The Designer Male

One hundred years after the last male took his breath, the world hardly knew they existed. Women had gone to great lengths to preserve the human race, and it was no easy task without half the genetic requirement. But the world was full of fabulous minds who cracked the code and made a way for civilization to continue. And now, men were almost mythical—something relegated to the history books and old cinema.

But a few decades after the Fall of Man, their genetic material was unlocked and just as quickly shelved. They weren’t needed for procreation, and certainly not for anything else. Women took over the world, and rightly so. Women were smarter, more powerful, and had shaped society in their image.

Or at least that’s what Tiffany Furrow was taught growing up. She came from a well-to-do family. The matriarchal society of America produced some of the finest women in history. With genetics and conditioning, hardly anyone fell ill to substance abuses or medical calamities. Most everyone had an equal shot at life, but that didn’t mean the old houses weren’t still in control. There were still Rockefellers and Sinclairs and Kennedys and Astors. Those bloodlines predated the virus, and would continue to shape the future.

When Tiffany turned twenty, she’d already been groomed for a position at Biosync International. By the time she turned twenty five, she was already CEO. The company dabbled in many things. Military applications, private sector contracts, a few pharmaceuticals and beauty products. But the top wing of the Biosync company, the real money-maker, was its work in genetics.

They worked with fertility clinics around the world to create designer embryos. These days a parent could pick their daughter’s hair color, eye color, proclivities toward math or reading, and even hobbies. If you wanted your daughter to be a tall brunette with purple eyes who stood a good chance at being America’s top novelist, it was perfectly feasible. Genetic tampering was commonplace in society, but Biosync was forging the way in a new area.

Tiffany slipped her shoes back on and stepped out of her office. Each lab in the building was set up like an amphitheater where she could watch the progress of the clones. This was the only way men were accepted back into society, as mere servants. And somehow, Biosync had ended up with the patent. The genetic material that had been on ice for a hundred years had finally been cleaned and coded, and for the last two decades, the company had put it to great use.

“Today’s the day,” said Michelle, a short, ballerina-slender woman who met her in the hallway. She leaned in and kissed Tiffany on the cheek, turning the woman’s whole face red.

“Not in the hallway,” said the CEO. “They can’t know about us . . . not yet.”

“You’re the CEO. Who is going to have a problem with it?”

“The investors, for one. We’ve worked so hard on the Designer Male project. And if they know I’m sleeping with the head researcher, they’re liable to question my decision to fund it.”

“I get you. But . . . sometimes it’s hard.” And she came in for another kiss but Tiffany stopped her and headed on down the hall.

“C’mon. I know you want to see the S7s. They just got here an hour ago.” Michelle walked faster, pulling ahead and Tiffany slowed down on purpose to watch her brilliant body in action. She had the most beautiful calves, moving the dark hose as if it were water.

While the cloning facility was onsite, the conditioning centers were not. Biosync’s technology could grow an embryo until it was ready to be born, ready to take on oxygen for itself. These cloned males aged twice as fast, as societal trends happened too often to leave the growth rate normal. And through their entire lives, they were fed the best food, trained to be healthy and muscular, and schooled to be proficient in many areas. For most, the Designer Males were meant to be sold as novelties—manservants and sex slaves—but the fad came and went rather quickly. It wasn’t until Michelle came on board with a unique idea that made them exceedingly popular.

She waited for Tiffany in the elevator and both women rode it down to the first floor, where the doors opened on the lobby. Through the glass windows they could see several charter buses parked in front of the building. Some two-hundred males had just arrived from Site 12, the place that housed clones who were within a year of being ready for service. Since they aged twice as fast, they were all nine years old bodies with fully-capable eighteen-year-old minds.

The men were staggered every six months. Michelle only came onboard a year ago, so this was to be her third harvest with Biosync. And Tiffany loved the progress she’d made. The project was viable and they were making billions.

What woman wouldn’t want a six-inch man all to herself?

A door to their right opened to a massive room with long rows of tables. Sitting at the tables were over two-hundred men, all wearing grey jumpsuits as if this were the commissary of some maximum-security prison. Tiffany always enjoyed these walks—her quality assurance trips to make sure none of the men had three eyes or extra fingers. It was an in-house joke because the data was perfect. This walkthrough was merely a formality.

“How many orders do we have?” asked Tiffany as she stood in the doorway.

“Four-hundred and ninety-six,” said Michelle. “We will forever have more demand than supply.”

“Then we need to ramp up production. Let’s make a thousand in the S8 batch.”

“You got it,” she said, and marked something on her tablet.

When Tiffany entered the room, more than two-hundred chairs slid out. Every man inside stood at attention, as if she were a military instructor. Tiffany walked between the tables, examining the silent men, appraising them and marveling over their perfect complexions and body tone.

The lab used only thirty templates for their men, so there were a lot of repeats in face shape and body type. But with varied eye color and hair stylings, it was difficult to tell for anyone who didn’t live in this business.

At the end of the third row of tables, a man caught her attention. He had sandy-blond hair, something that made him stand out amongst his dark-headed counterparts. But as she approached and they made eye contact and he gave her a warm, comforting smile, she felt an odd tingle run down her spine. His eyes were two-toned—one blue and one brown, almost hazel.

She looked at the serial number embroidered on his t-shirt—DSN-22, then turned to Michelle. “What can you tell me about this one? He’s defective?”

“Meet Dyson. He has a few personality anomalies and the eye thing but he passed all of his physical and psychological tests. He’s ready for deployment.”

“And where is he being deployed?” She hated that her company used that term. It sounded as if they were headed off to battle.

Michelle brought up an app on her tablet and said, “He’s headed to Europe, to a Miss Ginger Hampton. He’ll be a shoe shiner.”

“Sounds exciting,” he said, his voice smooth, yet commanding. She didn’t know why this male was affecting her in such a way. She’d seen a few batches of men before, but nothing like this.

“You never know. It might be loads of fun,” said Michelle. “But right now, you’re a bit too big.”

That revelation shook Tiffany from her thoughts. She said, “Are we ready to start the process?”

“Yes, ma’am. Come on and we’ll head to the platform. You can watch Dyson, if you’d like.”

“Nice to meet you,” said the man just as she turned. When was the last time one of them spoke when not being spoken to?

“Nice to meet you, too,” she said, and forgot all about her surroundings as Michelle led her away.

***

Shrinking tech wasn’t a new science. It had been around for the last fifty years as an alternative to dwindling resources. When all of the men died, it left the world reeling. And while women picked up the reins and marched forward, their sudden absence froze supply lines. It was voted that countries shrink a third of their population. This was met with outrage, for nearly half of it had already disappeared when the men all died.

But luckily, women were quick to learn the ropes of all necessary trades, and within months, the supply lines were fixed. Furthermore, women pushed what was capable with crops and meat. Synthetic food became viable, and within two decades of the men dying, there was a surplus of resources. It was no longer suggested that people be shrunk to save food and energy.

Shrink tech took on a whole different purpose.

Currently, Tiffany and Michelle were watching it happen. Like male cloning, Biosync owned the patents for the shrinking technology, what was often called Atom-Smashing. It was used to turn regular men—who most women didn’t want—into pet-sized servants. There were thousands of them out there, serving as personal assistants, pet groomers, and – as was becoming increasingly popular, especially among the elite who could afford the most highly trained males - sexual partner.

That thought hung in Tiffany’s brain as she watched the men file into the room below her. She and Michelle were standing on the catwalk that spanned across the gymnasium-sized room. The entire S7 group came in and stood next to beds so narrow that they couldn’t even be considered twin-sized. She found Dyson rather quickly—his shock of blond hair was easy to pick out amongst the other men.

“There’s a few cute ones this time, huh?” said Michelle, watching as they pulled off their shirts and then kicked out of their pants and shoes. She followed this with a giggle because it was somewhat taboo to think of men as anything more than sub-human. A male was cute in the same way a Cocker Spaniel was cute.

Tiffany agreed, and she couldn’t help but stare at Dyson’s cock as he sat on the bed and then turned so he could lie flat. He was breathing hard—they all were. The men knew what was about to happen to them and it was a frightening experience. Still, clones were made to be docile, so none of them experienced such fright that they became a danger to themselves or others. She stepped closer to the glass and put her hand on it. Her fingers were shaking—she was actually turned on by a male. She had never felt this way before.

Each man was now lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. For a brief moment Dyson looked toward Tiffany, his two-toned eyes wide and glassy. She didn’t think he could see through the special glass, but maybe he assumed she was near. A voice in her earpiece shook her from her trance.

“Room is clear. Commencing miniaturization in three . . . two . . . one.”

The glass vibrated just as a brilliant purple light came on in the room. Sometimes it was so bright that Tiffany had to look away or deal with a headache for the whole afternoon. But not today. Today the light flared to life, then dimmed almost immediately. And when her eyes cleared and she looked at the beds, they all seemed empty.

But they weren’t empty at all.

“Guess I’ll get back to the lab,” said Michelle. She needed to be ready in case there were problems in the shrinking—sometimes there was a defect and the male had to be destroyed. There would be tons of phone calls to make—she was always needed to answer questions when shipping orders went out.

They parted on the elevator. Tiffany meant to ride it on down to the sublevel parking garage—her work was finished and she didn’t have to go back to her office—but she decided to stop on the miniaturization floor.

The men were all sitting on their beds, waiting for the half dozen women pushing carts to come around and gather them up. They were each given a tattoo a few days before shrinking that was only visible with a black light. This was their serial number and ensured they went to the right buyer.

Tiffany walked down the middle of the room and found Dyson sitting in the center of his bed, small and sexy. She bit her lip and tried not to look so taken aback by him. But his eyes lit up when he saw her and he stood, then walked to the edge of bed. His little cock dangled between his legs. It was such a shame to shrink it—when she was younger she had wild fantasies of riding one.

“How do you feel?” she asked him. “No dizziness or sick feeling to your stomach?” It probably looked better if she pretended to be assisting the nurses.

“I’m fine. Shrinking . . . feels weird. Can it be reversed?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, pal. It’s a one-way trip. But you’re more useful this way.”

“Useful how? Apparently I’m going to be a shoe shiner.”

“Yeah,” she said, looking off. “That’s a shame.” She didn’t mean to let that slip out and it made her face turn red.

“Why is it a shame?” he said, pressing the matter. “You’re embarrassed . . . aren’t you?”

“No,” she said.

He laughed. “You are. It’s adorable.”

“Oh, yeah? You like making me red-faced?”

“I think I could probably do a much better job of that than shining shoes.”

And there it was. Those tiny men who knew they were going to be used as sextoys were trained in the arts of pleasing women. If the men bunked together at Site 12, it made sense that they discussed such things.

“Is that so?” she asked. “You know, I have a lot of stress in my life. I’d probably hurt you pretty badly.”

He laughed and put a hand to his hip and then his little dick started to fire up. She did not want that to happen with the nurses and their carts nearby. He said, “I’m willing to give it a try.”

Tiffany grinned and fanned herself with a handful of her shirt. She looked up just in time to see Cynthia, her shipping coordinator, standing at the doorway of the shrinking chamber with her tablet. She was scanning the men and making sure they were sent to the right departments. Tiffany caught her eye and flagged her over.

“Problem with this one?” she asked, scanning his arm.

“Not at all. I want him.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Find a replacement for his buyer and give them a twenty-five percent discount.”
 “I can do it,” she said. “Would you like to take him now?”

Dyson looked up at her with curious, hopeful eyes.

“Yeah. I think I will.”

***

Tiny men were packaged well, in a tiny box that contained a bed, a portable toilet, and enough food to survive a twenty-four-hour trip. Dyson wouldn’t need any of it, as Tiffany’s house was only ten minutes away. The trip took less than that because she told the car’s autopilot to ‘step on it’—she was quite excited to put her little man to use.

Inside her living room, she turned on the evening news, slipped her aching feet out of her sensible, four and half inch work pumps, and then placed her hose-covered legs on the coffee table. Then, she flipped open the lid of the box and there stood a tiny, naked Dyson. He had a few changes of clothes but she purposely didn’t give them to him before he was boxed up. Dyson had a wonderful body and she didn’t want it hidden behind a doll-sized shirt and pants.

“Welcome to your new home,” she said, waving a hand around. “I hope you don’t regret your choice.”

“I don’t think I will,” he said, stepping out of the box and then hopping up to her lap. He looked up at her, then turned around until his tiny ass was on display. It made her giggle.

“So am I to be a shoe shiner for you?” he asked, a coy smile on his face.

She smirked and ran fingers through her hair. “Not quite. Right now, I need someone to take care of my aching feet.”

He looked down at them, then said, “Take off the hose and I’ll get right to it.”

She snorted. “No, sweetheart. You take off the hose and then get right to it.”

Dyson grinned up at her and then walked the length of her legs, holding his arms out so that he could keep balance. She was impressed by the muscle definition in his back and arms and legs, although she wasn’t sure why. She’d seen many clones in her time at Biosync. Something about him was different and she was about to enjoy . . . whatever it was that made him special.

***

Designer Males were equipped with all the skills needed to perform their given tasks. Those who were going to be pet groomers knew all about managing scissors and how to make each breed look fabulous. Personal assistants were trained to catalogue phone numbers and addresses, and how to make reservations. And because Dyson was meant to be a shoe shiner— which actually pertained to far more than just shining shoes - he was taught all the knowledge needed about the care, management and pampering of feminine feet.

His knowledge of muscles, pressure points, and blood flow made him a master of massage. The fact that he could identify two-hundred different brands and styles of designer pumps and nearly as many types of hosiery only added to his impressive repertoire of skills.

As he approached Tiffany’s soles, he was amazed by their sheer size. He was only six inches tall but her feet were over his head, probably closer to nine inches. With his hands flat, he rubbed them across the material on her left foot, smelling the lotion on her skin, commingled with a hint of expensive shoe-leather and—most alluringly—her natural aroma. For a brief moment he admired the way her sheer hose—stay-up’s—accentuated the shape of her foot—the ghostly material both revealing and slightly shrouding her narrow, shapely foot and perfect, slightly longish, and beautifully pedicured toes. After finding a bump in the material—the seam near the heel—he grabbed with both hands and started to yank.

With the weight of her legs resting on the table, the fine sheen of sweat holding the hose in place, and the tight way it gripped her skin, Dyson was never going to be able to pull it free of her body. Yet, he tried. And when Tiffany saw that he wasn’t making any progress, she giggled, then pulled them down for him. Once she had them rolled all the way down to her heels, she let him grab it and pull the rest of the way. He tugged and tugged until finally they flew off her toes.

Now, her naked foot stood back up in front of him, wrinkles from north to south. He approached, throwing his body against her arch, finding the groove of her muscles, and then went to work. The way her body relaxed and the way she made gentle moans told him that all his learned materials worked in practice.

“That’s making me tingle,” she said, turning her foot to the side. He got on his knees and continued up higher, at the pad just below her toes. Then he took each one of them, dragging his hands across so that he left not an inch of her unattended. She was surprised by both the strength and dexterity of his tiny hands – they seemed to find her most sensually pleasurable nerve endings with ease and confidence. And she was even more surprised when he placed his tiny mouth against the pads of her toes and kissed each tenderly. A pleasurable shiver went up her spine.

After that, he moved to the next foot, treating it with the same attention and reverence that he offered the first one. When she turned it on its side, he looked up and found her with a hand reached down her skirt. It was too dark to see beneath it, but he knew what was happening, and it made his tiny dick stiff. She caught him looking and gave a curt smile, as if slightly embarrassed.

“Do you know how to service this as well as my feet?” she asked.

He nodded. “I think I can handle it.” And although he’d had no formal training, he’d talked to men who had. Dyson stepped up on her foot and began to walk north.

As he neared the skirt’s hem, she lifted it. He paused frequently, kneeling down to massage her thighs as he went—a courtesy on his part, but she took it as a tease. He felt a sense of satisfaction as he saw the goosebumps rise on her warm, floral scented, satin-soft skin. Tiffany bit her lip as he slowly made his way up. When he was beyond the skirt, she let it fall against his back. Now, he was working in the total darkness but he had her scent and heat to guide him.

His little hands reached up and grabbed the ‘cherry’ as some of the men called it. Right now, it was more of a ‘grapefruit’ but it was all the same. She responded almost instantly, her elbows driving into the sofa while her back came off the cushion. His arms flexed as he held on, but he knew he needed to get better positioned or else he was going to find himself on the floor.

He pushed off her inner thigh and rotated around until he was lying across her stomach, her belly button just beyond his feet. She seemed ticklish as her muscles clenched and then softly returned to their passive state. Tiffany breathed slowly, taking in small bursts so that she didn’t shake her tiny friend.

“Use your tongue,” she said, voice traveling down and vibrating his body. He didn’t need her to say it twice. He lowered himself, as if doing the bottom half of a pushup, and dragged his tongue across her throbbing clit, making sure to lavish attention on both her clitoral hood as well as the engorged, throbbing organ itself. She made another moan, this one higher-pitched than before, and her whole body rattled as she relaxed and enjoyed it. Dyson continued working, continued lapping her clit with his mouth.

The giantess had grown so wet that he started to slip. His right arm shot out from beneath him and then the left. The more he groped, the more Tiffany moaned. Finally, he slid down her labia until he landed on the backside of her skirt. She shifted her body forward a bit, rolling him onto his side. When he recovered and looked up, there was just enough light to see the massive lips right in front of him.

He had an idea of what she wanted next.

“Do you want help?” she asked, then her red lacquered fingernails—trimmed and shaped slightly longer than what was typical for an executrix of her station—appeared above him because she’d slithered them down her skirt. They tapped against her thighs impatiently.

“No, I can handle it.”

She dabbed her fingertip on his head as a means of affection, then her hands disappeared. He rested his arms against her labia and brought his knee up. Again, she relaxed and he pushed through, feeling the lips part and take him in. It was so hot—the heat radiating from her was tremendous and he wondered if he would be able to take it when he was deeper.

He pushed on, sitting at the bottom of her opening and shoving himself deeper. If she hadn’t been relaxed, he would’ve never made progress. Her muscles were so powerful—powerful enough to crush a tiny man like him if she weren’t careful. When he was halfway in with his legs wading through her wetness, he heard a door slam somewhere behind him.

Dyson yelped as he was jerked forward because Tiffany had moved against the back of the sofa and straightened. Her legs came off the coffee table and hit the floor. She made a little grunt, cleared her throat, and then said, “I didn’t think you were coming by today.”

“You’re not answering your phone,” said a mystery woman. It took Dyson a moment to recognize it—the same woman who’d greeted the males when they first came in. Michelle.

“Oh,” said Tiffany. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

There was silence for a moment and then Michelle said, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Tiffany said. “Why?”
 “Your face is . . . well, it looks the way it does when we fuck, ya know?”

That made Tiffany laugh—it was nervous and it shook her whole body, tiny man included.

Michelle took a step forward and said, “Wait a minute. Do you have a toy under there? That big pink vibrating thing?”

Tiffany rocked to the edge of the sofa because Michelle was reaching down to pull the skirt up. Dyson, being so slippery and hanging at such an extreme angle, slid right out, hit the edge of the sofa, then bounced to the ground. It wasn’t a far drop so he didn’t get hurt. But when he landed, he was between two pairs of massive feet—the pair he’d just serviced, and a pair in peep-toed stilettos.

The stilettoed feet—at least what Dyson could see of them protruding from her stylish pumps—were gorgeous, her sheer black stockings only adding to allure their sculptural beauty, along with that of her slender, dancer’s legs. The shoes, cut to allow a generous view of Michelle’s high arches, were sling-backs, thus affording Dyson a nice view of her narrow heels and slender ankles as well. Two of her toes poked through the hole at the end, a dark, crimson polish on the nails. He could smell the pricey leather and her own unique scent. When he followed it up to the skirt and beyond, his blood went cold. She was looking right at him.

“Oh. My. God! Tiff, you brought one home?”

“Yeah. I took care of it though. I issued a replacement.”

Michelle wasn’t listening. She took a knee next to the tiny man then gently slipped her hand beneath him. She lifted him close to her face and placed a finger against his chest. Michelle let out a flurry of giggles, nodded in his direction. “Judging by his stickiness and the way his heart is hammering, I’d say you’ve already had a little fun with him.”

Tiffany plucked him from her fingers and said, “I was until you came along. I wasn’t finished with him yet.”

She lifted her skirt and placed her feet back on the coffee table. “Here,” she said a bit breathlessly, “let me show you!” Then, she used one hand to hold herself open while the other one pushed the little man inside. This time there was no easing, there was no tight grip to hold him in place. In one second, he was outside and the next he was consumed up to his shoulders. Tiffany let out a ragged moan that ended in a giggle.

“Wow!” said Michelle, face lighting up. “You just . . . you just shove him right in, huh?”

“I don’t know how we didn’t try this until now.” Tiffany’s words were still punctuated by moans.

“Well let me have a go, then!”

Tiffany laughed and said, “Not until he gets me where I need to be.” She now had her fingers wrapped beneath the tiny man’s shoulders, pulling him in and pushing him out.

“Maybe I can help a little.”

Michelle batted Tiffany’s hands away, then pulled her skirt up higher until she could kiss the girl’s stomach. Dyson merely dangled there, the upper half of his body slipping between the girl’s breasts—pert to a normal sized onlooker, enormous hillocks of soft feminine skin to him—as she rocked back and forth. She dragged her lips across Tiffany’s lower half, then kissed the tiny man on the face. She loved the sensation of his tiny features against her sensitive, glossed lips, and let them linger upon him. She could feel him kissing her lower lip, and then exploring it with his tiny tongue. She moaned in response, her breath quickening.

Then, her lips parted around his head and didn’t stop until he was in her mouth all the way down to the chest. She tightened the seal, then bobbed back and forth, dragging his legs out and pushing them back in. Somewhere outside her jaws, he could hear Tiffany’s unbridled moans. Judging by the girl’s heat, Michelle was going to get her off soon enough.

There was lots of air inside Michelle’s jaws but she must have worried about the tiny man because she quickly dragged her lips off him, then ran a tongue around his head. He loved the feel of it and he loved the heat and stickiness of her breath. She moved him to the side, then licked along Tiffany’s slit. This caused the girl to clench her muscles, making it almost painful against the tiny man’s legs.

Finally, Tiffany bucked off the sofa and let loose a cry that was matched only to Michelle’s excited gasp. Hot juices rushed out, blasting the tiny man so hard that it dislodged him. If not for Michelle’s quick hand snatching him in mid-flight, he may have sailed all the way over her shoulder and onto the coffee table.

“Oh, shit, that was boss!” Tiffany said, putting a hand to her red face.

“My turn!” said Michelle. “C’mon, let’s take this to the bedroom.”

She picked up the tiny man and then took Tiffany by the hand. On the bed, the giantesses began kissing with a wet, warm Dyson between them. The big girls started to strip off their clothes, each losing a piece while balancing him against their stomachs. Dyson could feel the heat of their arousal, even as he felt their abdominal muscles tightening with their excitement.

They both got on their knees, their gentle pushing the only thing keeping him in place. Above him, past their smashed breasts, the women kissed. He couldn’t see them but could hear their moans and smacking lips. They eased away from each other until he started to slide down, groping at Michelle’s stomach. And before he could land on the bed, a hand swooped in and snatched him, then redirected him to the girl’s pussy.

She was just as tight, although her scent and heat were slightly different. Now that he wasn’t being controlled, and now that he was inside head first, he decided to play the part of shrunken sextoy. His elbows went out to the edges, dragging against her walls. His fingers dug into the slick, spongy flesh of her vaginal canal, massaging it aggressively. Her body shuddered in response, her tunnel tightening into an almost painful vise around his entire body. Her breathing accelerated into ragged gasps, interspersed with feminine whimpers and moans that reverberated through his entire body. He spread his legs, digging in his heels. The tiny man was a lodged sextoy, but he soon learned that he didn’t have the power to remain there on his own.

The entire love canal began to gyrate until suddenly he was blasted with a completely new flavor of juices—this time rocketing him out until he landed upon the bed. Before him lay two very satisfied women and he felt his prospects of being a living sextoy were much better than a shoe shiner.

Later, after he’d re-visited their vaginas and massaged their feet and shoulders and scalps, he settled on the edge of the bed. Both of them stared down at him affectionately, as if he were merely a puppy. Tiffany reached down and stroked his cheek, as if to illustrate that very point.

“Mind staying with us?” she asked. It took a moment to realize she was talking to him.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

He nodded. “Of course I do. Is that . . . an option?”

Both girls grinned, then turned until they were on their bellies with their asses in the air, like a pair of cats about to pounce. Tiffany said, “Those things you did for us tonight? Gotta promise you can do that every night.”

The tiny man smirked. “Yeah. I think I can handle that, ladies.”

Copyright 2022. Amber Collins. All Rights Reserved.