The Long Wait
by Epaphus and Wrestlr
Disclaimer: There's sex, sodomy, and maybe a few other minor
perversions in this. If you don't like that sort of thing, go
elsewhere. Everybody in the is legal age. Parts of this may be autobiographical, or it might be all fiction--who can say?
Copyright - 1999 by Epaphus and Wrestlr. Permission granted to archive
if and only if no fee (including any form of "Adult Verification") is
charged to read the file. If anyone pays a cent to anyone to read your
site, you can't use this without the express permission of (and
payment to) the authors. This paragraph must be included as part of
any archive.
Comments to epaphus@mindspring.com and wrestlr@iname.com
Wrestlr's fiction is archived at the following URLs:
http://members.tripod.com/~Brock_J and
http://www.asstr.org/~wrestlr
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The Long Wait
When Jack goes off on one of his business trips, you don't
mind so much.
You're as crazy about him as you were the day you first met,
ten years ago. And when he's away, you miss him badly. By Friday
night, when he gets home after one of his five-day jaunts to Chicago
or Washington or Los Angeles or wherever, you're half out of your mind
with hunger for him. Wanting him is an ache in your gut.
But if he didn't go away, you couldn't miss him.
When he's gone, you get just enough of the solo life to
satisfy you: eat what you want when you want; go to he has no
interest in; stay up half the night if you feel like it, with no one
reaching over you to turn out the light while you're reading; sleep as
late as you want. When he's home, Jack's not just up with the
birds-it's more like he gives them their wake-up call; and he tries so
hard to be quiet in the morning that he almost always wakes you with
his thundersome stealth.
Best of all is something foolish: when Jack's gone you get to
sprawl all over the bed when you sleep, arms and legs embracing the
four corners of the world.
As for the "when the cat's away" routine, you're a
confident enough lover never to ask Jack about how he spends his
nights in those expense-account hotels. And Jack always says, "I don't
care what you do when I'm not home, as long as I don't have to hear
about it when I get home." But after a period of some pretty heavy
prowling around--you guess that was between Years Three and Seven of
this ten-year hitch-you've been laying fairly low in that department.
A fling can have its good points-all that new flesh to roam over-but
nothing you've done with strangers compares to what Jack and you
manage to do in the sack when you get up a good head of steam. "No one
knows you like I know you," Jack always says, touching you in just the
perfect place, in just the perfect way.
You're nicely into age 40 now (Jack's a couple of years
older), the Big Four-O, and at your age notching up the bedpost with
conquests isn't quite as important as it is when you're twenty-five.
Or even thirty-five, as you recall. But still … "Be prepared to be
surprised," as you always say.
So it's Thursday night and counting, and you've spent an hour
or so at the gym, had your dinner (a burger and fries from the Greek's
on the corner-your secret vice), and knocked off another fifty pages
of a novel you started two of Jack's business trips ago, and now
you're thinking that you'll pour yourself a brandy and slip something
sexy into the VCR (secret vices numbers two and three), spread out
nice and naked on the bed, and see how many times you can work your
cock just about to the boiling point and then … not let go. It's a
little game you like to play the night before he's due home. You call
it Warming Up For Jack.
Tomorrow evening, he'll land at the airport around 6:30; he'll
catch a taxi; he'll get caught in the weekend traffic, and about 7:45
you'll hear him clomping up the stairs to the apartment, good and
irritable. For someone who travels all the time, he certainly does
hate to do it. And you'll have him stripped and on his back by 7:48.
He'll hardly know what hit him.
Last time, that Thursday-night-and-counting, you played your
game one too many rounds-six times to the edge-and Christ, were your
cock and balls sore all day Friday. But Christ, did you make Jack good
and sore all night Friday. And most of Saturday, too.
So the brandy's in the snifter, the tape's in the VCR, and
you've just pulled off your T-shirt and you're undoing the buttons on
your jeans when-damn it!-who's ringing the buzzer at one o'clock in
the morning?
Pad barefoot down the hall to the door and punch the squawk
box. Grunt, "Yeah?"
"It's Ned," a voice replies. Ned is Jack's son, one of the few
pleasant by-products of Jack's five-year marriage back a few years
before you two met (the other chief by-product being a hell of a
monthly bill from Jack's shrink). But this is not Ned's voice. "Who is
it?"
"I'm with Ned," the voice says. "Could you let us in?"
And you thumb the button, button your jeans back up, open the
door, and wait. You hear them coming up the stairs, this strange
voice-"C'mon, buddy, just a few more steps"-and Ned's voice, loose and
garbled. And then they appear: Ned, a handsome version of his
handsome man, all jet-black hair, dark eyes, and a twenty-year-old
version of Jack's big build; and this tall, lanky, broad-shouldered
blond with an amused smirk on his face, half-dragging Ned down the
hallway.
"I'm Russ," the says to you, smiling with lots of even
teeth and bright, almost sapphire eyes that go to slits when he grins.
"I'm Ned's roommate. You must be Uncle Hank." He puts just a bit of a
spin on that word Uncle. "And this"-he gives Ned a shove through the
doorway-"is your not-too-bright-but-plenty-plowed Ned. Sorry about
disturbing you so late, but I knew we weren't going to make it all the
way back to the dorm without him passing out in the street, and Ned
said it would be cool. Is it cool?"
"Cool enough," you answer, watching Ned weave past you into
the living room to collapse onto the couch. To Russ, over your
shoulder: "Close it behind you."
Russ shuts the door and strides over to where Ned has fallen,
lifting Ned's feet off the floor, unlacing his shoes and slipping them
off, smoothing back a few strands of from Ned's forehead.
There's something startlingly affectionate in that small, casual
gesture, and you wonder for a moment just what's going on between
these two.
Ned opens his eyes, just barely, and smiles a crooked smile at
Russ. "You're great, man," he mumbles, pointing a finger into Russ'
face.
"And you're a jerk," Russ replies, grabbing the finger and
squeezing. "A prize jerk. Now shut your eyes and pass out, okay?" Ned
half-nods, still grinning, and closes his eyes.
To you, Russ asks, "Okay if I stay and keep an eye on him?"
"Suit yourself," you say. "You his nurse?"
Russ smiles: a bright, self-confident smile. "I take care of
him; he takes care of me. Tonight's my turn to do the taking care of,
I guess."
"Sounds fair."
He shrugs. "Most of the time."
Ned groans. He sits himself up, setting his feet laboriously
back onto the floor, and opens his eyes. His head is bobbing, swaying.
"Russ," he moans.
"All right, Neddy, all right. Just not on the couch, okay?"
And he scoops Ned up, wrapping his arm around his back, trying to
steady him. He looks over at you. "Where's the-?"
"Down the hall and on your right," you say.
Pour yourself another brandy (the bathroom's just next to the
bedroom, and you're in no mood to overhear the gritty symphony of Ned
retching his guts out). Lie back on the couch, staring into the
darkness. After a few minutes, you hear the shower running, and a
minute after that, Russ comes back into the room. The front and
sleeves of his faded blue work are soaked. "He'll be fine," Russ
says, "if he doesn't drown. I'll get a couple of aspirin down him and
we'll sack out if that's all right with you. This thing open?" he
asks, indicating the couch.
"Sure." You're suddenly very much aware of being alone in a
dimly lit room with an extremely handsome man.
"I gotta get out of this," he says, undoing the buttons on his
wet shirt. "Then we'll be twins, you and me." You cross one arm over
your bare chest.
He keeps his eyes on you the whole time he undoes his front, and as the comes off you see what a fine build he's got,
smooth and hairless honey-colored skin stretched taut over a
well-developed set of pecs and strong, rounded biceps. He hangs the
shirt over the back of a chair and steps toward you, and you see there
are in fact a few stray curls at the center of his chest, and a narrow
band of golden hair running from his navel down toward the narrow
waist of his chinos. "Can I have a hit off your drink?" he asks,
reaching for it, and as you hand him the snifter, you're breathing in
the smell of him: bar smoke and beer, cologne and just a faint sweet
stink of sweat.
He sits himself in the far corner of the couch and takes a
healthy of your brandy. "You?" he says, reaching it back
toward you.
"Keep it," you say, because you can feel your dick beginning
to stir in your jeans, and the last thing you need to get drunk and
horny (okay, hornier) with this fine-looking kid in the room
and Jack's son-your virtual stepchild-not fifteen yards away, passed
out in your shower. Not a very comfortable combination, especially in
your overheated, haven't-been-laid-in-five-days condition.
Russ looks you hard in the eyes. "I'm nuts about him," he
blurts. "About Ned. Since the minute I laid eyes on him." He takes
another sip of the brandy. You can't imagine what it's like, with him
trotting around that tiny little dorm room in his underwear like he
always does, and that black, black head of hair, and his sweet furry
body, and that big round bulge in his shorts that I just want to lay
my mouth on twenty-four hours a day. And it's totally hands-off,
except sometimes-God, it's so wonderful, and it's so really awful-when
he cuddles up to me late at night like I'm this, I don't know, teddy
bear or something. And it doesn't mean anything-that's the killer
part; it's just part of Ned being Ned. It's just friendly. He hasn't
got a clue. You can't imagine what it's like to want someone like
that." And he stops, like a switch turning off.
You clear your throat and take a breath. "Well …" you begin,
and then you both start to laugh.
"Well," he says, "I guess maybe you do have some idea."
Another sip of brandy. "But at least you get to sleep with him. With
his dad, I mean. I suppose it's too much to hope it runs in the or something. Where is his dad anyway?"
"Chicago," you say.
"I'm from Milwaukee," he says, sitting up, reaching the
snifter toward you.
"Do tell," you say.
"You've got a very hot body," he says, and his blue eyes are
wide and glistening.
"For an man," you ask.
"You've got a very hot body," he repeats, and he leans in
close to you, lays a hand on your jaw, presses his lips to yours. You
don't pull back. You don't press forward. You don't do anything. But
your dick is doing plenty; your dick seems to think that Lord and
Master has come home a day ahead of schedule and now it's party time;
so it's trying really hard to get out of your jeans, and you can feel
the swelling head pushing up toward your belly as your prick expands,
inch by confined inch. Russ' lips push against yours, and it's all you
can do not to grab hold of him by the hair and pull his body toward
you, part those two firm lips with your tongue, and wash out the
inside of his mouth for him.
As gently as you can, you lay your hands on either side of his
head and ease him back a few inches. "Slow down there," you manage to
choke out.
He sets the brandy down on the coffee table and rests his
hands against your chest. His fingers brush the hair, graze your
nipples. "At least you didn't say stop," he says, leaning his face in
toward yours for another try.
Turn away. "Well, I'm saying it now, okay? Stop." You try to
sound nice and not too rejecting-after all, he's just a sweet kid with
a hot body and a dickful of frustration. But unfortunately, you can
hear what's in your own voice right now and it's sure not nice-it's
pure horniness. He hears it too.
Suddenly, the quiet room is even quieter. The shower's
stopped. "Saved," you mutter. "Now get back in your corner before Ned
comes back and you out yourself."
Russ laughs, leans back into the sofa, kicks his sneakers off,
and settles his hands behind his head. His skin glows bright gold even
in the dim room, and there's nothing you want more than to bury your
mouth in those wispy tufts of yellow-white hair under his arms. And
he's still staring hard at you, his grin even brighter, wider, cockier
than before-just the sort of smug grin you want to wipe off with a
heavy-duty fucking. And he looks at you as if he can read your mind,
and he's so turned on he's almost bouncing in his seat.
Russ throttles down as Ned comes shuffling into the room,
bleary-eyed and looking apologetic-he just lets his body go slack and
glances up at Ned with a calm, noncommittal look. Ned's narrow hips
are wrapped in a towel, and his longish, is slicked back off
his forehead. You can't stop yourself from staring at him. He's always
resembled Jack facially to an degree, but you can see now
that his body too has grown to be just like his father's, the same
whorls of hair, the same high, round disks of pectoral muscle, wide,
straight shoulders, big smooth upper arms, and heavy forearms, and
thick wrists dusted with black hair. And bulging against the
terrycloth bath towel is a pair of broad, well-muscled thighs. His dad
has those thighs, solid and firm from years of daily four-mile runs,
and a firm, round runner's ass to top them off, just the sort of ass
you always want to bury your mouth or your cock in. But right now,
with Jack hundreds of miles away, you're sitting here thinking that
these are not good thoughts you're thinking and telling yourself to
knock it off.
"How ya doing, Hank?" Ned says, kissing you on the forehead
just as he's done since he was a kid, an affectionate peck, and his
breath smells scrubbed, all toothpaste and mouthwash, and his skin
smells of soap and that same faint musk that Jack exudes.
"Shove over," he says to Russ, and sits himself down on the
couch, leaning back against Russ' drawn-in legs. Russ sets one large
hand on Ned's shoulder, twirling a strand of Ned's damp hair around
his forefinger.
And it's dead quiet, the three of you sprawled there on the
big couch, and soon enough Ned lets his eyes close, and he falls
asleep. Russ strokes the side of Ned's head, casually, almost
absently, looking into your eyes the whole while. Under the towel,
Ned's prick begins to stir, and the cloth begins to shift, then pull
away as his hard-on grows. And Russ can see it as well as you, and he
gets a little bolder and strokes the fur at the top of Ned's chest,
and as sleeping Ned leans back into Russ' arms with a sigh, the towel
falls open, revealing a cock that you know on first sight you already
know so well: the long shaft rising out of a thatch of almost
blue-black hair, a beautiful, thick, and dark-skinned rod with a fat
dome of a knob.
Russ' hands work their way slowly-very slowly-down Ned's body,
brushing Ned's pecs with his knuckles as gently as air, stroking the
fur on his stomach; and all the while Ned's cock is bobbing in the
air, stiff as a fireplace poker, and you can see a little glistening
drop of pre-cum beading up out of his piss-hole. And Russ eases the
towel away, and you're sure he's going to wrap his hand around Ned's
hard-on. In fact, you're willing him to do it, as your own hand clamps
around your denim-covered crotch, but he just keeps stroking Ned's
slim, hairy gut, and Ned's breath is coming out in shallow little
gusts.
Russ cups Ned's legs behind the knees and eases them up toward
his chest, revealing to you the strong curve of Ned's ass cheeks and
the pink of his core. And you can feel Russ' eyes boring into
you, feel yourself being willed across the couch to suck Ned's pole
down your windpipe, to run your lips over his shaft, and then bury
your face between those hard hills of muscle, and shove your tongue
deep into his hot, sweet insides. How could you not want that body?
It's the one you've been making love to all these years. But no, of
course not. You press yourself against your corner of the couch with
all the strength and honor you have, and you say, "Come on, Russ-you
don't want to do this."
And Russ looks at you, with just a trace of a frown on his
lips, and he says, after a minute, "No, man, you're right. I don't
want to do this. When I take him, I want him to know it. I want to
hear him say please. I want to hear him say You're great, man. Think
it might happen in my lifetime?" And he slides free of Ned's naked
body, stands himself up, stares down at you.
"You never know," you say, amazed that you can put even three
words together.
"Does his say please?" Russ asks, rubbing his hand over
his crotch.
And you don't speak. Can't, probably.
Russ undoes his jeans and eases them down over his long,
smooth legs. He's standing there in his underwear and socks, his cock
pressing against the white cotton, the heavy bulk of it pulling his
underwear down and away from his body to reveal just a half-inch or so
of golden hair at the crest of his groin. "So how about it?" he
whispers, needy. "Please?"
Take a last look at Ned lying asleep on the couch, his hand
draped lazily across his thigh alongside his cock, and you look at
Russ and say, "Let's go," and walk out of the room.
You can hear him following you down the hall, his quiet
footsteps and quick breath, and you stop at the doorway of the
bedroom, letting him go in first. He walks in, looks around, and lays
himself down on the bed, hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his
underwear.
"No," you say.
He freezes. "Slow down?" he says, pulling his hands away from
his crotch and resting his fingertips on his stiff pink nipples.
"Bingo."
Sit down on the bed beside him and gently stroke his chest,
brushing his hands away. Glide over the rippled muscles of his gut.
Everywhere you touch him his skin bursts into goose flesh, and he's
shaking all over. Your fingers dance, just barely, over the distended
cotton of his underwear, and you can feel his dick pumping like a
racing heart just a millimeter, a thin nothing of cloth, away from
your hand.
Slide your hand back up his body. Caress his throat and jaw.
Brush his lips with your fingers. His mouth opens and you slide a
finger in, then two, three, and he sucks at them ravenously. While he
sucks, lower his shorts with your other hand. Never take your eyes
from his. Pull the cotton away from his body, and let his fat cock
flop, hot and and silky, against the back of your hand. Feel
yourself shiver-maybe you're as excited as he is.
Drag his underwear down to his knees. He lifts his legs to
help you get the thin cotton down over his ankles and feet, and you
toss them away. Only then do you turn and look and see his hard-on bouncing against his flat belly, his down-covered balls
bunched up tight against his groin. Slide down the bed a bit, and your
fingers, slick and wet now, pull free of his mouth. With your other
hand, gently part his muscular thighs. And all at once, lean in to him
and take him, circling his dickhead with your mouth, lifting it off
his belly and easing the full length of it into your throat. Slide two
of your spit-slicked fingers into his asshole, and feel the ring of
his sphincter contracts around them, snug and welcoming, and as your
mouth bobs up and down on his sweet cock your fingers are sliding in
and out, in and out. Glance up to see his handsome face, eyes clenched
shut, and he's grinding the back of his head against the pillow and
there's a sound coming out of him, somewhere between a purr and a
growl. Slide your two fingers almost out of his asshole and then push
back in, piercing him again, three fingers this time, and he lets out
a gasp.
Ease your mouth off his cock and sit up. Lift him by the
shoulders with your free hand and scoop his naked, finger-stuffed butt
onto your trousered lap. Kiss him, at last, good and hard, and his
tongue slides into your mouth, around the walls of it and over your
teeth. Every time he pulls his jaw back for a breath, you work your
fingers harder at his fiery insides and he comes at you again, kissing
you harder and harder as you work his asshole, and he wraps his strong
arms around you and strokes your back.
Laying him down gently on the bed, you slip your fingers out
of his ass and hop off the mattress. You've just undone the last
button of your fly and gotten your jeans partway down your thighs when
he rolls toward you and presses his mouth against the cotton-covered
bulge of your cock and balls. He laps at the cloth, working it almost
to transparency with his spit. The touch of his mouth makes you crazy,
and the fat knob of your cock pops up over the waistband of your
underwear. And as you lay your hands on the side of his head and ease
his lips toward your cockhead, you feel him clench up suddenly, very
tense, and his head jerks away.
Ask, "What's wrong?" Raise his head with your hands, and wrap
him in your arms and kiss him again and again, until he relaxes and
kisses you the way, you think, only can kiss, as if they've
waited their whole lives and may never get the chance again.
"It's just ..." he stammers as you run your tongue over his
pale neck. "It's just that I haven't .."
Say, "You're kidding," pulling back.
He smiles, a bit of that smirking self-confidence sneaking
back into his face. "Well, it's not like I don't want to. I just
haven't had the chance."
Grip him by his shoulders and look at him for a moment. His
eyes are bright and eager. Glance down-his cock is still rigid,
begging for attention.
Ease your underwear over your hardon, down to the floor. Sit
on the bed, up by the headboard, with your back against the pillows,
and motion for him to come over to you. He slides over and, without a
moment's hesitation, sits himself in your lap again-only this time,
there's nothing, not even air between the heated flesh of your stiff
cock and his marble-smooth butt.
"That's fine," you say, "just like this," and you kiss him
again. He curls his arms around you as you reach between his legs and
begin to stroke his cock, very gently, just the brush of your fingers
up and down its length, spreading his juice over the head and then
only the shaft, reaching down there to massage his balls as you let
your other hand roam over his torso, everything very gentle and
smooth-you don't even let your cock twitch against his ass cheeks.
Slowly he works his mouth down over your jaw and onto your
neck, and licking at it, and then he presses his mouth against
your chest, tentatively licking at one stiff nipple, then on
it, and pretty soon he's easing his butt off your lap and onto the
bed, and your cock is stiff against your stomach, where he wraps his
hand around the shaft and squeezes it.
Russ leans down and shyly kisses the head of your cock. Grip
the headboard-your arms spread wide-and let him find his own pace,
just let him be. And he kisses it again, licks at it tentatively, and
you know what he's doing: he's getting used to the taste, to the feel
of it in his mouth. He eases his lips around the head and sucks at it,
really sucks, they way do when they're first trying it. He lets
his tongue explore around and around the knob and then poking into the
pisshole, and every touch of his mouth is like a charge through your
body, and you can see his cock swelling and twitching between his
legs. And then-oh, yes-he begins to ease down onto the shaft, just a
fraction of the distance at a time, and then back up to the head. But
he never lets it go, never lets it slip out of the warm, wet hollow of
his mouth. He bobs up and down on those first inches for a while, and
then further and further down, stopping once or twice along the way,
but he keeps going, and it's an incredible eternity until you feel his
lips touching the very root of it, his mouth finally anchored against
your crotch, the full length of your cock piercing his virgin throat.
Only then do you curve your body down onto the bed and pull
his strong legs around toward you. With your cock shoved into him to
the hilt, you slide your mouth over his hardon and him in one
long glide, gently stroking his balls as you suck as his pole. He's
moving up and down on your dick, picking up confidence, matching you
dive for dive, impaling himself again and again.
Work your mouth off his cock and begin to lick and suck at his
balls, teasing the taut, wrinkled flesh with your teeth. And then arch
yourself over him, spreading his hard cheeks and tasting his sweet
hairless asshole, thrusting into it with your tongue as his cock
squirms against your stomach and your own dick rams toward the back of
his windpipe.
As you're at his hole, just getting to wonder what it
would feel like to flip him and fuck him until he yells, you can hear
him moaning, a low sound buried behind the length of your cock, and
you can feel him begin to shake again. "Sure," you whisper, lifting
your mouth from his ass. "Sure," and you surround his pole with your
lips just in time to feel him blow, and suddenly it's a rush of his
bittersweet juice in your mouth, and you swirl it, it. Feel
your own cock swelling, your balls tightening, and-before you can even
let him know what's happening-you shoot, one electric burst after
another. He wraps his arms around your ass to hold you in him, and you
can feel your flooding down around your shaft, and he's doing his
best to keep it in his mouth, gasping and sputtering and then licking
it up, lapping it off your rod and balls and gulping it down.
When you open your eyes again, the sun's just rising. You're
spread over the bed, arms and legs all over the place. And Russ is
gone. Get out of bed and walk quietly down the hallway to the living
room.
And what you see is Ned, his arms spread wide over the back of
the couch, his head thrown back; and there's Russ crouched on the
floor, his knees spread wide, that strong golden back and hairless
ass, and he's moving forward and back on Ned's crotch, and Ned is
saying yes, and he's saying please, and he's stroking his own hairy
chest with his hands, and you step back into the shadows of the
hallway, knowing that you should turn tail and go back to bed. But
admit to yourself that you're a good and honorable man, but you're no
saint. Slip your hand down around your suddenly hard prick and stroke
yourself and watch them.
Ned lifts his feet up, wide, onto the couch, and Russ buries
his mouth between Ned's ass cheeks, stroking Ned's pole as he licks,
and Ned is running his fingers through Russ' hair and looking
down at him, smiling, whispering things you can't hear, aren't
supposed to hear. And this goes on for a long time until Russ lifts
himself up and, slicking his cock with the lube he must have borrowed
from your bedside, positions his dickhead against Ned's ass and
presses forward, the muscles of his butt contracting and clenching as
he works his cock into Ned's hole.
And Ned doesn't let out a sound of pain, not so much as a
grunt-he's steady as his man, you're thinking-as Russ pushes
himself in, inch by inch; no, Ned raises his legs up and props his
feet over Russ' shoulders, giving his friend easy access. And it takes
Russ a while to get his cock all the way in, and when he does, the two
of them spend a lot of time kissing and stroking each other. After a
while, you can see Russ' smooth butt start to move, almost
imperceptibly at first, just little pumps of motion against Ned's
body, and then Ned lets out a sigh and his eyes close for half a
minute, and when they open you'd almost swear he's looking right at
you, and your cock leaps at the sight of those hot, hungry eyes,
Jack's eyes, and you stuff your knuckles in your mouth to keep from
making a sound as you jerk off.
Russ begins truly to fuck Ned, slowly at first and then with
real drive, pounding into him-God, just the way you're going to nail
his the minute he gets home-and as they cum, crashing together
again and again, body to body, mouth against mouth, Russ's arms
covering Ned's, their fingers entwined, you take your hand off your
cock and say to yourself, Save it, and you do turn, finally, and go
back to the bedroom. Sprawl out on the mattress and run your fingers,
just lightly, up and down your stiff dick, caress your balls and your
asshole. Listen to the sounds from the living room. Listen to them
fucking. Listen to them, sure, falling in love for a while. Let
yourself listen to their gasps and yells and little yelps. Let it burn
through your blood.
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