Stephanie's Adventures in Amsterdam
Copyright© 2025 by Stephanie Legrand
Chapter 2: Friday: The Departure
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 2: Friday: The Departure - Stéphane leaves behind his structured Parisian life to spend a week in Amsterdam as Stéphanie—the soft, feminine self he’s longed to become. What begins as freedom slowly deepens into erotic surrender and tender regression. Drawn into rituals of obedience and control, she must decide: lose herself in another’s desires, or reclaim her voice and find a love that sees her truly—and lets her be.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual Romantic Gay Lesbian CrossDressing TransGender Fiction MaleDom Humiliation Anal Sex Masturbation Small Breasts Infantilization
DRESSING FOR THE WORLD
Stéphanie woke early that morning, heart fluttering with anticipation. She stretched slowly beneath her floral duvet, still wrapped in the soft, cozy remnants of night.
The scent of lavender lingered in the air. Her nightshirt clung lightly to her body, the familiar ruffle brushing her arm as she reached for her plush bunny. The soft rustle beneath her—plastic, padded, safe—reminded her of who she had gone to sleep as.
Stéphanie.
She smiled.
She sat up slowly, letting the morning light spill across the sheets.
Today, she would dress for the world.
She began with a warm, lingering shower, letting the steam soften her skin. She used her favorite lavender-scented body wash and took her time with a close shave—face, underarms, and legs—until her skin was smooth and glowing. After drying off with her fluffiest towel, she laid out her outfit and supplies on the bed.
She began with her lingerie—a lacy pink bra, lightly padded, just enough to shape and soften the line of her chest. She held it just beneath her breasts, fingers steady as she fastened the clasp in front of her torso with a soft click. Then, with practiced grace, she turned it around so the cups faced forward, the lace gliding coolly across her skin. One arm, then the other, slipped into the straps. She pulled them up slowly, adjusting the tension until the band sat snug and even beneath her shoulder blades, cradling her ribs like a gentle embrace.
Then came the moment she loved most. She took her silicone breast forms—soft, cool, slightly heavy—and guided them carefully into the waiting cups. They settled in with a gentle weight that grounded her. She adjusted the lace over them, smoothing everything until the shape looked just right: not exaggerated, but tender, feminine, hers.
She turned to the mirror.
There she was—her reflection not perfect, not finished, but real. The gentle slope of her chest, the pale lace tracing her collarbones, the quiet pride in her eyes. Her hands brushed the edge of the cups one more time, then lingered briefly at her sides, as if to hold the moment in place.
She spread a clean towel across the bed and laid the diaper on top—soft pink, thick between the legs, printed with whimsical princesses and tiny stars.
She unfolded it carefully, smoothing the wings flat, then placed the white booster pad gently in the center. It puffed slightly, a quiet invitation.
Lowering herself onto it, she lay back—knees softly apart, the plastic crinkling faintly beneath her. The cool air brushed her freshly shaved skin.
She reached for the powder. The soft scent of rose rose around her as she shook a light dusting over herself. It clung to her skin like memory—delicate, soothing, familiar. She rubbed it in gently with her fingertips, a quiet, circular motion that felt less like hygiene and more like care.
Then, with practiced hands, she tucked—drawing herself back and between with a quiet precision. It didn’t hurt. It didn’t need to be tight. It just needed to feel right. And it did.
It wasn’t about how it looked—nothing would show beneath the layers she wore. But the feeling ... the feeling settled something inside her. Tucking softened the noise, erased the parts that never belonged. What remained was stillness.
She pulled on thick white opaque tights, smoothing them carefully over her legs. She could feel the soft pink beneath—hidden, but present. A truth only she knew was there.
Then came her compression panty girdle, snug and supportive, keeping everything close and quiet.
Over her bra, she pulled on a fitted camisole—pale, soft, feminine. It hugged her gently, the adjustable straps just visible at her shoulders. Then her cardigan: blush pink with pearl-like buttons, buttoned neatly to shape her frame. Its slim fit and gentle color wrapped her upper body in quiet confidence.
Below, she chose a cream skirt—short but modest, gently flared, its lace-trimmed hem brushing softly against her thighs with every movement.
Last came her black knee-high boots—sleek and structured, grounding the look with quiet poise.
She didn’t dress to be seen. She dressed to be herself.
For the girl who had once been hidden, and was no longer afraid to be seen—even if only by her own reflection.
Instead of styling her natural hair—which wasn’t especially short for a man, softly grown out to brush the tops of her ears—she slipped on her shoulder-length honey-blonde wig. It framed her face perfectly and made her reflection feel even more complete. A dusty pink beret perched just right atop her blonde bob, which was tucked sweetly beneath it.
To finish, she fastened a delicate rose-gold necklace with a single heart-shaped charm and clasped a slim bracelet with three tiny hearts—her favorite piece.
In the mirror, she looked like the version of herself she’d always dreamed of—elegant, little, and ready. The lace, the blush, the glint of gold at her wrist—every detail made her feel whole.
She turned slightly, examining her profile and then her back. Was there a bulge? Would someone notice the shape beneath her skirt? Her heart fluttered with doubt. But the tights and girdle held everything smooth, and the cardigan fell just low enough. She took a breath. No one would know. And even if someone guessed—what if they just thought she was wearing something pretty and padded for herself? It was okay. She was okay.
Her makeup routine was next. She applied a moisturizing primer, followed by a light BB cream for an even tone. A touch of concealer under her eyes, a sweep of rose blush on her cheeks, and a hint of highlighter on the bridge of her nose gave her that gentle, dewy look she loved. For her eyes, she chose soft brown eyeliner, curled her lashes, and brushed on a coat of lengthening mascara. A pastel pink eyeshadow shimmered just slightly under her lids. Finally, she dabbed on a glossy pink lip balm.
She spritzed a final touch of her perfume—Chloé Eau de Parfum, soft and floral with hints of peony, rose, and freesia—onto her wrists and neck. The scent wrapped around her like a memory, graceful and sweet, making her feel almost ethereal.
Her French ID card, train tickets, and wallet slipped into the side pocket, along with a small plush bunny for emotional support. A pink pacifier charm dangled discreetly from the zipper pull.
With everything ready, she tucked a soft blush-pink scarf around her neck. Then she pulled on her long cream-colored puffer coat—zipped snugly from legs to neck—and took one last look around her soft, feminine apartment.
For a moment, she stood still just inside her apartment, one hand on the doorknob. This was real. Not a fantasy, not a dream. Her heart fluttered with nerves, but she didn’t look away.
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway, then turned and locked it behind her. The quiet click echoed faintly in the corridor.
The building was still sleepy. Pale morning light filtered through the high stairwell window as she made her way to the elevator. Inside, she caught her reflection in the brushed steel walls—blush scarf, cream puffer coat, boots polished just so. She looked soft. Feminine. Ready.
When the elevator doors slid open onto the ground floor, she stepped out slowly and crossed the quiet lobby. Her boots clicked lightly against the marble tiles as she approached the heavy wooden entrance doors, their iron handles cool to the touch.
Just as she reached for the handle, the door swung inward—and in walked Monsieur Dupont from the second floor, returning with a fresh baguette tucked under his arm. He was bundled in a dark wool coat, cheeks pink from the cold, a scarf tied neatly at his throat.
He paused, blinking behind his fogged glasses. Then he smiled—warmly, politely.
“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Stéphanie’s breath caught.
She smiled back, just as softly. “Bonjour, Monsieur Dupont.”
He gave a small nod and stepped past her without pause, heading toward the elevator.
Her hand lingered on the door handle.
That tiny, ordinary moment—it steadied her more than anything else could have. No hesitation. No confusion. Just a greeting. As if she’d always been her.
Outside, the cold morning air pressed gently against her cheeks. She stepped into it with her heart pounding, the sound of her boots soft on the sidewalk. Her diaper rustled faintly beneath her tights—but only she could hear it.
And that, too, was okay.
What if someone looked too closely?
What if she didn’t pass?
But then she felt the soft weight of her bag and the brush of her tights—and she smiled. This was who she was.
The taxi driver barely looked at her as she climbed in, simply confirming the destination before pulling away. She watched the Haussmann buildings pass through fogged windows, her gloved hands clutched tightly around her bunny.
Every traffic light felt like a countdown. A short ride later, she arrived at Gare du Nord, her large suitcase rolling beside her.
With a week’s worth of skirts, tights, and enough diapers to last the trip packed carefully inside, it was heavier than she expected—but she didn’t mind.
Each step through the bustling station felt like the true start of something magical.
Stéphanie’s week had truly begun. And for the first time, it didn’t feel like pretending. It felt like becoming.
BECOMING SEEN
The taxi slowed in front of Gare du Nord.
Stéphanie reached into her purse, handed over the fare with careful fingers, and murmured a quiet ‘merci.’
“Bonne journée,” the driver said casually, already turning away.
She stepped out.
And then—
it hit her.
This was it.
Not just a morning. Not just travel.
This was the moment she had imagined, feared, longed for.
No apartment walls. No mirror. No protective bubble of silence.
She stood beneath the vast iron canopy of the station, and for the first time, she wasn’t just Stéphanie inside herself anymore.
She was Stéphanie in the world.
She took a step forward. Then another.
The sound of her boots on the concrete felt impossibly loud.
Every motion seemed to echo through her chest—the gentle sway of her skirt, the weight of her bag, the imagined crinkle between her legs that no one else could hear
But she felt it.
She walked through the great hall with quiet determination, eyes straight ahead. Travelers rushed past, focused on their own departures. No one stared. No one stopped.
And yet she felt raw. Exposed.
Not because anyone said anything.
Because this was real.
Not pretend. Not practice.
Just a girl with a ticket and a suitcase, heading toward a platform like everyone else.
And she didn’t turn back.
The platform was already bustling when Stéphanie arrived, her large suitcase rolling behind her and her diaper bag slung across her shoulder. The winter air carried a sharp chill, but inside, she felt warm—her padding snug, her tights smooth, her heart fluttering with anticipation.
She made her way toward the first-class coach, where she had reserved a solo seat.
A uniformed attendant stood on the platform in front of the open door. Stéphanie handed over her ticket with a polite smile. The woman scanned it quickly and nodded.
“Bon voyage, mademoiselle.”
Mademoiselle. Again. It settled softly in her chest.
Stéphanie stepped forward, now standing directly in front of the open door. She reached for her suitcase, trying to lift it up the high step, but it was heavier than she’d expected. She tugged and angled it, awkwardly struggling to hoist it through the narrow entrance.
“Please, go ahead, miss,” a voice said beside her, calm and kind. “I’ll take care of it.”
She turned to see a man with neatly parted chestnut hair, rich and glossy, brushed back with a subtle wave that gave him a timeless elegance. His face was clean-shaven, the angles of his jaw softened by a natural warmth. His brows were dark and well-shaped, framing deep hazel eyes that held a calm, steady kindness. When he smiled, it wasn’t flashy—it was quiet and genuine, deepening the soft lines at the corners of his eyes. There was a gentle confidence in his expression, a calm attentiveness that made her feel instantly at ease. He had the kind of face that invited trust without trying.
A little flustered, Stéphanie stepped inside. A moment later, he lifted the suitcase effortlessly behind her, guiding it into the luggage rack by the door.
“Your suitcase is heavy, miss,” he added with a teasing smile.
Stéphanie blushed. “Yes ... thank you,” she replied softly.
“Of course,” he said.
“She gave a grateful nod and made her way to her solo window seat on the left-hand side—just as she’d hoped. A little sanctuary for the journey ahead.”
She slipped off her coat and hung it carefully on the small hook beside her seat.
And suddenly, she felt more exposed.
The coat had been a layer of safety—weight, fabric, anonymity. Without it, she was just herself in the open: soft, visible, unarmored.
She folded her hands in her lap and took a slow breath.
No one was staring. No one even looked.
But still, the air felt different on her shoulders.
Like the world could see her better now
She didn’t reach for her coat again.
She just let herself be seen.
She settled into her seat and placed her bag on her lap, still feeling the echo of that small decision—to take off the coat, to be seen without it.
Across the aisle, movement drew her attention.
The man who had helped with her suitcase was taking his seat—one of the double spots just across the aisle, in the seat nearest to her. He slipped off his coat, folded it beside him, and sat down with quiet ease, just a few steps—and a heartbeat—from where she sat.
Their eyes met. Just for a second.
He smiled—not broadly, just enough to acknowledge her.
As if to say: You’re here. I see you.
Stéphanie gave a small, uncertain smile in return and quickly looked down.
And then, the train began to move.
A soft jolt. A low hum beneath her feet. The platform slid past—steel, glass, the rush of the tunnel—and just like that, Paris began to recede.
Her heart beat faster, but not from fear.
From knowing. From the sense that something had already changed.
She wasn’t just sitting on a train.
She was leaving, as herself.
No turning back. No hiding. Just motion and quiet courage, layered under tights and nerves and something like hope.
She turned to the window, eyes wide as the light shifted across the glass.
And for the first time that day, she allowed herself the smallest smile.
After a few minutes, Stéphanie exhaled softly and reached down, instinctively seeking a little structure—something to hold, something familiar.
She unzipped her bag and lifted the flap.
Her fingers moved toward her Amsterdam guidebook. But as she angled the bag to find it, the train shifted again beneath her, and the contents inside shifted with it.
Just enough.
The flap of her diaper bag fell open wider than she realized. A full section of the folded pink diaper was exposed—its glossy surface, the faint cartoon trim. Not just a glimpse. Enough to be recognized.
Stéphanie froze.
Her breath caught. Her chest clenched.
She stared, heart pounding—then darted her eyes across the aisle.
He had seen.
The man from the platform. From the suitcase. From the smile.
His gaze met hers. Calm. Unshaken.
And then—a nod. The smallest one. A smile, almost imperceptible. But it was there.
Not amusement. Not confusion.
Understanding.
Stéphanie blinked, hands suddenly clumsy. She tucked the diaper back into the bag and zipped it shut with quiet urgency. Her fingers trembled.
She lowered her eyes.
Her cheeks were burning, and her heart wouldn’t slow.
And then—it happened.
Not all at once. Just a quiet, involuntary release.
A soft warmth blooming between her legs—faint, almost imperceptible under the layers. A reaction. A tremor of exposure and adrenaline that she couldn’t control.
She stiffened for a moment.
But no one noticed. He didn’t react. Nothing changed.
And strangely, it didn’t feel like failure.
It felt ... like release.
She wasn’t ashamed.
She was here.
Seen. Not rejected.
A little shaken. A little wet.
But still held together.
The train hummed steadily beneath her, the motion rhythmic now, almost comforting. Stéphanie pressed her knees together and exhaled slowly.
She could still feel the faint warmth between her legs—not enough to require a change, but enough to keep her quietly aware.
She closed her guidebook, let it rest in her lap for a moment, then placed it gently back in her bag. Her hands needed something to do. Her body needed movement.
And she needed something warm.
She stood, brushing down her skirt with a gentle touch, and stepped into the aisle.
Her boots clicked softly on the carpeted floor as she moved through the gentle sway of the train.
Each step felt oddly exposed—like the memory of the moment was still following her. But she walked forward anyway.
She moved through the gently swaying carriages, one hand steadying herself on the seatbacks as she passed. The walk helped, a little. It gave her something to do. A direction. A focus.
By the time she reached the café coach, there were already several people queued along the narrow corridor—all waiting to place their orders at the compact bar.
Stéphanie joined the line quietly, folding her hands in front of her and tucking her bag closer to her side.
There were windows—wide and bright, letting in the gray morning light as the countryside slipped past in streaks of green and slate. She turned slightly toward them, trying to let the view soothe her.
But the tension didn’t ease.
Here, there was no private seat. No quiet corner. Just strangers at her back, footsteps behind her, eyes that might glance, even if only for a second.
She looked down at the floor.
Does my skirt look normal?
Is it clinging?
Can anyone hear anything when I shift?
She crossed one leg in front of the other. The familiar warmth between her thighs reminded her: she was still just a little wet. Still padded. Still carrying something secret.
And somehow, in this space—brightened by passing fields and filtered sunlight—that secret felt louder.
Not audible. Not obvious.
Just close.
Someone cleared their throat behind her. Another stepped forward. The line moved.
She stayed still, facing the window, pretending she belonged in her quiet, curated world.
But inside, her thoughts were trembling.
When it was her turn, she stepped up to the counter and ordered softly.
“Un cappuccino, s’il vous plaît.”
The café attendant nodded without a second glance. Stéphanie paid, accepted the paper cup with a quiet “merci,” and turned toward the narrow standing bar that lined the windows on the opposite side.
She found an open space, set down her drink, and exhaled.
Outside, the French countryside was unfolding—low hills, distant trees, and the occasional cluster of stone houses gathered around a tall church spire. The window was warm with filtered morning light, and the gentle hum of the train had become almost a lullaby.
She wrapped both hands around the cup and took a slow sip.
Creamy. Hot. Exactly what she needed.
Here, she felt a little more invisible. Not because she was hiding—but because she had done it. She had walked the aisle. Ordered a coffee. Taken up space.
Her skirt swished gently as she shifted her stance. Her tights clung softly. The faint padding beneath everything reminded her she was still wearing her secret—but it wasn’t sharp anymore.
It was just part of her.
She took another sip, watching the land slip past.
Then a voice, low and clear, came just beside her shoulder.
“Hello, miss. We meet again.”
Stéphanie turned, startled—then saw him.
The man from the platform. From the suitcase. From the seat across the aisle.
He stood there casually, his own coffee in hand, the other resting lightly at his side, his expression open and warm.
“I saw you walking this way,” he said.
“Figured we were both in need of a hot drink.”
Stéphanie offered a soft smile. “I was ... a little cold.”
He nodded. “Coffee helps.”
They stood there a moment, the train humming beneath them, countryside slipping past in a blur of green and gray.
Then, his tone shifted slightly—still calm, still steady.
“May I say something ... a little forward?”
Stéphanie hesitated.
Then she nodded. Just once.
“When you opened your bag earlier ... I noticed the edge of a pink diaper. Princess design, right?”
Stéphanie froze. Her breath caught in her throat.
He didn’t smirk. He didn’t push.
“You’re not the only one who knows that brand,” he added, voice warm. “And I think it suits you.”
She glanced down, then gave the smallest nod. “Yes.”
“Are you wearing one now?”
She nodded again—barely.
His gaze softened.
“Are you already a little wet, sweetheart?”
She swallowed. Her fingers tightened slightly around her bag. Then she glanced down, cheeks burning.
“A ... little bit.”
He smiled, gentle and approving.
“Good girl.”
Stéphanie lowered her gaze to her cup, but her hands weren’t steady.
Her heart was thudding. Her thighs were warm. And when he said it—good girl— something deep inside her responded.
Not in words, but in warmth.
In the way her body softened. In the way she let herself feel known.
She didn’t speak. She just stood there, quiet and glowing, the heat blooming deeper than anything she could explain.
Then, after a breath:
“By the way...” he said, extending a hand, casual but kind. “I’m Jan.”
Stéphanie blinked, surprised—but then smiled, shy and warm.
“Stéphanie.”
“That’s a perfect name,” he said.
Jan glanced at her cup. “You’ve got a good spot here,” he said, nodding to the window.
Stéphanie smiled faintly. “It’s nice.”
He leaned just slightly closer, his tone soft but steady.
Still driving. Still holding the thread.
“So ... where are you headed?”
She hesitated. “Amsterdam.”
“On your own?”
She nodded.
“First time?”
“First time as ... me,” she said quietly.
He smiled, slow and genuine. “Good.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Hotel Estheréa,” she replied softly. “On Singel.”
He smiled. “Very nice. I know it well — it’s beautiful.”
She returned the smile, her body relaxing just a little more.
“Do you know anyone in Amsterdam?”
She shook her head. “No. Just me.”
“Even better,” he said softly. “Sounds like the beginning of a real adventure.”
Then, casually:
“I live just a few blocks from there. On Keizersgracht.”
Stéphanie blinked. “Really?”
He nodded. “I could show you around, if you’d like. Just the quiet places. The best cafés. The ones that don’t rush you.”
“Or take you out to some fun places. Introduce you to a few people.”
Her heart skipped.
She hadn’t expected this. As a man, making friends had always felt distant—guarded, uncertain. But here ... as Stéphanie ... she already felt the edge of something different.
He wasn’t just offering her directions.
He was offering her a place.
A laugh. A drink. A chance to belong.
“I’d really like that,” she said softly.
Jan smiled, and this time there was a flicker of something more playful in his eyes.
“Then we’ll make a plan. And maybe—if you’re very good—I’ll even take you somewhere special.”
A pause. His tone softened.
“Something just for you.”
Stéphanie’s breath caught again. Her fingers tightened slightly around her cup.
She didn’t speak—she just smiled, soft and radiant. The warmth between them was steady now, unspoken but understood.
Jan glanced at her nearly empty cup. “Shall we head back?”
Stéphanie nodded, her voice caught in her throat. “Yes ... okay.”
They moved quietly through the café coach, weaving between passengers. As they stepped into the connecting vestibule, the train shifted slightly beneath them.
Stéphanie lost her footing for just a moment—her boot slipping against the seam of the floor.
“Careful,” Jan said, catching her instinctively.
His hand landed at her waist—steady, protective—and just slightly lower than intended.
Right over the back of her skirt.
Over the faint, padded shape beneath.
She froze, breath held.
Jan’s grip softened but didn’t pull away immediately. Just a small, grounding touch. Then he gently let go.
“Still dry enough to walk?” he teased, voice low.
Stéphanie’s cheeks flushed. “Y-yes.”
They kept walking—closer now, side by side.
They walked together through the swaying coaches, closer now, silent but not awkward.
Stéphanie could still feel the echo of Jan’s touch from when he caught her—how steady it had felt, how natural.
Back in the first-class carriage, he paused beside his seat and gestured toward the window.
“Would you like to join me?”
Stéphanie glanced at her solo seat across the aisle, still waiting quietly—but she didn’t hesitate.
“Yes ... I’d like that.”
He stepped aside, letting her slide in first. She smoothed her skirt carefully as she sat, the soft crinkle beneath reminding her of everything they’d just shared.
He settled beside her without a word, their shoulders nearly touching.
They watched the countryside blur past in soft, winter tones. The silence between them wasn’t awkward—just easy.
After a few moments, they began to talk. Nothing heavy. Just the things they liked. Books. Music. Cities they’d visited. Favorite cafés. Childhood memories that still clung to them in quiet ways.
It wasn’t deep yet—but it was real.
And with each exchange, Stéphanie felt herself soften more. Open more.
At one point, Jan glanced over at her.
His voice was calm. Steady.
“You’re a beautiful girl, Stéphanie.”
Her breath caught.
It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t a compliment tossed out for effect.
It felt true. Undeniably, quietly true.
She didn’t speak—just smiled, shy and radiant.
Then Jan let his hand come to rest on her knee.
Not tentative. Not testing.
A full, steady touch—warm through her tights, his fingers gently curved.
Stéphanie didn’t flinch. She softened into the stillness. Into him.
His hand shifted just slightly, sliding higher. The hem of her skirt rose a breath, and his palm came to rest near the top of her thigh.
She inhaled sharply as his thumb traced a small, deliberate circle over the soft cotton. The touch sent a flutter straight to where she was tucked, snug and hidden beneath layers of soft padding.
Then, slowly, his fingers pressed down. Just enough to feel it.
The faint ridge. The quiet outline. The unmistakable edge of her diaper.
She froze—not from fear, but from the sudden, burning rush of humiliation and arousal that flooded her chest. Her breath hitched, her nipples tightening beneath her bra.
And he stayed.
No change in pressure. No question in his eyes.
Just presence. Knowing. Possession.
His thumb slid higher, grazing softly over the padded bulge between her thighs. The touch was gentle, but it carried weight—a quiet claim that made her knees weaken and her skin prickle with heat.
“Still doing okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice low and close.
Stéphanie swallowed, her voice a trembling whisper. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”
His words sank into her like warm honey, filling every hollow space inside her with soft, molten sweetness. She blinked, lashes damp, but didn’t look away. Her lips parted with a quiet, helpless sigh.
She just breathed.
And for the first time in a very long time, she felt wanted. Seen. Owned. Safe in the quiet.
They sat like that for a while—shoulder to shoulder, his hand resting firmly on her thigh, thumb tracing slow, claiming circles over the hidden bulge. Her fingers curled quietly over her skirt, pressing it down as if trying to hide what was already known.
Outside, the countryside blurred past the window, but neither of them spoke.
There was no need.
Then came the soft chime and the overhead voice:
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