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Collected by Djian

Emma





Thanks are due principally to the woman I have called 'Emma', and I hope that wherever she is now, she may read this and approve of how I have handled the extracts of her diaries which she sent me. But thanks are also due to Elizabeth, and to Liz, Jane and many other girls who helped; albeit unwittingly!

Part One: Martin.

"Do you want to beat her?" I heard Martin ask as he and his friend Jason settled themselves on the sofa in Martin's flat.
I was pouring out two glasses of whisky for them and a port for me when he spoke and I nearly dropped the bottle in shock.

"It's a gorgeous arse," he went on, "and she loves having it spanked hard."

I spun round in fury and humiliation but he just carried on quite calmly and Jason didn't appear the least bit embarrassed.

"That's a tempting offer," he said. "Will she bend over for it in here?"

"Who the fuck do you think you are!?" I finally found my voice and yelled at Martin.

"I'm the guy who beat you earlier this evening before we went out," he replied. "And Jason here is the guy who's going to beat you now."

I simply gaped at them both. Of course it was quite true, Martin had spanked me before we had gone out to meet Jason for what had turned out to be a very boozy dinner. But this was ridiculous! I thought about hurling a drink at him but then settled for flouncing out and turned on my heel.

"If you leave Emma, don't even think about coming back ever again," Martin said as he read my intention and stood up. That stopped me in my tracks, as he must have known it would. I wasn't in love with him; but I lusted after him like I had never done with any man before. He was completely different to any man I had known before.

For a start he beat me and I enjoyed it.
But bending over for him and just hiking up my skirt and doing the same for a man I had only met that evening were two very different things. And I had a lot to lose if he ever bragged about it, which he was bound to do. Having Emma Stewart bend over for a beating at her boyfriend's behest would be a feather in any man's cap and he wouldn't be able to resist telling his mates.

But to lose Martin?

He gave me sex like I had never had before and even as I framed that thought, I felt a tingle run from my nipples right down into my belly. Martin saved me from my dilemma by coming very close and licking my ear while one hand cupped a breast and stroked the nipple into instant erection. Suddenly I didn't care if Jason was there or not, I felt hot between my legs and knew that Martin was about to make me do something outrageous, but afterwards he was going to take me the way only he could.

"Come on Em," he whispered. "Just let him have a few smacks. I really want to watch your bum ripple under his hand."

I moaned softly as his words seemed to lodge directly in my crotch.

"And then afterwards I'm going to do something new to you."

"Mmm! Tell me," I begged, turning my head so I could kiss him.

"I'm going to beat you... but not with my hand this time, I'm going to take that big... heavy... leather belt I use in my jeans and I'm going to thrash you... and thrash you so hard..."

"Oh Christ!" I sighed, as my insides turned over and something molten seemed to drench my sex, "I'll do it."

He smiled and stood back. I looked over at Jason, who was watching me with blatant desire, and I realised dimly that I really had drunk too much because I found myself sauntering over to him with a 'come hither' smile on my face.

"Okay Jason. Where do you want me?" I felt a stomach-churning excitement at the thought of how wanton and easy I was being, and what professional risks I was running. In a voice hoarse with excitement he ordered me to bend over right in the middle of the floor and to grip my ankles with my legs well apart. It was how Martin liked me and I willingly did as I was told. The restaurant we had been to was a very good one, and the men were in suits while I had worn a long, full skirted dress which was easily lifted and piled up on my back. I even wiggled my bottom provocatively when I felt my thong being pulled down until it stretched tight between my thighs.

I glanced back between my legs, wild with a reckless excitement. "I don't usually do this Jason, so you'd better make it a good one," I told him.
He did too, delivering hard blows and allowing time for the sting to sink in deep before the next one built on it. He landed eight in all before Martin stepped in and told Jason he could fuck me if he wanted.

The very coarseness of the word ripped through my excitement and the heat which was building inside me as my buttocks were scalded. Suddenly the whole scene was thrown into its proper perspective. What the hell had I thought I was doing?

How had I got into this mess?

I had always led a busy life up until I met Martin, and men had just been a part of it. Fun but no more than that, but that first night with Martin! He really lit the lights and pushed all the right buttons. And what's more he got me into bed the first night we met, and that was a first for me. I wasn't prim or proper or anything, it was just a standard I had set myself no matter how much I fancied the man. A girl who was in my position didn't want to be thought of as an easy lay. Word gets around; especially in the media business.

I was a political journalist in those days. You might well have read my work in the national dailies. After leaving university with a very good degree, I worked for two of them and loved every minute of it. I wasn't above a little flirting with press secretaries and 'advisers' to get my briefings - and yes there were a few 'double entendres' about getting my briefs in return - but none of them did. Too risky; everyone said I was heading for TV.

But I never got there. I would have been good though. A sharp mind in a five foot six body, good enough legs and a thirty four C bra size, trim waist and stomach - even now - and I am conceited enough to admit that I have a pretty face. Wide-set hazel eyes, a chin that someone who later played a large part in my life called 'cute' and the kind of lips that men like to kiss, or be kissed by. Top that with a thick brunette mane worn to shoulder length and I would have been up there making mincemeat of politicians five nights a week, batting my eyelashes, crossing my legs, then hitting them with the question they really didn't want to answer; all the usual tricks of the trade.

Instead I met Martin. No regrets.

It was in one of those West End pubs where hacks of all descriptions hang out. I had just done an interview with a junior minister and was going to write it up the next morning, so I was chatting with a girlfriend who wrote for one of the tabloids when he joined us.

He was tall and dark, but not handsome. He had a pleasant smile though, I do remember that making a big impression on me. I don't want to describe him any more because subsequently he has made it into TV and his face is very well known. But in any case women don't focus on appearances as much as men do to form initial judgements. I just remember an easy way with words, that smile, and a relaxed self-assured manner. A lot of journalists are constantly on edge - always looking for that next idea, that next item - but Martin seemed to know exactly where he was going and was quite certain that he was going to get there.

After some small talk we adjourned to a restaurant a few doors away. All through the meal washed down with a couple more glasses of wine than was good for me, I was aware of that special secret tingle of anticipation and excitement that women get low down in their stomachs when there's sex in the air. And there was. He was a good listener, which is a very sexy quality in a man. After all if a woman is going to end up in bed with a man, she likes to think he at least knows who he is screwing.

His flat was only a short walk away and while he poured out a nightcap I hurried to the bathroom. I was still dressed for work and that meant tights. They had to go! But what about the knickers? They were workaday too, and frankly a bit damp by that time. I wriggled out of them, screwed them up with the tights and crammed them into my handbag. Then a quick comb of the hair and I was ready. The skirt could have been a bit shorter but it would have to do.

There is a very special feeling, any woman reading this will know it, when you decide that the man you are with is going to have you in his bed in a few minutes. There is a wonderful sense of release. That's it, you have burned your boats and all you want now is for him to be as good as you hope he is. It's a hot, moist feeling and the butterflies start in your stomach.

And that night it was unusually strong. As soon as I entered the lounge he kissed me long and hard. He tasted of whisky and smelled of sweat, deodorant and above all; man. His arms held me tight and I pressed into him until I was breathless, then he led me to the couch and sat down beside me - close.

I managed to take a bit of my drink although my hand trembled; the butterflies were running riot and I knew that between my legs I was hot and moist.

"Do you want to tell me you don't usually do this now? Or later?" he asked quietly.

His hand was on my bare thigh.

"Neither. I've taken my knickers off," I told him.

I reached my arms up to pull him onto me, just inched my hips forward and parted my legs for him. I shivered and moaned into his kiss as I felt his fingers slide up my thigh and into the warmth at the top. Expertly he parted the lips and found my clitoris. Just a fingertip at first and then the length of the finger itself as it slid down and into me through the front door.

He was good! He explored every inch of me slowly and carefully, probing up with two fingers, parting them inside, then twisting them and clenching them, sensitising every nerve ending in my vagina until I was getting the first flutterings of orgasm before I was even undressed. And I came properly when at last he went back to the clit and gave it some serious attention. He was rougher with it than anyone had been before, rubbing and rasping his hand up and down, pressing hard. But I responded, it was pleasure so intense that it was almost pain, I broke the kiss and just lay there gasping, pushing up with my hips to grind against his hand harder and harder until I came in full Technicolor.

That was the first of many firsts that night. In bed he went on being patient and slow, but very rough in some ways. I loved every second of it. When he first drove up between my wide open legs, he dug his fingers deep into my bottom, making me arch up under him and cry out as he squeezed handfuls of my flesh between fingers and thumbs, his nails sending sharp little needles of pain to mix with the delight of feeling him deep inside me. I lifted my legs and wrapped them round his hips to get every last bit of him right up there where it counts while I ground my poor clit against the base of his shaft. It wasn't the biggest cock I had ever seen but it could stay the distance all right.

I was almost praying for him to come after two more almighty climaxes had ripped through me, and then he started those big pushes, the ones which seem to go right up to the cervix and beyond. I clawed at his back and he clenched his hands even harder into my bottom. He ducked his head down and started giving the side of my neck a painfully hard love bite. I had always climaxed fairly loudly but I'm sure that when he finally reached his peak inside me and pushed me over the edge yet again I swore and yelled like a madwoman.

It was my first ever experience of the strange alchemy of pain and pleasure mixed. Pretty tame by the standards I have come to expect subsequently but very real nonetheless.

There were other firsts that night. The first time I did oral on a first screw. The first time I ever had a finger in the back door while I had a penis in the front. For me it felt wild and uninhibited. This was new territory and I explored it eagerly. In the warm, after-sex-scented dark under the duvet I licked my way round his scrotum until it tightened into that lovely crinkly sac which means the balls are ready to shoot all over again.

How do men produce the stuff so quickly? Time after time.

I had never been afraid of oral or found it distasteful but this time I went much further, exploring that ridge which runs back from the base of the penis and merges into the anus, then it was back up and open wide for the helmet. It filled my mouth very nicely and tasted richly of his sperm, and acridly of my own juices. I flicked my tongue at that sensitive spot on the underside of the helmet, just where the foreskin gathers and heard him groan. That was enough, I didn't want him coming in my mouth just then. Later maybe but for now I wanted to go for another ride. I heaved myself up and straddled him then lowered myself towards where I held his shaft in both hands. First I guided it to my clit which was fully up again and ready for more punishment, I rubbed the head of his cock against it until I was ready and then sank down onto it. He ran his hands along my thighs, rubbed his thumbs at my clit with brutal hardness which only made me begin to jiggle up and down on him and then he reached behind me. I think I groaned in mock protest but covered his hands with my own when they resumed that grip on my buttocks. When I came that time, I was collapsed forward onto him, being shaken about like a rag doll by his upward lunges into me and beyond all thought.

I know we woke each other in the night and there was more because when I woke in the morning the first thing I became aware of was a stinging, burning feel between my legs, a sure sign that I had had a good seeing-to.

But I wasn't just a well-screwed girl I was also a working one. I glanced at my watch and leapt up, I had an interview to file. Martin sat up and watched me, looking very tempting but there would be other times, for now I was all business.

"You've got a lovely arse Emma," he said. "A man could get off on smacking it good and hard."

"A man could die waiting for the chance to try it," I told him, but waggled it at him playfully.

In a second he was off the bed and onto me. There was a confused minute or two of laughing, giggling struggle. He was naked and fully erect, I could feel it pressing against me as I fought him and could smell the scent of sex. And here was another first; the joy of struggling against a strong man, knowing you're going to lose and he's going to do what he wants anyway. But it feels good to make him exert his strength to overpower you. I thought I was going to get the morning screw but when he picked me up like I weighed nothing at all, he carried me back to the bed, sat on the edge and put me face down across his knees. All I had managed to do was get my knickers on, and these he yanked down.

Suddenly I was furious at being put in such a humiliating position and all the excitement died. I flailed my arms at him and tried to twist but he simply reached down and around with his left arm, trapping my upper body. I squirmed and wriggled but only ground my already sore breasts against the rough hairs on his thigh.

Here was I, a highly paid young career woman put over a man's knee like... like a schoolgirl! No way! But there was nothing I could do.

I heard the first smack before I felt it. It went off like a pistol shot and there was a second's numbness, then a sharp, stinging pain which seemed to catch in my throat and make me gulp for breath. Then he smacked me again, on the other cheek. When I could get my breath I screamed every insult I could think of at him. But he carried on regardless. It was a good hard session too; he put all his strength into it and soon I was ablaze with scalding pain and crying my heart out. I was so hurt and humiliated that I was totally limp when he picked me up again and this time threw me down onto the bed on my back. I yelled as my bottom hit but then Martin was on top of me and I fought again. Nails, teeth, I tried everything but he calmly trapped my wrists and pinned them to the bed over my head while he used his thighs to spread mine and I felt the hardness of his erection rub against my pubes. I went mad then, twisting and bucking, but he waited till I ran out of energy and let his weight pin me. I had lost and all he had to do was hump his back slightly and there he was, nudging at my entrance. My vagina certainly wasn't lubricated, but neither was it totally uncooperative. He was able to get a little way in. I gritted my teeth and tried to concentrate on my fury, anything but think of him easing into the body he had treated so badly only minutes ago. But for a woman to think of anything else while a man is pushing himself up into her is virtually impossible. I stared up into his face, which was regarding me calmly, and spat.

"Next time, I'll beat you harder for that," he said.

That left me utterly speechless. Next time! Beat me again! After what he had done? I was going straight to the police, never mind anything else.
But while I was struggling to absorb this latest outrage, quite suddenly he was fully into me and his whole weight pressed down on me. He let go of my wrists, reached under me and gripped my buttocks again. This time I really yelled, but he stopped my mouth with his own and began to move inside me. Thrust and withdraw, slowly, rhythmically, the oldest rhythm in the world, at the same time he gradually increased his grip on my bottom. My attempted yells faded to groans and then I suddenly realised that my hips were responding to the rhythm and that the pain in my bottom had joined the pleasure in my sex to form one seamless sensation that was neither pleasure nor pain but something quite different.

The previous night's orgasms faded into insignificance. I couldn't tell where his body ended and mine began, I lost all thoughts and very nearly passed out when my climax exploded. I heard him shout something and realised that he had come as well and we bucked, thrashed and twisted as one body while the aftershocks ran through us.

Over the following days I seesawed wildly between hate for Martin, shame and disgust at myself and fond memories of the sex. I felt used and abused but couldn't deny that the climax I had enjoyed after the beating had been the best ever.

Eventually I even stood with my back to my dressing table mirror with my skirt up and my knickers down to see if there were still any marks. There were still scratches and bruises from his fingers, but no red marks from the actual spanking and a treacherous part of me regretted that, so I gave in and rang him.

We met at a bistro in Soho. I was deliberately late but he seemed quite unconcerned and rose to greet me, giving me a quick peck on the cheek as I got to his table. I tried to be all aloof and cool, but it's difficult when you know he got you into the sack so quickly on your first night. And then there had been the spanking and now, here I was again. Back for more? I honestly didn't know, but he had woken something in me, I had to admit that, and whatever I felt about him, it was different to the way I had ever felt about any other man.

While I picked at what was more of a snack than a meal he was gentleman enough to keep the conversation away from the bedroom, but when we were into our third glass of wine I couldn't stand it any more.

"Look Martin," I said. "I've got to know. If I come back to your place tonight, are you going to... you know... do that to me again?"

He was quite unperturbed. "I promised you another spanking, so yes. I fully intend to keep that promise."

The bistro was crowded and I looked round in panic; he had spoken quite loudly and plainly.

"I meant what I said Emma," he went on. "You have a lovely arse. Just a nice size - a good handful in each cheek. And they wobble so beautifully when they're hit."

"Shut up!" I hissed desperately, although I suddenly realised that I had my stockinged thighs clamped together to savour that treacherous tingling at their tops.

"Have you kept your knickers on tonight?" he continued, completely ignoring me.

I had. The briefest thong I owned - and I had on my one pair of stockings - emergencies only. I had wanted it to be secret that I had dressed to look good undressed. But his words felt like they were stripping me in public. He was pushing all the buttons again, totally in control.
Again I gave in.

"Yes," I whispered. "And stockings and suspenders. The whole works. But do you have to do it so hard this time?" That last part came out in a girlish whine.

"Yes, of course. Come on, we're leaving."
I followed him out, weak kneed and fluttering inside.

Back at his flat I duly got what was coming to me. This time he didn't put me over his knee, he made me strip in the middle of the lounge while he watched. He wasn't giving me anywhere to hide or pretend that I didn't want what was coming.

I had on a simple shift dress so it didn't take long till I was standing with just stockings, suspenders and high heels on. Martin let his eyes wander over me slowly and I felt my breasts start to get that tight feeling as my nipples started standing to attention. Down below I was all heat and butterflies again.

"Come and kneel down here," he told me at last.

I did as I was told, kneeling beside him and facing the sofa, then he had me lay my torso on the cushions so that my bottom stuck out towards the room. I tried to bury my face in the cushions to blot out just how exposed and vulnerable I knew I looked. I felt him get up and then heard him undress before he put one knee on the sofa beside me, his left hand on the small of my back and his right on my bottom.

Oh God! This was going to hurt! But I didn't make a move; I wanted to see just how much it would hurt.

"How many am I getting?" I asked.

"As many as I want to give you," he said quietly and then he started.

It was a good beating. Hard strokes delivered steadily so that the heat and sting from one could spread up from my buttocks before the next one landed. I gasped and wriggled, humping and arching my back under his strong left hand as smack after smack rained down. My nipples rubbed hard on the fabric of the cushions as I writhed. And all the while my whole pelvic area glowed and stung and burned in that strange way it had before. It was as though his hands were striking directly into my sex. And although I yelped and whimpered in genuine pain, I was responding as if to a really good screwing.

At last he gave me a rest and I lay panting and twitching, but then he dug his fingers between my thighs and straight into my sex. I gasped at the roughness of the intrusion but opened my legs instead of clenching them shut. It only took a few moments until I could hear as well as feel how my vagina was responding. Shameless squelching noises came from inside me as he worked his fingers. I couldn't tell how many he had in there I was so open and wet.

He chuckled and started in again and I howled and wriggled even more. This time it really hurt and he had to almost lean on my shoulders to keep me down, but even as each resounding smack forced floods of tears from my eyes, I knew I was getting more and more desperate for him to take me. And at last he did. He knelt behind me and had me doggie style. He went in so easily and so fast that it felt like he was going to go right up into my stomach. I was well and truly impaled on him and with his hands on my hips he rode me to three orgasms before he came himself. He never even touched my breasts or my clit, he just rode me like an animal until he allowed himself to come, forcing me to climax under him just as easily as he had made me strip and kneel for him. I was beaten in all senses of the word.

For two months I was the happiest girl in London. I went to his flat when he rang and summoned me, I dropped whatever I was doing and ran to meet him for drinks or dinner whenever he wanted me to. I learned the importance of taking my time, when his summons allowed me to. Showering or bathing, then perfuming every nook and cranny before easing the stockings up my legs and fastening the suspenders, taking hours to choose the right dress or suit, always a suit with a skirt though. And always I wore suspenders and stockings or hold ups underneath.

And for the first time I really got turned on by looking at myself in the mirror and seeing the way the suspenders framed the area of my sex, looking almost like a harness and I began to understand why men love the contrast between the naked and the stockinged thigh - the change from outward appearance to naked intimacy. There's really only one reason why a woman dresses like that.
Once he had me get a taxi to the flat wearing only bra, suspenders and stockings beneath a coat. But always he beat me. And always hard. And every

time he did I grew more and more accustomed to the strange regions a woman can be taken to. I bent over every item of furniture in the flat and even learned to bend over in the middle of the floor and hold my ankles.

I really believed I had the strong man I had obviously always wanted. And I probably would have gone on believing it if Martin hadn't taken me to dinner that night with Jason, then let him beat me and offered me for screwing into the bargain.

"No!" I yelled and twisted away, straightening up to face the men, flustered and dishevelled but defiant. "He's bloody well not going to do that, Martin!"

While Jason had been beating me, he had helped himself to another whisky and now he drained it. "So you won't obey me, Emma?" he asked quietly.
"Damn right I won't!" I screamed, too angry to even note the humiliating use of the word 'obey'.

"Sorry Jason. Looks like you'll have to settle for the spanking for now." He seemed strangely unperturbed and Jason just shrugged and made to leave, Martin followed him out and I helped myself to a drink.

"Well Emma," he said on his return, "I promised you something new and now I've got the perfect excuse to do it."

At once I realised what game he had been playing. He had deliberately put me in a position where I had been bound to refuse to do what he wanted. So now I was going to get a real punishment beating, which was something I had never had before. Tingling excitement erupted once again and I decided I would play the game to the end.

"Get stuffed," I told him.

He came close and I could see genuine anger in his face. Suddenly I was scared as well as excited - like you get at the start of a fairground ride. Was he playing or had he really expected me to let Jason fuck me? The risks and dangers of the situation set my pulse racing.

"You let me down in front of an old friend, you bitch," he said and without warning he slapped me. I staggered back and fetched up against the drinks cabinet. "Now I'm going to punish you."

"All right then," I said fingering my blazing cheek and finding I was really enjoying the thrill of the danger. "See if you can make me say sorry."

He slapped me again, on the other cheek sending me reeling sideways into the TV set. I looked up at him, my heart hammering wildly, my bottom still glowing and now my sex fluttering. He stood before me, calm and authoritative; powerful and in control. I melted completely and he saw it.

"Go into the bedroom and take the belt out of my jeans, then bring it to me here for your punishment."

I did as I was told, hardly able to breathe from excitement and fear. I fumbled the belt out from the loops that held it, my nervous fingers feeling the thickness and weight of the leather. Then I took it back to the man who was about to beat me. I watched as he wrapped a couple of turns round his fist, leaving a good long lash to use on me then he had me strip completely and lie on the coffee table.

I went to the long low table, straddled it and lay down on my face, squashing my breasts against the cold wood and feeling my nipples harden into full arousal. I braced my hands, feet and knees on the carpet and waited.

I heard him go to the drinks cabinet and pour another large measure of whisky. He drained it in one go and then came to stand by my right shoulder. I braced myself for this new experience. My first taste of leather. And I nearly jumped out of my skin when the first lash landed. It cracked deafeningly loudly across my shoulders and I really hadn't expected that. I was so naive! I thought I was just in for a more extreme bottom thrashing, but suddenly I knew he intended to whip my back as well. Images of true slavery leapt to my mind even as the second lash cracked home. This one was across the buttocks and started a strange, burning, itchy sort of stinging; quite unlike a hand spanking. Then he moved his target to my middle back, then the shoulders again. He was plainly intent on keeping me guessing as to where he was going to strike next. The physical sensations were far from pleasant at this stage of the whipping but mentally I was incredibly turned on by my own submission and vulnerability, and now by Martin's coldly calculating way of tormenting me further.

More lashes fell; the noise of leather smacking down onto my own flesh had me squirming with excitement even as the stinging they caused began to escalate into a fire of breathtaking intensity.

When he had me giving little breathless gasps at each lash, he stopped.

"Don't move," he said, still cold and distant.

Again I heard him go to the drinks cabinet. I should have told him then how excited I was and that I was quite happy for him to carry on; to take me further into the strange landscape of pleasure and pain that was opening up before me, but all I could do was hang my head down and try to get my breath back. I realised that I had shifted my hands and now they gripped the table legs with white knuckles. Then Martin was back and the belt swung in again. The second batch was far more intense. The lashes built on the earlier ones and I moaned and kicked and writhed as my whole body seemed engulfed by white-hot flames.

I had no idea how many I had taken when he finally stopped, but I just lay, panting and gasping as the fires raged. Deep inside me though there was a certain pride and peace. I had taken my punishment and in so doing had come to know myself fully. I had been whipped - how that word went round and round in my head - and when Martin took me as he surely would do, he would find me open and ready for him. He did indeed take me, right there and then, still face down on the table. He tore off his clothes and rammed himself towards the crease of my vulva where it was plainly on view between my now well-whipped buttocks. He used his hand only to guide his shaft, there was no preliminary fingering but he slid into me with no problem and I cried out at the depth and speed of the penetration. He laughed at how easily he went in and, careless of my discomfort pushed his whole weight down onto me. I could smell the whisky on his breath as he lay on me and pumped in and out hard and fast. I came very quickly that time and the orgasm blended and blurred all the borders between the vaginal stimulation, the white heat in my back and buttocks and the way Martin's body was crushing mine down onto the hard wood. It was simply mind-blowing and I just lay like a wrung out rag while he rammed himself to his own climax and finished with me.

However much pleasure I had taken in being punished with the belt, Martin had taken more in delivering that punishment. He was insatiable that night and drove me to the point of begging for mercy after God knows how many orgasms. He took great delight in digging his fingers hard into my back and bottom as he thrust into me when he took me to bed and it had never felt so good. Especially when he whispered that the next day he was going to buy a cane. By the time I sank into an exhausted sleep I was quite certain that I had found the man I wanted, and that I had also found myself.
I couldn't have been more wrong.

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