked body stayed pressed to mine while the questions grew bolder and her answers, though still soft and shy, stopped holding back.



“What about the ones who fucked you while they drank?”

Her thighs pressed together under the sheet, the warm skin of her leg sliding against mine. I felt the faint dampness that had begun to gather between them.

“That happened more than I like to remember,” she said, voice low and almost ashamed. “They would put me on my back or on my side, take my breast in their mouth, and push inside at the same time. The thicker ones stretched me until it burned. The milk made everything wetter. Sometimes milk sprayed across their faces when they thrust too hard. I used to close my eyes and count the money in my head so I would not make noise.”



I let my hand rest on the soft curve of her bare waist, feeling the heat of her skin. “Was there anyone as big as Karim?”

The name made her body tense for a second. Outside, through the wall, a soft thump sounded as if Karim had set something down in his flat. Mom’s naked stomach brushed mine as she drew a deeper breath.

“Once,” she admitted. “A man from another city. He was not as tall, but what he had was… thick. Almost like what I have seen on Karim when his trousers are soft. It took a long time for him to fit. He made me sit on top so I could take it slowly. The whole time he kept one of my breasts in his mouth, drinking, and every time I moved down the milk would leak around his lips. I was sore for two days after. He came back three more times and paid double.”

“Did you ever like it?”

Silence stretched. Her fingers, which had been resting on my forearm, curled lightly into my skin.

“My body liked it more than I wanted it to,” she said at last. “Especially the milk. When a mouth was on me and something thick was inside, the pressure would build until I could not stop the sounds.



“Mom… the man who got you pregnant with me. Do you know who he was?”

Her naked body went completely still under the blanket. For a long moment the only sound was the soft, distant creak of a floorboard on Karim’s side of the wall. Then she exhaled, the warm air trembling against my skin.

“No,” she whispered. “I do not know.”

I felt the full, bare weight of her breasts press more firmly to my chest as she shifted closer, as if the honesty itself made her need the contact.



“There were many that month,” she continued, voice low and almost ashamed. “Some regular, some new. I was not careful about protection the way I should have been. When I missed my cycle I tried to count backwards, to remember faces or names, but nothing was clear. One man had been thicker than the others. Another had stayed the whole night and kept my breast in his mouth even while he slept. A third had paid extra to finish inside me twice. I never learned which of them left you inside me. By the time I knew I was carrying you, they were all gone. That is all I know.”



Her fingers curled into the front of my chest, holding on.



“Does it bother you?” she asked, so quietly I almost missed it. “That I cannot give you your father's name?”

“No,” I said. “I only wanted to know if you knew who my father was.”



She nodded against my shoulder. The movement made her milk-heavy breasts shift and settle again across my skin. Outside, Karim’s flat had gone silent.



Mom pressed a soft kiss to the side of my neck, the gesture shy and final.



The room went silent a little. To lighten the mood. I said.



“So this naughty guy just walked in, paid the money, put a baby in you, and walked out without even leaving a name you could remember? What a shameless man. I bet he was the type who kept your breast in his mouth the whole time he was finishing inside you.



Mom’s soft laugh came out against my shoulder, shy and a little scandalised, her warm breath tickling my skin. Her bare leg shifted higher over mine.



“No,” she whispered, the smile clear in her voice even though she tried to sound stern. “I think it was some stupid man who got me pregnant… because look at the result. You. Always asking shameless questions in the middle of the night, always teasing your own mother while she is completely naked under the blanket. Only a stupid man’s child would be this naughty.”

I grinned into the dark and let my hand slide slowly down the bare curve of her waist until my fingers rested just above the soft swell of her hip.

“Stupid? Me? No, no, no. This guy who made me must have been the clever one. He took one look at these heavy breasts of yours, decided he wanted the milk so bad that he made sure he left something behind so he could keep getting it for free in another form. That is not stupidity, Mom. That is long-term planning.”



She pinched my side lightly, the movement making her full, naked breasts press and shift against my chest. A small, helpless laugh escaped her.

“Long-term planning? Listen to this boy. You think your unknown father was some mastermind? He was probably the one who finished too fast and then asked if he could drink her milk if he suck hard on the nipple. I remember men like that. All proud when they first pushed inside, then suddenly very quiet and very thirsty at the view of a woman's fair boobs. Maybe that is why you are also always thirsty for information that is none of your business.”



“Or maybe,” I countered, letting my thumb stroke slow circles on the warm skin of her hip, “he was the thick one you told me about earlier.



Mom’s laugh this time was louder, quickly muffled against my shoulder so it would not carry through the wall. Her naked stomach trembled against mine with the effort of keeping quiet.

“You are impossible,” she whispered, still smiling. “First you say he was naughty, then you say he was clever, now you have decided he was the thickest man I ever took. Next you will tell me he looked like Karim.



“Maybe he did look like Karim. Big. Dark. Hairy arms.



Mom’s hand came up and covered my mouth, but she was still laughing, the sound soft and helpless and completely naked in every sense of the word. Her breasts dragged heavily across my chest as she moved, the faint scent of milk rising stronger between us.

“Stop,” she managed between quiet giggles. “You are worse than any customer I ever had. At least they paid and left. You stay here every night, completely shameless, turning my old work into bedtime stories and then blaming some poor unknown man for making you this way. I should have known the child of that night would grow up to be exactly this much trouble.”

I kissed the palm that covered my mouth, then gently pulled it away so I could keep going.

“Trouble? I am the best thing that stupid, naughty, thick, milk-obsessed man ever left behind. And you know it. That is why you still sleep naked next to me instead of in your own room. That is why you answer every single dirty question I ask. Admit it, Mom… whoever he was, he did you a favour. He gave you me… and he left you with breasts that still leaks for me.



When the questions finally slowed, mom buried her face against my shoulder. Her bare leg slid over mine under the blanket and we slept.



continue...

[wxxxx]

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[theHero]

 

The days that followed moved gently.

Karim started greeting us properly. A short nod when he saw me near the gate. A quiet “Assalamu alaikum” when my mother stepped out to water the plants in the early morning, still in her soft cotton nighty with a light shawl pulled over her breast. He never stared, but he noticed everything—the way the fabric on her breast sometimes darkened and wet.
 
Friendship grew in small pieces.


One afternoon the toddler dropped his bottle over the boundary wall. I picked it up and carried it next door. Karim opened the door with the child on his hip. Up close he smelled of soap and warm skin. The thick hair on his chest was visible above the open collar of his shirt. He thanked me in that deep, calm voice and asked if I wanted tea. I stayed for twenty minutes. We talked about buildings, about the city, about how quiet the colony was at night. He was easy to speak to—direct, without unnecessary words. When I left he said, “Any time you need help with something heavy, call me.”
 

Two days later the kitchen pipe under our sink started leaking. My mother tried to fix it herself and only made it worse. I went next door. Karim came within minutes, tools in hand, still barefoot. He worked under the sink while my mother stood nearby in a simple printed saree, arms folded across her breast. Every time she leaned forward to hand him a cloth, the full weight of her breasts shifted and a faint wetness appeared again. She kept adjusting the pallu. He tried to kept his eyes on the pipe.


When he finished he stood, wiped his hands, and smiled a little.


“Done. Call me if it happens again.”
 
My mother offered him fresh lemonade. He accepted. The three of us stood in the kitchen for a while—me leaning against the counter, Karim’s large frame making the space feel smaller, my mother moving quietly between us. She asked about the child. He answered simply.
 

That evening my mother said, almost to herself, “He’s a good man. Quiet. Responsible.”


I watched her face while she said it. There was warmth there
 
Over the next week the small exchanges continued. Karim helped me carry a heavy gas cylinder upstairs. My mother sent over homemade snacks for the child. Once, when the power went out again, he brought a long extension cable so our fridge would keep running. Each time he left, the house felt different—charged in a way I couldn’t name.

One night, after he had come over to return a book I had lent him, my mother stood at the window long after he had gone. She was in the same soft black nighty. The front was already damp.

“He’s lonely,” she said quietly. “I can feel it.”


I came up behind her, close enough to feel the heat of her body.

“And you?”

She didn’t answer at once. Her hand rose and rested against the glass, fingers spread.
Outside, the light in Karim’s living room stayed on for a long time.
 
The friendship between Karim and me grew faster than either of us expected.
It started with small things—borrowing tools, sharing Wi-Fi when his connection dropped, talking about construction rates and the rising price of cement. Then it became longer conversations on the boundary wall in the evenings. Then it became me going next door after dinner and staying until the child fell asleep. Karim never forced talk. He listened more than he spoke, and when he did speak his voice stayed low and steady. I liked being around him.
 
My mother noticed.

At first she only watched from the kitchen window, a soft smile touching her mouth whenever she saw us talking. Later she began sending things across—fresh rotis wrapped in a clean cloth, a small container of kheer, extra bananas for the child. One evening she stepped out herself, still in her pale saree, and handed Karim a steel tiffin.


“For both of you,” she said, eyes lowered. “You work late on that phone. You should eat properly.”

 
Karim accepted it with both hands. “Thank you madam. You are very kind.”
 
She shook her head quickly. “Not madam. Just… Madhavi(mother name).” Then she glanced at me and added, almost shyly, “I’m glad you two are becoming friends. He needs someone like you around.”
After that the visits became natural.
 
Some evenings Karim came to our side. He would sit on the veranda steps while I fixed something on his phone or showed him how to organise the photos of his building sites. My mother moved in the background—bringing water, adjusting the fan, once even sitting for a few minutes with her tea. I noticed the way her breathing changed when Karim laughed. The sound was deep and rare. It seemed to settle into her chest.
 
One night the child had a mild fever. Karim looked tired when I went over. Without thinking much I called my mother. She came within minutes, still in her soft black nighty with a light shawl wrapped tightly around her. She took the child from Karim’s arms with the natural ease of someone who had once known how to soothe, checked his temperature, and stayed until the medicine worked. While she sat on the edge of the bed, the shawl slipped once. The front of her nighty was already damp. Karim looked away at once, jaw tight, and focused on the child’s face. My mother quietly adjusted the fabric, cheeks burning, and continued speaking to the little boy in a soft, rhythmic voice.


When we finally left, she walked beside me in silence. At our door she said only, “He’s a good father. And a good friend to you. That makes me happy.”
The words stayed with me.
 
Days turned into a comfortable routine. Karim and I started watching the late football matches together on his small television. Sometimes my mother would send over hot pakoras or sweet milk. Once, when it rained heavily and the boundary wall leaked, the three of us ended up in our living room for almost two hours—Karim on the sofa with the child asleep against his chest, me in the armchair, my mother on the sofa beside him with small enough distance. The nighty she wore that evening clung more than usual because of the humidity. Every time she leaned forward to pour more tea, the heavy shape of her breasts shifted and a fresh dark circle appeared. She kept the conversation light, asking Karim about his work, about the city he had grown up in, about how he managed alone. He answered patiently. The air in the room felt warm and close.
 
After he left that night my mother stood at the door longer than necessary, watching him carry the child through the rain.


“I’m glad you found him,” she said quietly when she finally closed the door. “A real friendship. It’s good for you.”
She turned to go to her room. The back of her nighty was dry, but the front was soaked through in two clear, spreading patches. She didn’t try to hide it from me.
 
 
I started calling him by name properly after that rainy evening.
Karim.
 
The friendship settled into something solid and easy.
 
Karim began coming to our house almost every other day. Sometimes in the late afternoon when Rayan napped, sometimes after dinner when the colony had gone quiet. He never needed a reason. He would walk in barefoot, lungi or soft cotton pants hanging low on his hips, and drop onto the sofa like he belonged there. I liked having him around. We talked about everything and nothing—construction rates, old football matches, how the new flyover near the market was already cracking. Sometimes we just sat in comfortable silence while Rayan played with the few toys we kept for him.
My mother liked it too.
 
 Even soft, the heavy shape of his cock was impossible to miss. In the thin lungis he preferred at home it rested thick and long against his left thigh, the outline clear whenever he sat or shifted. In track pants it was the same— a thick, downward curve that the cloth could never hide. I caught myself looking more than once. Once my mother did too. Her eyes flicked down for half a second while she handed him a glass of water, then jumped away, cheeks warming. She said nothing. Neither did he.
One Sunday the heat was brutal. Rayan was at a neighbour’s for a short while. Karim and I were in our living room, the ceiling fan turning slowly. He was in a black lungi and nothing else. The thick hair on his chest and stomach was damp with sweat. I was in shorts. Somehow the talk turned into play-wrestling—the kind of half-serious pushing and grappling that starts as a joke and becomes real.
He was stronger than he looked, and he already looked strong.
He caught my wrist, turned, and took me down onto the carpet with almost no effort. I twisted, tried to reverse it, and ended up trapped under him for a few seconds, the solid weight of his body pressing me down. The lungi had ridden up. The thick, soft length of his cock rested heavy against my thigh through the thin cloth. Even soft it felt massive—hot, dense, impossible to ignore. He laughed, low and short, and rolled off before it became strange.
That was when my mother walked in from the kitchen.
She stopped in the doorway, a glass of lemonade in her hand. Her eyes moved over the two of us on the floor—Karim’s bare chest rising and falling, the lungi still slightly disordered, the clear heavy outline against his thigh, my own flushed face. For a moment no one spoke. Then she set the glass down carefully on the side table.
 
“You two will break something,” she said, voice soft, almost shy. But she didn’t leave. She stayed leaning against the doorframe, watching as Karim pulled me up and we started again, slower this time, testing strength, laughing when one of us slipped.
She watched the entire time.
When Karim finally pinned me again and held me there for a few seconds longer than necessary, I saw her fingers tighten on the edge of the doorframe. The front of her nighty was already showing two faint wet circles. She noticed me noticing and looked away, but she still didn’t leave the room.
After that the visits became even more frequent.
 
Karim started coming over without message. Sometimes he brought Rayan and let the child crawl around our living room while we talked. Sometimes he came alone in the late evening, lungi loose, the heavy shape of him impossible to hide. My mother began visiting his house too—short trips at first, carrying a small container of fresh milk she had expressed, or extra clothes that no longer fit me but might be useful for Rayan later. She stayed long when she went alone, but each time she returned her cheeks were warmer than the weather could explain.
 
One evening I found them both in Karim’s small kitchen. She was showing him how to properly temper the dal. He stood close behind her, listening, the difference in their sizes almost comical. His chest was nearly touching her back. When she turned to hand him the spoon, her breast brushed his arm for a second. Milk had already soaked through her blouse in a small dark patch. Neither of them mentioned it. She only adjusted the pallu with slightly unsteady fingers and continued speaking in her quiet voice.


Later that night, after Karim had walked us back and left, my mother sat on the edge of my bed the way she sometimes did.


“He’s becoming a real friend to you,” she said. “I’m glad. You laugh more when he’s here.”


I looked at the soft black nighty, at the way it clung to the full, heavy shape of her. The wetness was spreading again.


“You like him being here too,” I said.


She didn’t deny it.

She only looked down at her hands, a small, shy smile touching her mouth, and stayed sitting beside me a little longer than usual.

Continues...

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