A Life in Hollywood Ch. 13 - Adrianne Palicki (John Wick) (Patreon)

A Life in Hollywood

Chapter 13 - Adrianne Palicki (John Wick)

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The air on the Brooklyn set of John Wick was different. It wasn't the fantastical chaos of a sci-fi epic or the grueling emotional marathon of a period drama. This was a stripped-down, brutalist poetry of violence. The air tasted of cordite, stale coffee, and the low, electric hum of a world about to be made. For Osiah Morse, it was a return to a familiar rhythm. He was once again a 2nd 2nd AD, a ghost in the machine, his days a frantic ballet of walkie-talkies, background actors, and the constant, moving puzzle of keeping chaos from spiraling into true disaster. But this chaos had a different texture. It was precise, deliberate, and almost elegant in its brutality.

His domain was the sprawling, multi-level set of the "Continental" hotel, a world of rich mahogany and hushed, deadly tones. Today, they were shooting the lobby scene, a sequence that required over a hundred background actors to move with a specific, choreographed indifference to the gunfight that was about to erupt. Osiah was the conductor of this silent, deadly orchestra.

"Alright, people, listen up!" he called out, his voice a calm, steady baritone that cut through the low murmur of conversation without ever raising it. He moved through the crowd of extras, his presence a calming, authoritative force. "You're not tourists. You're not hotel guests. You are professionals in a world where violence is the only language. When the shooting starts, I want you to react with a specific kind of fear. Not panic. Not shock. Annoyance. This is an inconvenient interruption to your evening. You've seen this before. You will see it again. Find your mark. Let's go."

He spotted a young extra, a kid barely out of his teens, who was fidgeting with his tie and looking far too eager for the coming bloodshed. Osiah jogged over, crouching down beside him. "Hey, kid. What's your story?" he asked softly.

The kid blinked, surprised. "My... my story?"

"Yeah. Why are you here? Business? Pleasure? You just waiting for your connection?"

"Uh... business," the kid stammered. "I'm... a money launderer."

"Good," Osiah nodded, a small, encouraging smile on his face. "Then when the guns come out, you're not going to be impressed. You're going to be pissed. This is bad for business. This is going to make your boss very unhappy. I want to see that frustration. Show me the face of a man whose night has just been ruined. Got it?"

The kid's whole demeanor changed. The nervous energy was replaced by a focused, simmering aggravation. He nodded. "Got it."

"Excellent," Osiah said, giving him a pat on the shoulder before moving on.

He was a master of these small, human interactions. He wasn't just managing bodies; he was curating mindsets. He found a group of women playing high-rollers in the corner. "Ladies," he said with a charming smile. "You look like you're having a wonderful time. Keep that. When the shooting starts, I want you to be annoyed. Maybe a little frightened, but mostly annoyed. Like a fly has just entered your perfect evening. Don't scream. Don't run. Just... shrink back. Look at each other with that 'can you believe this is happening?' look. Make it real."

He spent the next twenty minutes making these small adjustments, planting seeds of motivation in the minds of a hundred people, transforming them from a crowd of extras into the living, breathing world of the Continental. He was the silent hand shaping the reality of the scene, ensuring that when Keanu walked through that door, the world he was entering was already alive and breathing.

***

It was during a particularly complex setup in the "Red Circle" nightclub sequence that he found himself working in close proximity to Keanu Reeves. The shoot was grueling, a twelve-hour marathon of intricate fight choreography under hot, blinding lights that baked the set and everyone on it. Between takes, while the crew frantically reset the shattered glass and re-rigged the wirework for a high fall, Osiah would watch Keanu. The man didn't sit. He’d stand off to the side, away from the monitors, his body a coiled spring of focused energy. He'd run through the choreography in his head, his hands moving in slow, precise motions, his feet tracing the patterns on the floor. It was a quiet intensity that was almost palpable, a complete immersion in the character of the Baba Yaga that was both fascinating and a little intimidating to witness.

One afternoon, a particularly punishing throw against a reinforced glass wall left Keanu wincing. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw as he rolled his shoulder, a gesture most would have missed. But Osiah, whose eyes were trained to notice the physical toll of the job, saw it instantly. It was an opening.

During the next break, as the crew scrambled to prepare for the next shot, Osiah grabbed a bottle of water from a nearby cooler and approached him. "Tough day," Osiah said, his voice low and calm, a stark contrast to the controlled chaos around them.

Keanu turned, his face breaking into a grateful, genuine smile. He took the water, twisting the cap off with a practiced motion. "They're all tough days," he said, his voice a little raspy. "But this one's got a little extra bite. My shoulder's singing a pretty sad song right now. Reminding me of its age."

Osiah leaned back against the stack of fake marble columns, arms crossed casually over his chest, the kind of relaxed posture that said he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. “I used to play a little ball,” he offered, voice easy, almost offhand. “Linebacker and strong safety for USC. Started games at those positions my freshman year, got some decent snaps. Then third game of sophomore season—big hit from a 260-pound fullback out of Oregon. Knee went sideways. Popped like a champagne cork. ACL, MCL, the works. Spent more time in the training room after that than I ever did on the field. Learned a hell of a lot about knots from the team docs and trainers, though. How to read a body that’s been pushed way past its limit. How to tell when it’s just fatigue and when it’s screaming for mercy.”

Keanu paused mid-sip, bottle hovering near his lips. His eyes—warm, dark, and sharper than most people gave him credit for—flickered with real interest, cutting through the exhaustion that had settled into the lines around them like dust after a long day. He lowered the water slowly.

“No kidding?” he said, genuine surprise softening the rasp in his voice. “Linebacker and strong safety? That’s serious impact. You were out there laying wood on people.”

Osiah gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “Tried to. Got laid wood on right back. Nature of the game.”

Keanu let out a quiet laugh, the sound low and easy, like it surprised even him. He rolled the bottle between his palms, thinking. “I did a movie about that once. The Replacements. Played a quarterback—Shane Falco. Spent months learning how to take a hit from guys twice my size. Real NFL linebackers on set. They didn’t pull punches during rehearsals. Gene Hackman was the coach, taught me everything. How to look like you’re reading the blitz, how to drop back without telegraphing, how to eat turf and make it look like you meant to do it.”

Osiah’s mouth curved into a half-smile. “The art of falling down.”

“Exactly.” Keanu’s laugh came again, warmer this time, pushing some of the weariness off his shoulders for a second. “It’s a whole different kind of performance. You have to sell the pain without actually wrecking yourself. Sell the hit, sell the limp, sell the grit. But there’s a fine line between looking hurt and being hurt. You cross it, you’re done for the day—or longer.”

He rolled his shoulder again—slow, testing—and the grimace that crossed his face was subtle but unmistakable. A quick tightening around the eyes, a slight hitch in his breath. Most people would have missed it. Osiah didn’t.

“Shoulder’s barking at you,” Osiah said, not a question.

Keanu exhaled through his nose, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Yeah, that last throw into the glass—reinforced, but still felt like getting hit by a truck. Think I pulled something in the trap. Maybe the rhomboid too. Been tight since lunch.”

Osiah studied him for a beat—professional assessment, not pity. He could see the way Keanu was holding the shoulder slightly forward, the faint compensation in his posture, the way the trapezius on the right side bunched higher than the left. “I can feel it from here,” he said quietly. “You’re favoring it. Trapezius is locked up tighter than a drum. Probably some adhesions pulling on the scapula. You keep moving like that, it’ll chain-react down your back by tomorrow.”

Keanu tilted his head, considering. “You sound like you’ve seen this movie before.”

“Watched a lot of teammates try to tough it out. Never ends well.” Osiah jerked his chin toward the row of trailers parked along the edge of the lot. “I’ve got my kit with me. Portable table, oil, the good stuff. Give me ten minutes. I can have it feeling human again. No promises on miracles, but I can at least get the knot to let go so you’re not grinding bone all afternoon.”

Keanu looked at him—really looked. Took in the calm certainty in Osiah’s eyes, the way he wasn’t pushing, wasn’t name-dropping or trying to prove anything. Just a guy who knew what he was talking about and wasn’t in a hurry to prove it. A slow, considering smile spread across Keanu’s face, the kind that reached his eyes and made the exhaustion recede another inch.

“You know what?” he said. “I’m gonna take you up on that. Lead the way.”

Osiah pushed off the columns with a nod. “This way. My trailer’s the gray one with the black stripe. Two down from crafty.”

They walked in comfortable silence across the lot, boots crunching on gravel, the distant clatter of crew resetting the next shot fading behind them. Keanu rolled his shoulder once more—testing—and winced again, but there was a flicker of anticipation in it now instead of resignation.

Inside Osiah’s trailer it was quiet, organized chaos: a folding massage table already set up in the small open space, a duffel of supplies unzipped on the counter, bottles of oil and balm lined up like soldiers. No posters, no ego. Just tools and a guy who knew how to use them.

“Shirt off,” Osiah said, voice matter-of-fact. “Lie face down. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Keanu peeled off the black T-shirt without ceremony, tossing it over the back of a chair. The muscles across his back were impressive—years of training and discipline etched into every line—but the right trapezius and rhomboid were visibly bunched, the fibers standing out in hard cords. Old scar tissue from previous stunts showed as faint silvery lines here and there.

Osiah washed his hands at the tiny sink, then warmed some oil between his palms. “Gonna start light. Just mapping it out. Tell me if anything feels wrong.”

He placed both hands on Keanu’s upper back first—broad, steady contact, no pressure yet. Just heat and presence. Then his thumbs began to move, slow circles over the trapezius, feeling for the familiar density of locked muscle.

“There it is,” he murmured. “Feel that? Like a golf ball under the skin. Been there a while?”

Keanu exhaled into the face cradle. “Few weeks, probably. Kept thinking it’d let go. Didn’t.”

Osiah’s fingers found the adhesion—old, stubborn, wrapped around the edge of the scapula like it had taken up permanent residence. He didn’t dig in right away. He used slow, gliding strokes first, warming the tissue, coaxing blood flow. Then he targeted the knot with precise, cross-fiber friction, thumbs sinking in at just the right angle.

Keanu hissed softly through his teeth.

“Too much?” Osiah asked, easing off a fraction.

“No. Good hurt. Keep going.”

Osiah nodded to himself and settled into a rhythm—deep, deliberate pressure followed by long effleurage strokes down the back to flush the area. He worked the levator scapulae next, then down into the rhomboids, feeling the muscle fibers gradually start to release under his hands. The change was audible: Keanu’s breathing slowed, deepened. The tension in his shoulders visibly dropped.

After about eight minutes Osiah switched to gentle stretching—guiding Keanu’s arm back in slow arcs, opening the chest, resetting the shoulder girdle. Each movement was careful, controlled.

“Better?” Osiah asked finally, wiping his hands on a towel.

Keanu pushed himself up slowly, rolled both shoulders, then reached across his body to test the range. No wince. No hitch. Just smooth, easy motion.

He looked at Osiah, eyebrows raised. “Jesus. That’s… night and day. How the hell did you do that?”

“Years of watching people hurt themselves and figuring out how to undo it.” Osiah gave a small shrug. “You’re carrying a lot of old compensation patterns. Stunt work builds them up. You keep going, they layer. I just peeled the top one off.”

Keanu stood, stretching his arms overhead, testing. A slow grin spread across his face. “You just saved my afternoon. Maybe my week.”

“Happy to help.”

Keanu grabbed his shirt, pulled it back on, then paused at the door. “This isn’t a one-time thing, is it? If my back starts barking again…”

Osiah met his eyes, calm and steady. “Door’s open. Kit’s always ready.”

Keanu nodded once—respect, gratitude, the quiet beginning of something solid. “Appreciate it, man. Really.”

He stepped out into the lot, shoulder already moving freer, lighter. Behind him, Osiah started breaking down the table, the faint scent of arnica and wintergreen lingering in the air.

Their friendship was cemented not just in the shared grind of the set, but in the quiet therapeutic space of a trailer.

Word, as it always did, traveled. It reached Adrianne Palicki, who was inhabiting the role of Ms. Perkins with a cool, lethal grace. She and Osiah's interactions had been limited to the perfunctory phrases of set life—"Ready when you are, Adrianne," "Quiet on set, please," "Looking good." But she'd heard the whispers from Keanu, heard him praising the "magic hands" of the new 2nd 2nd AD who could make a twelve-hour shoot feel like a light workout. A plan began to form in her mind.

***

The next morning, Osiah was on the lot before the sun, the predawn air cool and sharp. He was coordinating the arrival of a fleet of vintage taxis, their yellow paint gleaming under the set lights. He was deep in conversation with the transportation captain, cross-referencing vehicle IDs with call sheet numbers, when he felt a shift in the atmosphere, a subtle ripple of awareness that made him look up.

And then he saw her. Adrianne Palicki was walking towards the set. She was already in her Ms. Perkins gear, a tailored, severe pantsuit that did nothing to hide the incredible figure beneath. The jacket was cut sharp and militaristic, accentuating a narrow waist that seemed to go on for days, but the trousers were the true masterpiece. They were crafted from a heavy, stretchable fabric that clung to her hips and ass in a way that was almost criminal, outlining every powerful curve and muscle. Her body full of athletic power, all long, toned limbs and a statuesque presence that commanded attention, a lethal elegance that was both intimidating and breathtaking. Her tits, high and full, pressed firmly against the crisp white fabric of her shirt, creating a perfect, mouth-watering curve that was impossible to ignore.

She felt his gaze, a subtle shift in the energy of her peripheral vision, a prickle of awareness that told her she was being watched. A slow, knowing, predatory smile touched her lips. Instead of continuing on the direct path to her trailer, she changed course, her long legs carrying her with a fluid grace towards the area where Osiah was directing the background extras. She moved closer, ostensibly to look at the call sheet he was holding, but the motion was a deliberate, sensual invasion of his personal space. She leaned in, her arm brushing against his, the scent of her perfume—a clean, sharp mix of citrus and something warmer, like sandalwood—filling his senses, a potent distraction that made it difficult to focus.

"Morning, Osiah," she said, her voice a low, husky murmur that was meant only for him. "Big day today. The club scene."

"Biggest one yet," he managed, his voice even, though he could feel the heat rising in his neck. He forced himself to meet her gaze, to focus on her face and not the way the fabric of her pants strained against her thighs.

Her own gaze was far from subtle. It drifted down his body, a slow, deliberate perusal that lingered for a moment on his chest before moving lower. He was in a simple t-shirt and jogging pants, a standard uniform for the long hours on set. And in the soft morning light, the incredibly visible imprint of his cock against the thin fabric of his joggers was impossible to miss. It wasn't just a bulge; it was a thick, heavy ridge that promised a formidable reality, a clear outline of a semi-hard shaft that lay thick against his thigh. Adrianne felt a fresh surge of heat pool in her core, a sudden, dizzying rush of lust that made her knees feel weak. She had to physically force herself to focus on her request, to not just fall to her knees right there in the middle of the lot and pull him out of those pants.

"The chaos is part of the fun, isn't it?" he managed, his voice even, betraying none of the turmoil going on in his own mind.

"It is," she agreed, her eyes finally meeting his, a spark of amusement dancing in their depths. "But it takes its toll. The stunt work... it's a different kind of performance. I was talking to Keanu. He said you have a way with... recovery."

"I just know where the knots are," Osiah said, his tone neutral, but his eyes held hers, acknowledging the true nature of her question, the unspoken invitation hanging in the air between them.

"Well," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her lips brushing against his ear as she leaned in closer. "I've got a few of my own. They tend to accumulate after a day of being thrown through walls. I was wondering... if you'd be willing to work your magic on me. After we wrap for the day."

"My trailer or yours?" he asked, his voice a low, rumble that was laced with a thick, undeniable tension.

"Mine," she replied, a hint of challenge in her smile.

The rest of the day was a blur of controlled mayhem. Osiah was in his element, a whirlwind of quiet efficiency moving through the sprawling nightclub set. The Red Circle wasn't just a location; it was a character, and he was responsible for making it breathe. His voice was a constant, calming presence on the walkie-talkie, a stream of clipped, precise instructions that kept the chaos from boiling over.

"Background, on my mark," he'd say, the headset crackling with his voice. "I need you to look panicked but not too panicked. You're jaded New Yorkers. You've seen this before. A Tuesday night for you. Let me see the annoyance, not the terror. You're trying to finish your overpriced cocktail." He moved through the crowd of extras, his hands making subtle adjustments, a nudge to a shoulder, a whispered note to a dancer. "You, by the bar. You're not a bouncer, you're a connoisseur of chaos. You're enjoying this. A little smile. That's it."

He crouched next to a group of Russian mob extras, their faces grim and determined. He adjusted the hold on their prop weapons, his touch firm. "Less like you're holding a gun, more like it's an extension of your arm. You've had this thing since you were sixteen. You know its weight, its balance. You're killers. Act like it. Show me the cold-blooded efficiency." He was the oil in the machine, ensuring that when Keanu and Adrianne stepped into the frame, the world around them was as real and as dangerous as it needed to be.

Adrianne, for her part, was a force of nature. He watched her between takes, her body a weapon in its own right. He saw her throw herself into the stunts with a ferocity that was breathtaking, her movements a fluid, deadly dance that blended the grace of a dancer with the impact of a fighter. In one take, she was thrown over a table, a stunt that had him wincing in sympathy. The table was rigged to break, but the landing was real. She hit the ground with a thud that made everyone on set flinch. For a moment, there was silence. Then, she popped up, shards of fake wood in her hair, a furious, determined glare on her face, and gave a sharp nod to the director. She was ready for the next cue. She was a warrior, and she was magnificent.

He saw her exchange a look with Keanu between takes, a silent nod of mutual respect that spoke volumes about the shared physical toll of their work. It was in these small moments that Osiah saw the truth of the set, the unspoken bond forged in sweat and physical exertion. He was not just managing the chaos; he was a witness to its creation, a silent guardian of the brutal poetry they were all striving to capture.

***

Hours later, the call finally came, a welcome release that everyone on set had been craving. "That's a wrap on Ms. Perkins! That's a wrap on the day!" the AD's voice crackled through the walkie-takie, the words carrying a collective sigh of relief. "See you all tomorrow."

A palpable wave of release washed over the set. The frantic energy began to dissipate, replaced by the low, tired hum of a crew winding down. Osiah finished his final notes on the day's report, making sure all the background actors' times were logged correctly before packing up his clipboard. He made his way towards Adrianne's trailer, his body humming with a low, anticipatory energy that had been building since their conversation that morning. He knocked gently on the door, the sound soft and respectful in the quiet of the evening lot.

"Come in," her voice called out, muffled by the hiss and spray of a running shower.

He stepped inside. It was a space of organized chaos, much like its owner. Scripts and workout clothes were neatly piled on a chair, half-empty water bottles stood sentinel on a small table, but the air was thick with the warm, humid steam from the bathroom. He could hear the water hissing against the tiles, a steady, rhythmic percussion, and he waited patiently, his mind replaying the day's events. He saw her again, a whirlwind of controlled violence, her body a weapon, and he felt the echo of her gaze on him, the weight of that bold, unspoken invitation.

In the shower, Adrianne let the hot water cascade over her, the near-scalding spray a welcome balm against her tired muscles. The ache was a deep, satisfying throb in her shoulders and lower back, the price she paid for being Ms. Perkins. But as the water washed away the grime and the sweat of the day, her thoughts began to wander, drifting back to the man waiting in the other room. She remembered the bold, thick ridge of his cock straining against his joggers, an image that had been seared into her memory all day. A new, different kind of heat began to bloom deep in her cunt, a slow, simmering ache that had nothing to do with sore muscles. Her hand, slick with soap, drifted down her stomach, her fingers tracing the line of her hip before sliding between her legs. She was already wet, her folds slick and swollen with a desire that had been building all day, a persistent, distracting hum beneath the surface of her work. She imagined his hands, those "magic hands" Keanu had talked about, touching her everywhere, imagined that massive cock filling her, stretching her to her limits...

She stepped out of the shower, her body buzzing with a nervous, electric energy that had nothing to do with exhaustion. She wrapped herself in a thick, fluffy robe, her skin flushed and damp, the cool air a welcome shock against her heated flesh. When she walked back into the main room, her movements fluid and deliberate, Osiah was standing by the small table, a bottle of professional-grade massage oil in his hands, his presence a calm, steady anchor in the room.

"Ready when you are," he said, his voice a low, calm rumble that did little to soothe the frantic fluttering in her stomach.

She let the robe fall from her shoulders, a deliberate, confident motion. It pooled at her feet, and she stood before him, completely naked, her body a study in athletic perfection. The soft light of the trailer cast a warm glow over her skin, highlighting the defined lines of her stomach, the powerful curve of her hips, and the long, toned muscles of her legs. "I'm more than ready," she said, her voice a husky whisper that was thick with a need she was no longer trying to hide.

She lay down on her stomach on the bed, the cool sheets a welcome relief against her heated skin. The moment his hands touched her back, a jolt of pure, unadulterated arousal shot through her. His touch was firm, confident, and incredibly intimate. He started with her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the knots with a precision that was almost unnerving.

"So, how are you finding the shoot so far?" he asked, his voice a low, rumble as he worked on a particularly stubborn knot. "The club stuff looks intense."

"It's... a lot," she managed to get out, her voice a little breathless. She had to bite her lip to hold back a moan as his fingers found a particularly sensitive spot. "The stunts are a beast. The choreography is so specific. One wrong move and you're not just breaking character, you're breaking your nose." She let out a soft sigh as he moved to her other shoulder. "My body is one giant bruise. It's taking a toll, for sure. But it's a good role. Worth the pain."

"I can see that," he said, his hands moving down her back, his touch a masterful symphony of pressure and release. "You're selling it. The pain makes the performance real."

The entire time he was massaging her, she was in a state of heightened arousal. It was so visible, so undeniable, that when his hands moved down to her strong, toned thighs, her cunt was leaking. A slow, steady trickle of her slick arousal was already dampening the sheet beneath her, a clear, physical testament to the effect he was having on her.

Osiah smelled it first—the sharp, musky scent of her desire cutting through the clean smell of the massage oil. He saw it then, the glistening trail of her juices on her inner thigh. He didn't say anything, he didn't stop, but she could feel the shift in his energy, the air thickening with a new, potent tension. He was no longer just a masseur; he was a man, and she was a woman who wanted him.

He worked his way back up her body, his hands gliding over her skin in long, flowing strokes. And then, as his fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of her lower back, it happened. A wave of pleasure, so intense and unexpected, crashed over her. Her body arched, a soft, choked cry escaping her lips as a powerful orgasm rippled through her, stealing her breath. It was quick, almost violent in its intensity. And he just ignored it, his hands never faltering, his rhythm never breaking, as if it were a perfectly normal part of the massage.

She lay there, panting, her mind a blissful, confused haze. She had just cum, hard, and he hadn't even touched her there. She thought of the pornos she'd seen, the ones with the "happy endings," and a new, desperate need began to build. She didn't just want relief. She wanted more. She wanted something to fill the aching emptiness inside her.

He finished the massage, his hands leaving her body. She felt a sudden, cold loss. "All done?" she asked, her voice small, laced with a desperate hope.

“For now,” he replied, his voice a low rumble thick with tension, “unless… there’s anything else you want?”

Adrianne’s chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. Her skin was still flushed from the massage, slick with oil and sweat, every nerve ending buzzing. She swallowed hard, the words catching in her throat for a second before she forced them out.

“Yeah,” she whispered, barely above a breath. “There’s one more spot you missed. A really fucking crucial one.”

Osiah went still. Then that slow, knowing smirk curled the corner of his mouth—the same one he’d worn earlier when he’d caught her staring at the outline in his joggers. He leaned in just enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him.

“Oh yeah?” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “Tell me where.”

She met his eyes, no longer hiding the raw hunger in hers. “Inside,” she said, voice trembling but sure. “Massage my insides. Please.”

The please slipped out softer than she meant it to, almost vulnerable, and that was all it took.

He let out a low, hungry growl that seemed to start deep in his chest and rumble outward, vibrating through the thin walls of the trailer like distant thunder. The sound alone made Adrianne’s skin prickle, her already soaked pussy clenching on nothing in desperate anticipation.

In one smooth, controlled motion he hooked a thick arm under her waist, fingers splaying wide across her stomach, and flipped her onto her stomach. The movement was effortless—possessive, almost casual in its strength—and she landed with a soft huff of air forced from her lungs. Her palms slapped down against the mattress for balance, fingers curling into the damp sheets. Her ass lifted instinctively, just a fraction, hips tilting up like her body had already decided what it wanted before her mind could catch up. The position felt primal, exposed, perfect.

Osiah shifted behind her, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of her legs. His big hands slid over the firm, rounded curves of her ass—slow at first, palms gliding over sweat-slick skin like he was savoring the feel of her. Then he kneaded once, hard. Thumbs dug deep into the muscle, spreading her cheeks wide, opening her completely. The sudden rush of cool air against her drenched, heated folds made her shiver violently. A small, needy whimper slipped out before she could swallow it back—high and embarrassing and completely involuntary.

“Fuck, look at you,” he muttered, voice low and rough, almost like he was talking to himself. “Dripping all over the sheets already. Making such a goddamn mess for me.”

She could feel how wet she was—could hear it, the faint slick sound when she shifted even slightly. Her inner thighs were shiny with it, her pussy lips swollen and flushed dark, glistening under the dim trailer light. The humiliation of being so obviously desperate only made her hotter.

Osiah reached down and wrapped his hand around his cock—thick, heavy, veins bulging under the skin, the head flushed an angry purple and already leaking. He dragged the blunt tip through her folds, slow and deliberate, coating himself in her slickness. Up and down, parting her lips, nudging her clit just enough to make her hips jerk forward. The broad head caught at her entrance again and again, pressing in the tiniest bit before retreating, teasing her open without giving her what she needed.

“Don’t tease,” she gasped, voice cracking, pushing back greedily to try and force him inside.

“Not teasing,” he said, gravel scraping his throat. “Just making sure you feel every fucking inch when I finally give it to you. You’re gonna remember this stretch tomorrow.”

He lined up properly then, the wide head notched against her entrance. He didn’t rush. He pushed in slow—agonizingly slow—letting her feel every thick centimeter as he sank deeper. The stretch was immediate and intense: a burning pressure that bordered on pain before melting into something darker, fuller, better. Her walls had to yield around him, fluttering helplessly as he filled her inch by inch until his hips finally pressed flush against her ass and he was seated to the root.

Adrianne’s mouth fell open on a sharp, broken cry—half shock, half pure relief. Her fingers twisted hard in the sheets, knuckles white. Her back bowed tight, spine curving in a perfect arch as her body fought to accommodate the impossible fullness. She could feel him everywhere—deep in her belly, pressing against places that made her vision swim.

“Jesus—fuck—” she choked out, the words ragged and trembling.

He held still for one long heartbeat—letting her adjust, letting her feel the heavy throb of his cock buried inside her, the way her pussy gripped him like it never wanted to let go. His hands stayed clamped on her hips, thumbs stroking small, soothing circles over her skin even as his voice stayed rough.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “Taking me so fucking deep. Feel that? That’s all of me.”

Then he pulled back—almost all the way out, until just the head remained stretching her open—before slamming home again in one brutal, fluid thrust. The wet slap of skin on skin cracked through the small space, loud and filthy, echoing off the thin walls. The force of it shoved the air out of her lungs in a sharp burst.

He set a brutal rhythm right away—no gentle buildup, no mercy. Each thrust was deep and punishing, hips snapping forward with controlled power that drove him to the hilt every time. His heavy balls smacked against her clit on every stroke, sending bright, electric sparks shooting up her spine and making her toes curl. She could feel every ridge, every thick vein dragging against her sensitive walls, stretching her open over and over, claiming every inch inside her.

“You wanted this, didn’t you?” he growled, hands tightening on her hips, yanking her back to meet each punishing thrust. “Been thinking about this fat cock splitting you open all fucking day. Walking around set with that tight little cunt aching for it.”

“Yes—fuck yes—” she panted, voice cracking on every word as he pounded into her. “Needed it—needed you to fuck me stupid—needed you to wreck me—”

He leaned over her then, broad chest pressing hot against her back, caging her in. One hand slid up her body, fingers wrapping loosely around her throat—not squeezing, just holding, possessive, letting her feel the weight of his palm against her pulse. His mouth found the shell of her ear, breath hot and ragged.

“Then take it,” he rasped, lips brushing skin. “Take every goddamn inch like the greedy little slut you are. Let me feel how much you love being filled up.”

The words hit her like a physical slap—dirty, degrading, perfect. She moaned loud and shameless, hips rocking back harder to meet him, chasing the brutal rhythm. The new angle let the thick head grind right against that swollen spot inside her with every thrust, the one that made white sparks explode behind her eyelids and heat coil low and tight in her belly, building fast and merciless.

“Osiah—oh god—I’m gonna—” Her voice broke into a whine, thighs starting to shake.

“Do it,” he ordered, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of her shoulder—sharp enough to sting, not enough to break. “Cum all over my cock. Let me feel that tight cunt squeeze me. Milk me like you’re trying to drain every drop.”

She shattered.

The orgasm ripped through her like a live wire—sharp, violent, unstoppable. Her whole body locked up at once: inner walls clamping down on him in frantic, rhythmic pulses, thighs trembling violently, toes curling so hard they cramped against the sheets. She screamed into the mattress, the sound muffled but raw, hips jerking uncontrollably as wave after wave crashed through her. Her pussy fluttered and spasmed around his thickness, trying to pull him deeper even as he kept fucking her through it—relentless, drawing the climax out until she was whimpering, oversensitive, tears pricking the corners of her eyes, every nerve screaming.

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t let up. Just kept driving into her, hips snapping forward with the same brutal force, prolonging the aftershocks until she was a trembling, sobbing mess beneath him.

When the worst of the spasms finally started to fade—when her body sagged, boneless and quivering—he pulled out slow and deliberate. Inch by torturous inch, letting her feel the drag of every ridge leaving her, the sudden aching emptiness as he slipped free. A thick string of her slick connected them for a second before breaking, dripping down her thigh.

She whined at the loss—high and desperate—hips twitching backward like she could chase him, like her body refused to accept being empty again. Her pussy clenched on nothing, leaking steadily onto the sheets, a fresh gush of wetness following his withdrawal.

Osiah’s hand smoothed down her spine—almost gentle now—before he leaned in close again, lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“Not done with you yet,” he murmured, voice dark with promise. “Not even close.”

“Turn over,” he said, voice rough but steady, the kind of low command that made her body respond before her brain even caught up.

Adrianne rolled onto her back without hesitation, thighs parting on instinct. The cool air of the trailer hit her soaked skin and she shivered, already aching for him to fill the emptiness again. She looked up at him—sweat gleaming on his chest, cock still rock-hard and slick with her—and felt another fresh pulse of heat between her legs.

Osiah didn’t make her wait. He hooked his hands under her knees, strong fingers wrapping around the backs of her thighs, and pushed her legs up and out. He folded her nearly in half, knees drifting toward her shoulders, hips tilting upward until her ass lifted slightly off the mattress. Completely open. Completely his. Her pussy was flushed dark pink, lips swollen and glossy, a steady trickle of arousal leaking down toward the sheets. She could feel how exposed she was—how every inch of her was on display—and the vulnerability only made her wetter.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, eyes locked between her legs. “Look at this pretty cunt. All stretched and dripping for me.”

His cock spread her slickness along his length, then lined up. The broad head nudged her entrance, parting her slowly at first, just enough to tease. Then he pushed in—one long, unrelenting stroke that didn’t stop until he was buried to the hilt. The new angle was brutal. He bottomed out instantly, the thick head kissing her cervix with a deep, aching pressure that made her eyes roll back.

“Fuck—” she gasped, the word torn out of her in a sharp, breathless burst. Her hands flew to his shoulders, nails biting into muscle as her body struggled to adjust to the sudden fullness. It hurt in the best way—too much and exactly right all at once.

He held there for a second, letting her feel every throbbing inch of him, letting her walls flutter and grip around the invasion. Then he started to move.

Slow at first—deep, grinding rolls of his hips that stirred him inside her like he was trying to carve out a permanent space. Each lazy circle dragged the underside of his shaft along that swollen ridge inside her, the one that made her toes curl. She could feel him everywhere—pressing against her front wall, nudging her cervix, stretching her open in a way that made her feel split apart and put back together at the same time.

“Feel that?” he rasped, voice gravelly. “Feel how deep I am? Right up against your fucking womb.”

She nodded frantically, words failing her. “Y-yeah—fuck—Osiah—”

He picked up speed gradually, pulling out halfway only to slam back in with controlled power. Long, powerful thrusts that made the whole bed creak. Her tits bounced heavily with every impact, nipples tight and dark from earlier attention. The sight seemed to pull a low growl from his throat.

“Look at these,” he muttered. One big hand slid up her ribs to cup her left breast, thumb brushing over the stiff peak. He pinched it lightly, then harder, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers until her back arched off the mattress.

“Perfect fucking tits,” he said, voice thick with want. “Been staring at them all day under that tight shirt. Been dying to get my mouth on them.”

He leaned down without breaking rhythm, lips closing around her nipple. He sucked hard—wet, greedy suction that pulled a strangled moan from her throat. His tongue flicked over the tip, then flattened, laving broad strokes before his teeth grazed just enough to sting. The sharp edge of pain melted straight into pleasure; her pussy clenched hard around him in response, another rush of wetness coating his cock.

“Osiah—shit—right there—don’t stop—”

He switched to the other breast, giving it the same rough treatment—sucking deep, biting down lightly, tongue swirling until her nipple was throbbing and hypersensitive. All the while his hips kept snapping forward, relentless, driving into her with a steady, punishing rhythm that made wet, obscene sounds fill the trailer every time he bottomed out.

His free hand slid down between their bodies, finding her clit without hesitation. He pressed his thumb against the swollen nub and started rubbing—tight, fast circles that matched the pace of his thrusts. The dual sensation was devastating: his cock grinding deep inside her, stretching and filling, while his thumb worked her clit with ruthless precision.

She was climbing fast—too fast. Heat coiled low in her belly, spreading outward in pulsing waves. Her thighs started to shake around his waist, muscles locking up as the pressure built to a breaking point.

“Osiah—I’m—fuck—I’m gonna cum again—”

“Do it,” he growled against her skin, teeth scraping her nipple one last time before he lifted his head to watch her face. “Cum on my cock. Squeeze me so fucking tight I can’t think straight.”

The command tipped her over.

The orgasm hit harder than the last one—a deep, rolling wave that started in her toes and exploded through her core. Her vision blurred at the edges, white sparks dancing behind her eyelids. Her whole body seized—thighs clamping around him, back bowing so sharply she nearly lifted them both off the bed. She clawed at his back, nails raking red lines down his shoulders as she screamed his name in broken, desperate syllables.

Her pussy spasmed around him in frantic, rhythmic pulses, milking his length like it was trying to pull him even deeper. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against her chest, thrusts turning erratic for a handful of strokes as her walls fluttered and gripped him mercilessly.

“Fuck—Adrianne—” His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He was fighting it, holding himself back by sheer willpower, refusing to cum yet even as her body tried to drag him over the edge with her.

She rode it out in long, shuddering aftershocks—legs trembling violently, breath coming in ragged sobs—until the worst of the contractions finally eased. She sagged beneath him, boneless, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.

He stayed buried inside her for another few heartbeats, letting her feel the slow, heavy throb of his cock still rock-hard and aching. Then, carefully, he eased out—inch by torturous inch—until he slipped free with a wet sound that made her whimper at the sudden emptiness.

Her pussy clenched on nothing, a fresh trickle of her arousal leaking out, and she felt the cool air kiss her oversensitive folds.

He didn’t give her time to mourn the loss.

He shifted, strong hands guiding her hips as he flipped their positions again.

He dropped onto his back, the mattress dipping under his weight. His cock stood rigid against his stomach, thick and veined, still glistening with her slick, the head flushed dark and shiny. A bead of precum welled at the tip, mixing with her wetness. He looked up at her, chest rising and falling, eyes heavy-lidded and burning.

“Get on,” he said, voice thick and rough, like he’d been holding back for hours. “Ride me. I wanna watch you fuck yourself on it.”

Adrianne didn’t hesitate. Her thighs trembled from the last orgasm, but the ache between her legs was sharper than any exhaustion. She swung one leg over his hips, straddling him, knees sinking into the sheets on either side of his waist. She reached down, wrapped her fingers around his base—fuck, he was so thick her thumb and fingers didn’t quite meet—and lined him up. The broad head parted her swollen lips, nudging just inside.

She sank down slow—agonizingly slow—inch by torturous inch. The stretch burned fresh, even after everything else, her walls fluttering around him as she took him deeper. Her breath hitched with every fraction she claimed until finally her ass settled flush against his thighs, her clit pressed hard against his pelvis. They both groaned at the same time—low, broken sounds that overlapped in the humid air of the trailer.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, the word ragged. His hands slid up the fronts of her thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her knees before sliding higher to clamp around her hips. He flexed them, holding her there, letting her feel every thick inch buried inside her. “You feel that? How fucking deep I am? Right up in your guts.”

She nodded frantically, eyes half-lidded, already starting to rock in tiny, needy circles. “So fucking deep—can feel you in my stomach—stretching me so full—”

The words spilled out in a breathless rush. She planted her palms on his chest for leverage, fingers splaying over the hard planes of muscle, feeling his heartbeat thundering under her hands. Then she lifted—slow at first, rising until only the head remained inside—before dropping back down with a wet slap that made them both hiss.

She found her rhythm fast. Lifting and dropping, grinding in tight, filthy circles when she bottomed out, chasing that perfect angle where the head dragged right over her g-spot. Her tits bounced heavily with every rise and fall, full and flushed, nipples tight and dark from earlier abuse. Osiah’s hands went straight to them like magnets. He cupped the weight of them, squeezing hard enough to make her gasp, thumbs flicking back and forth over the stiff peaks until they throbbed.

“These tits,” he muttered, voice gravel. “Fucking perfect. Look at them bounce while you ride me. Been hard thinking about this all day.”

He pinched both nipples at once—sharp, twisting pulls that sent jolts straight to her clit. Adrianne’s head fell back, a long moan tearing from her throat. She rocked faster, hips snapping down harder, the wet smack of her ass meeting his thighs filling the small space.

“Ride it harder,” he growled, hands tightening on her hips now, guiding her, urging her on. “Show me how bad you want to come again. Fuck yourself stupid on my cock.”

She did.

She leaned forward, hands braced on his pecs, nails digging in for purchase, and fucked him like she was trying to break him—or herself. Fast, desperate, relentless. Her hips snapped down so hard the whole trailer rocked faintly on its suspension, a low metallic creak mixing with the obscene wet sounds of their bodies colliding. Sweat dripped down her spine in rivulets, pooled between her breasts, slid down her stomach. Strands of her hair stuck to her neck and cheeks; she didn’t care. All she cared about was the thick drag of him inside her, the way he filled her completely every time she slammed down.

Osiah’s hands roamed like he couldn’t decide where to touch first. They slid down to grab handfuls of her ass—big, possessive grips that spread her wide, letting him feel how soaked she was, how her slick coated his balls. He kneaded the firm flesh, thumbs dipping into the crease where thigh met ass, spreading her even more.

Then he brought one hand back and cracked his palm across her right cheek—sharp, stinging, just hard enough to leave a pink handprint. Adrianne yelped, cunt clenching hard around him in reflex.

“Fuck—do that again—” she gasped, voice cracking.

He did. Another smack, then another—alternating cheeks, each one making her pussy flutter and gush. The sting melted into heat, blooming across her skin, pushing her higher. He slid his other hand between them again, fingers finding her clit—swollen, slick, hypersensitive—and started rubbing in fast, relentless circles. No teasing, no buildup. Just ruthless pressure.

“Cum for me,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. “One more time. Drench my cock. I wanna feel you soak me, Adrianne. Wanna feel that tight little cunt squeeze every drop out of me.”

She was already there—teetering right on the razor’s edge. The third orgasm built slower than the others, a deep, coiling pressure that gathered low in her belly and spread outward in heavy waves. Her thighs shook violently, muscles locking up as she ground down harder, chasing it.

Then it hit—like a freight train.

It rolled through her in long, shuddering waves, every muscle seizing at once. Her back arched, head thrown back, mouth open in a raw scream of his name. Her pussy clamped down so hard he hissed through clenched teeth, hips jerking up involuntarily as her walls rippled and pulsed around him in frantic spasms. She kept riding through it—jerky, uncoordinated bounces—milking him, drenching him, her slick running down his shaft, pooling against his pelvis.

“Fuck—Adrianne—” His voice broke on her name, control slipping.

He couldn’t hold back anymore.

His hands clamped down on her hips, fingers bruising, and he thrust up into her—once, twice—hard, desperate snaps that buried him to the hilt. Then he slammed her down one last time and held her there, cock pulsing as he came with a guttural groan that seemed to rumble from his chest.

Hot, thick spurts flooded her—pulse after heavy pulse—filling her so full she could feel the pressure, feel it leaking out around his base with every twitch of his hips. She kept grinding through it, slow and filthy now, rolling her hips in tight circles to draw out every last drop. His cock jerked inside her again and again, emptying everything he had until he was shaking beneath her, abs clenching, breath coming in harsh pants.

She collapsed forward onto his chest, both of them slick with sweat, hearts hammering against each other. His arms came around her automatically, one hand sliding up her back to cradle the nape of her neck, the other still gripping her ass like he never wanted to let go.

For long seconds they stayed locked together, breathing hard and ragged, bodies trembling in the aftermath. His cock was still buried deep inside her, softening only slightly at first, the thick heat of him a heavy, lingering presence. Their combined mess—sweat, slick, and his cum—slowly leaked out around his base, warm and slippery, trailing down her inner thighs and soaking into the sheets beneath them.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Inside her, his cock began to harden again—slowly at first, then with stubborn, insistent force. Thick and unyielding, it swelled back to full hardness, stretching her oversensitive walls anew. Every weak, fluttering clench of her pussy in those exhausted aftershocks only fed the resurgence, drawing a low, guttural sound from his throat as he pulsed deeper, filling her completely once more. The impossible refusal to go soft felt almost defiant, like his body was as greedy for her as hers still was for him.

Adrianne felt every inch of the change—the slow, thickening stretch, the renewed throb that pressed against every tender spot inside her. Despite how wrecked she already felt—limbs heavy, breath short, nerves raw—a fresh, dizzying wave of arousal surged through her core anyway. Her body responded before her mind could catch up: a helpless little spasm around him, a soft, involuntary moan slipping from her lips as heat pooled low in her belly all over again.

“Fuck,” she whispered, half-laugh, half-plea, voice wrecked and shaky. “You’re still hard?”

Osiah’s answer was a rough chuckle against her neck, his hips giving a slow, testing roll that made them both hiss. “Told you,” he rasped, lips brushing her ear. “Not done with you yet.”

Osiah shifted his grip, strong hands sliding under her thighs without ever pulling out. In one fluid, powerful motion he flipped her onto her back again, staying buried to the root the entire time. The sudden change in angle made her gasp—sharp, surprised—as gravity and his weight drove him even deeper, pressing right up against that tender spot that made her toes curl involuntarily.

He hooked her legs over his broad shoulders, folding her in half until her knees brushed her chest and her ass lifted off the mattress. Completely pinned, completely open. Her pussy stretched taut around him, lips clinging to every veined inch, slick and swollen and leaking steadily. The new position let him sink impossibly deeper with every slow roll of his hips, the head of his cock nudging her cervix in a way that bordered on too much.

He started fucking her through the lingering aftershocks—slow, deep, deliberate strokes that dragged against every oversensitive nerve ending inside her. Each pull-out was torturously slow, letting her feel the thick ridges catching on her walls; each push-back in was controlled but relentless, bottoming out with a wet, heavy thud that made her breath hitch.

“Again,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low, eyes locked on hers. “Give me one more. I know you’ve got another in you. I can feel it—how your cunt’s still gripping me like it doesn’t want to let go.”

She laughed—breathless, delirious, the sound cracking into a moan halfway through. “You’re fucking insane—”

“Damn right.” He leaned down, captured her mouth in a hard, messy kiss—all teeth and tongue and raw hunger. He bit her bottom lip just hard enough to sting, then soothed it with a slow lick before pulling back barely an inch. “Come on my cock one more time,” he murmured against her lips, breath hot and ragged. “Squeeze me like that again and I’ll fill you up so full you’ll be dripping for days.”

He picked up speed—long, punishing thrusts that made the cheap headboard thump rhythmically against the trailer wall. The sound was obscene, matching the wet slap of their bodies every time he drove home. Her tits bounced with the force of it, nipples still dark and aching from earlier; sweat slicked her skin, making every slide of his chest against hers feel electric.

His hand found her clit again—fingers slipping easily through the mess of their combined slick—and started rubbing in tight, fast circles that matched the brutal snap of his hips. She was so wet, so full, so hypersensitive that every touch felt like a live wire. The slightest brush against her swollen nub sent sparks shooting up her spine; the deep grind of his cock against her front wall made her vision flicker.

It didn’t take long.

She was already teetering—body strung tight, every muscle trembling from overuse. The fourth orgasm built differently this time: slower, heavier, a deep, inexorable pressure that gathered low in her belly and spread outward like molten heat. It wasn’t explosive like the others; it was quiet, almost painful in its intensity, a slow-rolling wave that stole her breath and made her whole body lock up.

She arched beneath him—back bowing sharply, mouth falling open in a silent scream. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, sliding hot down her temples into her hair. Her pussy clamped down hard—rhythmic, desperate pulses that milked him mercilessly. Her thighs shook violently around his neck, toes curling so tight they cramped. She couldn’t make a sound at first; the pleasure was too big, too overwhelming, stealing every scrap of air from her lungs.

Then it broke.

A low, shattered whimper escaped her, building into a raw, trembling moan as the contractions rolled through her in long, shuddering waves. Her inner walls fluttered and squeezed around his thickness, drawing him deeper, holding him there like she never wanted him to leave.

Osiah growled her name—low, guttural, almost feral—as his control finally snapped.

He thrust once more—hard, deep, burying himself to the hilt—and came with a rough, broken sound that vibrated through his chest. Hot, thick spurts flooded her again, pulse after heavy pulse, pumping more heat deep inside until she could feel the pressure building, feel it leaking out around his base in warm, sticky rivulets. It dripped down her ass, soaking the already-ruined sheets beneath them, pooling in the small of her back.

He kept grinding through it—slow, shallow rolls of his hips now—drawing out both their climaxes until every last tremor had wrung itself out of them. His cock jerked inside her one final time, giving her the last weak spurt he had left, before he finally stilled.

He stayed buried to the hilt, breathing hard against her neck. They stayed like that for long, trembling seconds—panting, slick with sweat and cum and oil, hearts hammering against each other. Her legs were still draped over his shoulders, body folded and pinned beneath his weight, but neither of them moved to change it.

He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes half-lidded, breath coming in harsh pants that mingled with hers.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

Adrianne let out a shaky, wrecked laugh that turned into a soft whimper when he shifted slightly inside her. “Yeah… that about sums it up.”

He kissed her then—slow this time, almost gentle. No teeth, no urgency. Just lips brushing lips, tongues touching softly, tasting salt and sex and exhaustion. When he finally pulled back, he eased out carefully—inch by careful inch—mindful of how oversensitive she was. She whimpered at the loss anyway, thighs shaking as the warm rush of his cum immediately started leaking out of her, thick and slow, trailing down her folds and pooling beneath her ass.

Osiah reached over the side of the bed, fumbling for a towel from the tiny bathroom counter. He came back and wiped them both down with surprisingly careful strokes—first between her legs, gentle swipes that made her twitch and hiss, then her stomach, her thighs, her breasts. He cleaned himself last, quick and efficient, before tossing the towel aside.

Then he collapsed beside her, pulling her against his chest without a word. One arm wrapped around her waist, the other sliding up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading through damp hair.

She curled into him instantly—face tucked against his neck, one leg thrown over his hip, still buzzing, limbs heavy and useless. Her whole body felt liquid, boneless, like he’d fucked every last ounce of strength out of her.

“Think you can walk tomorrow?” he asked after a minute, voice rough but laced with quiet amusement.

She snorted weakly against his skin. “Not a chance. You broke me. Completely.”

“Good.” He pressed a lazy kiss to the top of her head, lips lingering. “Means I did it right.”

She smiled—slow, sleepy, utterly sated—already drifting toward the edge of unconsciousness. 

They lay there in the quiet hum of the trailer—air conditioner clicking on somewhere overhead, the faint metallic creak of the frame settling, their breathing slowly syncing. Bodies tangled, hearts still racing but easing, the thick, heady air wrapped around them like a blanket—sex and sweat and satisfaction and something softer neither of them was ready to name yet.