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Tuesday, 9 May 2017

Ninth on the Agenda

Story from Roué 18, following the further adventures of St Angela’s alumna Julie Williamson (Room 2D Continued, Episode at St Angela’s, Bankable Spankable Assets! Part 1 and Bankable Spankable Assets! Part 2)
Basil Boutts, illustrious heir apparent to the Boutts Bank millions, munificent patron of the arts, and chinless wonder personified, yawned loudly and settled himself back more comfortably into his boardroom chair, How he hated and detested board meetings! Invariably he dozed through them, his only utterances sonorous snores and pig-like grunts. This never failed to embarrass and infuriate the other directors, particularly the manager of the central bank, Mr Martin, since it imparted a most unwelcome element of farce to the august proceedings: the presence of a noisily slumberous director-in-chief proved a distinct impediment to the complex structural changes which Martin was forever trying to introduce. The meeting that day was of particular importance since Martin was hoping to pilot through some of his most lovingly-nurtured pet schemes. Like the captain of some ocean-bound clipper, he prayed for calm seas: he simply could not bear to see his cherished plans founder on the rocks of Basil Boutts’ stentorian snores. Unfortunately the Boutts family still held a majority of shares in the bank, and for that reason alone, Basil’s presence on the Board — useless and ineffectual as it was — had to be not only tolerated but honoured. Martin had proved to be a most capable manager, and with him at the helm the bank had prospered and flourished. Still, he simply could not afford to offend his employers. A hasty word, an angry outburst and even Martin could find himself in the dole queue on the morrow. The haughty, autocratic Boutts family could outrival the Borgias in acts of swift, arbitrary vengeance — even the innocuous, lizard-featured Basil, although he was as nothing compared to his ferocious gorgon of a mother, Lady Laetitia, nicknamed Lucrezia. Heads had rolled at her merest whim. With a mother like that, Martin thought grimly, small wonder Basil was such a narcissistically indolent, pathetic specimen of humanity.
‘Hope this damned board meeting isn’t going to last all morning, Martin!’ Basil yawned wearily. He already seemed on the verge of dozing off, and the other members of the Board began casting imploring glances at Martin, mutely beseeching him to prevent Basil falling asleep. But how on earth could he without jeopardising his job? Perhaps if they all spoke extremely loudly, or took it in turns to nudge the stertorously dormant Boutts? Martin sighed despairingly: such desperate measures as those had already been tried — all to no avail. Once asleep nothing, but nothing, could rouse him!
Just then, Julie Williamson, Martin’s pretty little secretary, emerged from the adjoining office, fluttering eyelashes and copies of the agenda. She brushed past Basil and leaned across the polished mahogany table to distribute the documents to the other members of the Board. Basil noted appreciatively her tightly pencil-skirted, cheekily out-thrust bottom and, reaching out, he tweaked her right buttock between thumb and forefinger.
‘Yee-ow!’ she squealed, and shot bolt upright, her dignity affronted.
‘There there, my dear,’ Basil chortled. ‘No need to be alarmed! You’ve got the sauciest little bum I’ve seen in many a day! A lady should learn to accept compliments gracefully!’ and he patted her bottom consolingly while she blushed, attempted a respectful half-curtsey, giggled nervously, and fled from the room all of a dither.
Basil gave vent to his admiration: ‘My God, there’s a spanking good filly if ever I saw one! Wouldn’t say no to a ride on her, eh what?’
The Board smiled sickly at this crudity. Behind his back they vilified him; yet to his face they were sycophantic, each and every one of them.
Then a sudden thought struck Martin — an inspiration. Of course! The solution to the problem lay in Julie; she’d succeed where all else had failed! Just tickle the jaded palate of this aristocratic little runt with her nubile charms and Boutts would stay awake for the entire duration of the siege of Troy, consumed with lust! Excusing himself, Martin strode purposefully from the Boardroom and disappeared into Julie’s office, emerging some minutes later clutching a sheaf of new agenda.
‘There’s been a last-minute change in the programme, gentlemen,’ he announced triumphantly, handing the new sheets round. Basil yawned again, more loudly than ever. Matters connected with the agenda always had that effect on him.
‘Item Number Nine,’ Martin continued briskly, eyeing Basil closely so as to gauge his reaction: ‘Disciplining of Recalcitrant Secretary.
‘Good Gawd, Martin, what the dickens does that mean?... Recalci-what?’ Basil had never been noted for grey matter. It was rumoured that he’d failed conspicuously even to pass any O levels. Harsher critics dubbed him practically illiterate.
‘It means, sir,’ Martin explained calmly and patiently, weighing his words carefully for maximum impact, ‘that the delightful girl whose bottom you pinched a few moments ago is shortly to have it bared, spanked and caned before the entire assembly! Julie,’ he called imperiously. Obedient to his summons, Julie emerged from her office. The entire Board, Basil included, gasped in astonishment and disbelief as a totally different Julie greeted their eyes.
Gone were the trappings of the briskly efficient business-lady. Instead, a pigtailed, palely apprehensive schoolgirl, clad in sandals, white knee-socks, white aertex blouse and tiny blue games skirt scarcely covering the insolently prominent little bum that was so soon to be punished, and punished severely.
Martin led her round the room in a sort of mock punishment parade. The blush deepened on her cheeks as each member of the Board in turn was given ample opportunity to study her disgrace.
‘Take a good look at her, gentlemen,’ Martin encouraged them. ‘Her childish dress is intended to reflect her childish behaviour! She has all the makings of a good secretary, yet she persistently lets herself down by carelessness!’ (And he emphasised the cardinal nature of the crime by delivering a hearty smack to her bare thigh, causing Julie to wail unhappily.) ‘Indolence!’ (Another smack — this time on the other thigh, followed by another girlish whine.) ‘And downright stupidity!’ (SMACK! SMACK! One on each thigh causing the skin to redden and its pretty owner to yelp animatedly.)
Thus the pair made their progress slowly round the room. Martin stopping to smack the lovely legs of his naughty schoolgirl at every opportunity, until her thighs acquired the angry-lobster hue more usually associated with reckless sunbathing in Mediterranean climes without the protective coating of sun oil! Martin deliberately halted the girl before Basil so that he could drink his fill of her. She was by now crying noisily, but surprisingly raised no objection when Basil lifted up the back of her skirt to inspect the little white cotton pants that snugly and sweetly hugged her cutely swelling bum-cheeks, twitching in embarrassment at being so rudely placed on display. Martin asserted his proprietorial interest in them by giving the waistband an upward tug so as to render her more tightly-knickered, more indecorously-bum-cheeked than ever. The drum-tight knickers fought to contain Julie’s melon-like buttocks, and almost gave up the attempt. Pale expanses of bared bottom-cheek were shamelessly exposed to Basil’s lascivious gaze. Julie, desperately unhappy about revealing so much so soon, wriggled sinuously to escape her boss’ vice-like grasp, but he had her firmly by the waist and shoulders, and all but frog-marched her the rest of the way.
‘Martin, why don’t you make her stand in the corner with her knickers down and her hands on her head?’ Basil suggested helpfully, but as Martin tactfully pointed out, admirably appropriate as that posture would doubtless be, it would prevent Julie from taking the minutes of the meeting, which was, after all, her official function. As a compromise, however, Martin insisted on Julie pulling her knickers down to knee level, so that their public display would add to her shame. Tear-stained and blushing to the roots, she hesitated awhile, casting one last despairing look at Martin, as if seeking a reprieve. When none came she fumbled reluctantly beneath her brief games skirt, gave a furtive downward tug, swivelled her trim hips, and slowly the little white pants emerged from beneath the hem of her skirt, inching their twisted, crumpled way downwards to her knees. Then Martin plonked her on the secretary’s stool and handed her the pencil and notepad.
She felt ridiculous sitting there taking minutes in her old St Angela’s uniform. The edge of the stool dug into her hot, smarting thighs, and her skirt was too short to cover her bare bottom. The stool’s hard, unyielding surface chilled and goose-pimpled her soft little bum. She dreaded the prospect of being punished in front of all these eminent bankers... How she’d begged and pleaded with her boss to let her off, when he’d rushed in so unexpectedly to inform her of his plan to save the day!
‘Please, sir, I couldn’t! It would be too awful! In my school uniform too? (Martin often made her wear it in the office at odd times when he knew they wouldn’t be disturbed.) ‘What will they all think of me?... Oh no!... Not on my bare bum — I mean bottom! I couldn’t let all those gentlemen see my bare bottom... they might get ideas!... Oh sir, please don’t make me!’ But Martin had been adamant. Her job was at stake; his job was at stake; the honour of the Bank was at stake!
‘Think of Joan of Arc, Julie!’ he encouraged helpfully — though she wasn’t quite sure of the connection there. ‘Think of Boadicea being flogged for her country in front of all those randy Romans! Above all, think of St Angela’s!’
Julie could never say no for too long to Mr Martin: he always got his way in the end. She’d sighed resignedly, cast an imploring look heavenward, then wearily nodded her head in submission. Mind you, Martin had sugared the pill with the firm offer of a five-pounds-a-week rise. Surprising what balm to a poor girl’s sore bottom five pounds can be!
‘But sir,’ Julie cooed trustingly, ‘you will make it just a pretend smack-bottom, won’t you?’
‘Of course I will, my dear!’ Martin reassured her, not wishing to alarm her before the event. If he’d told her what he really had in mind for her, she’d probably have walked out of the bank and never come back!
At all events Martin’s plan worked perfectly. Basil sat bolt upright throughout the meeting, drooling over the trembling, knickerless Julie, and the meeting was thus allowed to proceed undisturbed. Momentous decisions were taken and Martin was delighted with the morning’s work. Basil was even moved to speak during item number five — though no one in the room had the slightest idea what he was talking about, and he revealed himself to be totally ignorant of the most elementary principles of bookkeeping. When he eventually ran out of steam and ground to a halt, blissfully unaware of the bewildered, embarrassed faces around him, he concluded brightly with: ‘I say! Why don’t we skip items six, seven and eight, and proceed to item nine?’
As diplomatically as he could, Martin acting in his capacity as chairman, managed to steer the meeting back to order.
Item eight concerned the Bank’s gold shares in South Africa, and it seemed to drag on interminably. Nevertheless, Basil’s beady eyes never left the nervous, fidgeting girl on the stool. Usually she crossed her legs while taking the minutes, but the games skirt was far too short to allow that. She was blushingly aware of her knickers draped comically around her knees, and of the warm, palpitating bottom-cheeks making intimate contact with the hard wooden stool. Martin evidently wasn’t even going to allow her the luxury of being initially spanked over her knickers. She’d be bare-bottomed right from the start. She glanced around the room at the grey-suited executives, and bit her lip at the awful thought of having to reveal all before them. She felt young, vulnerable, and decidedly silly and foolish in her school clothes. She’d filled out a bit since she’d left St Angela’s. Her bra-less (Martin’s idea) ripening breasts were only just contained within the tight confines of her school blouse. She was at great pains not to breathe in or out too hard in case the buttons popped and her tits tumbled forth in their innocence. She tugged uneasily at the hem of her skirt to prevent it from riding up and exposing even more of her bare thighs than could already be seen. The backs of them, where she’d been smacked, still stung and prickled her. Above all, she was hyper-conscious of her bottom, and of the painful, shameful spanking it was so soon to receive. It felt huge, an all-too-prominent target. Ever since she’d been spanked and caned at St Angela’s, Julie had developed a complex about the size of her bottom. She was convinced it was too fat — that, she reasoned, was why it was always getting smacked. In actual fact it was a very pretty bum — saucily round and pert perhaps, but by no stretch of the imagination fat. Its very smackability lay in its sweet girlishness.
‘Now we come to Item Nine on the agenda,’ Martin cheerfully announced. Everyone perked up and craned forward, eager to watch the fun. Julie put down her pencil and pad, and obsessively began smoothing out non-existent creases in her skirt. Remembering Basil Boutts’ suggestion and mindful of the importance of pandering to his every whim, Martin told Julie to shuffle over to the corner, during which her knickers completed their descent to her ankles, and stand with her back to them, hands on head. With the aid of a large paper-clip he pinned up the back of her skirt so that her dainty white bottom was on full display. Julie whined and cringed, feeling every inch a schoolgirl in disgrace. Unpleasant memories of public punishments at St Angela’s flooded back. She knew that every male eye in the room was studying her intimate regions, and she longed to cup her hands behind her — especially around the lower division of her cheeks and all that lay thereabouts.
Julie had improved considerably as a secretary over the last few months, although not without the aid of regular spankings from her boss, so the ‘charges’ he read out against her were either fictional or else ridiculously trivial: ‘Mislaid files, forgetting to sugar the coffee, seams not straight, spending too much time in the rest-room, daydreaming, ogling the male customers,’ Julie turned pink with indignation as the inventory of her misdeeds unrolled. She didn’t mind so much being spanked when she’d actually done something wrong, but it hurt her pride to be arraigned on such trumped-up charges! Then came the sentence. Before it was read out Julie was told to turn and face the Board. It was indeed a scarlet-faced, lip-biting little girl who now stood before them, anxiously shifting her weight from foot to foot, grateful only that the front of her skirt just about covered her pubic zone. She felt as if it was all a bad dream, as if she wasn’t really there. She knew Martin was pronouncing judgement, but she couldn’t take it in because she felt that somehow it didn’t really apply to her. He’d promised her it would only be a ‘pretend spanking’, but her doubts grew as the time drew nearer, and her ears pricked up like a startled doe’s when she distinctly heard him utter the word ‘caning’!
‘Excuse me, sir,’ she stammered timorously, her tummy busily executing double somersaults, ‘w-what was that you said about c-caning? I didn’t quite c-catch it!’
‘Serve you right for being such a dreamer, Julie!’ Martin was beaming in that infuriating way of his that he had just before he was due to punish her.
‘For the benefit of our little culprit here,’ indicating Julie, and everyone smirked complacently, ‘I shall repeat the sentence: a sound, bare-bottom spanking, followed by eight strokes of the cane — six on that pair of bounteously-endowed buttocks we’ve been admiring so much, and one on each upper thigh!’
Poor Julie wailed in panic and, through a kind of Pavlovian conditioning, began rubbing her bottom even before the punishment had started. She glowered resentfully at Martin. He’d betrayed her! If he’d told her beforehand that he was going to use the cane on her, she’d never have agreed to it! But that wasn’t all. Another unpleasant surprise lay in store for Julie when Basil Boutts got up and strolled over to where she and Martin were standing. He licked his slobbery lips before murmuring something in Martin’s ear, while at the same time tapping Julie’s bare bottom hungrily with his long bony fingers. She recoiled in alarm and horror, but a stern look from Martin forced her to stand her ground, warning her that she must suffer Boutts’ every attention. She somehow knew that Basil was asking Martin if he might spank her, and she knew in advance what his answer would be, since it accorded perfectly with his plans.
Permission granted, Basil triumphantly led the ashen, whimpering girl back to his chair. Martin didn’t exactly help either, by declaring lugubriously: ‘Consider it an honour, Julie, that a member of the Boutts family should even deign to acknowledge your presence, let alone spank you!’
The room was hushed as Basil seated himself and, with indecorous haste, pulled the struggling, protesting Julie across his bony knees so that her quivering bottom stuck up in the air at a most indecent angle, her cheeks tensing and twitching in readiness for the onslaught. The other members of the Board gaped in excitement. Julie appeared to be studying the pattern of the carpet, since her pretty face was hanging upside down, only inches from the rich crimson pile. If the truth be known, however, the intricate floral design was already painfully etched in Julie’s memory, since the carpet in Martin’s office was exactly the same as that in the boardroom.
Basil had never spanked a girl before but, as a child, he’d been beaten so many times by his tyrannical, sadistic mother that he seized upon this as a heaven-sent opportunity to get his own back on the female sex. He ran his hand searchingly, probingly over Julie’s quaking bottom. She lay very still, breathing heavily, waiting for him to start. But he was enjoying himself too much to rush things. The sheer anticipation of what he was going to do to her, he found truly intoxicating. For Julie, though, it was sheer hell. She wished he’d begin — if only to get it over and done with! Basil was deceptively built. He looked a puny weakling, but Julie, to her dismay, could already sense his hidden strength, as well as his firm, almost fanatical resolve, to give her the spanking of her life!
Then the entranced spectators, Martin included, breathed a collective sigh of satisfaction as Julie’s upturned bottom began to wobble, bounce and pinken beneath Basil’s swooping palm. He smacked her bottom slowly, firmly, systematically, and with commendable aplomb. Soft, cushiony and yielding though it was, yet it seemed to rise up and meet each new down-stroke as if eager to be punished; it shuddered and pouted deliciously, while its pretty owner closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and screwed up her face as the uncomfortable stinging sensation in her bum grew stronger by the minute. Basil spanked each reddening cheek in turn, noting with a novice’s interest the way he was fingerprinting her bottom with successive layers of deep-hued markings.
‘Ouch! Oooh! Yeeow!’ went Julie’s vocal refrain, and she gyrated her hips furiously as the spanking gained momentum and her little bottom grew fiery-red and furnace-hot. She began to kick, and attempted to protect her belaboured bum with her hands, until Basil laughingly seized them, pinning them behind her back. The gun-shot-like reports of Basil’s hand making violent contact with Julie’s bum, as well as her cries of distress, echoed round the room. The other members of the Board complacently surveyed the scene: it was a satisfying spectacle. One exquisitely attractive but thoroughly naughty girl getting a lot more than she’d bargained for — a real non-nonsense spanking that was rapidly bringing her again to tears.
Despite his weedy appearance, Basil Boutts, much to everyone’s surprise, was proving himself to be a determined spanker. His energy and fervour had certainly amazed Martin, who gazed in unabashed pleasure as Basil’s skinny hand shot up and down in a blur of movement, a veritable blitz on Julie’s now blotchily-crimson bottom.
‘By George, I’m enjoying this!’ Basil gasped enthusiastically, as he paused briefly to give his stinging, perspiring hand a chance to cool down. Although the slaps had ceased to fall, Julie continued to squirm wretchedly. She was all too conscious of her scarlet, punished bottom on full display, and she was conscious too, that in her frenetic wriggling she’d more than likely revealed to her appreciative audience her sacred, treasured love-nest. She tried to get up, but Basil pinned her helplessly against him. His angular thighs dug into her flesh, and his erection poked up between her legs, rubbing against the entrance to her vulva. Despite all the pain and humiliation she felt herself becoming wet and sticky. The front of her skirt was all rucked up and she was bare against his trouser legs. Basil traced his finger down the division between her carnation-coloured bottom-cheeks. He tickled till she squirmed agitatedly, then continued his voyage of discovery further down, and she moaned half in anguish, half in ecstasy as he encountered her guilty stickiness.
‘Who’s a naughty girl then?’ Basil mocked. Julie panted and moved up and down on him urgently as he penetrated her with two fingers, which made a wet, plopping sound when he entered and re-entered her rhythmically. Her fingers tightened their grip on his left ankle, her bottom waggled obscenely as she felt herself near to coming. Then, cruelly, he left her on the brink of orgasm, and recommenced the spanking, with slower more deliberate slaps that made her sore, aching buttocks wobble like jelly on a plate.
Kicking wildly, she abandoned all decorum in a blatant, shameless display of all that she had previously been at pains to keep hidden. She forgot all about her modesty in the all-consuming, searing smart that encompassed her bottom. The spanking was no longer confined to that part of her anatomy either. Basil had widened his horizons by turning his attention to her thighs, particularly the areas still red and blotchy after the seeing-to Martin had given them. Her long blonde tresses hung down limp and lifeless over her tear-stained face. She grimaced in pain every time Basil’s palm landed on her well-spanked rear end. She wailed, sobbed and yelled as the torment showed no signs of abating. Her bottom was beginning to look as if it had been daubed with red paint, although the person who’d done the painting had made a clumsy job of it, since it was streaked with darker, sausage-shaped blotches where Basil’s fingers had made their profoundest impression on her seat.
The portly, dignified members of the Board observe the spectacle in awe and admiration. Mouths gaped and silently whistled, trousers bulged at the flies, glasses steamed up, and one pair even tumbled off its owner’s nose as he craned to get a better view. They’d never seen a girl so well spanked before in their lives, and more than one of them began to feel a little bit sorry for Julie, who was obviously now in very genuine discomfort. Perhaps someone ought to suggest to the esteemed Basil that maybe enough was enough, particularly if the girl was going to be caned as well! Thankfully, Martin interceded and tactfully brought the spanking to a close. He pulled the loudly weeping girl to her feet and instructed her to touch her toes, thus presenting her inflamed, twitching backside to the Board who, one by one, found an excuse to get up and make a thorough inspection of Julie’s exceedingly well-walloped derriere. Not surprisingly, this operation involved a deal of stroking, prodding, pinching and slapping which soon had the abjectly blubbering girl rocking on her heels.
She was allowed five minutes’ respite in which to recover what poise she had left, go to the toilet if she needed or (as she chose to do) simply just stand there rubbing desperately at all the prickles and pins and needles invading her hot, glowing bum. To sit down would have proved both difficult and painful. Wisely, Julie didn’t try to. While she was vainly attempting to cool off, trying at the same time to control an attack of the hiccups that her crying had brought on, Martin produced from a nearby cupboard a viciously whippy, yellow rattan school cane, authentic right down to its crook handle (donated to him by the previous Headmaster of St Angela’s, with Julie in mind) and took to swishing it up and down in the air. It sizzled and buzzed like an angry wasp. The ominous sound had a most salutary effect on Julie’s hiccups which ceased immediately, to be replaced by fresh floods of tears at the mere thought of a cane visiting her bottom again. It had hardly been used at school. ‘Oh no! Not the cane!’ she pleaded. ‘Please, Mr Martin, I beg of you!’
But Martin was intransigent, determined to go ahead with Julie’s caning. Sobbing dismally, she appealed tearfully to the Board, but they either shook their heads in rejection or else gazed at their shoes, feeling distinctly embarrassed as blind panic took control of Julie. Martin altruistically offered Basil the cane, but he declined the invitation, signifying that for this episode he was quite content to play the role of spectator.
Curtly, Martin ordered Julie to bend across the Boardroom table. Underneath her tummy he placed a cushion, to raise her bottom to the required height. The heavy, almost sickly aroma of wax polish assailed her nostrils as she bent as if to kiss the table top. Its unyielding surface squashed her pretty breasts almost flat, and despite the cushion, the table edge snuggled uncomfortably into the crease of her groin. With her cherry-red buttocks elevated and invitingly presented to the Board’s anticipatory gaze, Julie looked every inch a blushing, chastened candidate for the cane. Her bottom wobbled enticingly as a fresh spasm of tears shook her. Martin stood to one side of her and tapped the thin, swishy cane purposefully across the full width of her quivering buttocks. Muffled protests emanated from her teeth-nipped lips. Her knuckles whitened as her fists clenched and unclenched... she hated the waiting... the first stroke was always the worst... he drew back the cane and she shuddered and instinctively tensed her carmine bottom-cheeks...
Five noisy, tear-laden, bum-wiggling minutes later it was all over: Julie had been caned methodically, humiliatingly, into utter submission. Eight parallel stripes geometrically adorned her bottom and thighs. The sentence had been well and truly carried out. The blossoming weals bit and stung her like fury, but it was her feminine pride, as well as her bottom, that had been injured. Having to undergo such a shameful, schoolgirl punishment as that in front of all those gaping, ogling men was one lesson she’d surely never forget. They’d seen her bare bottom being caned! Not only that, but they’d seen her afterwards perform a highly comical little war dance, as she pranced about the room, furiously massaging her scarlet, wealed rear!
Basil declared that he hadn’t enjoyed himself so much in years, and demanded to know whether they could look forward to a repeat performance at the next board meeting.
‘That,’ Martin replied, ‘depends on the behaviour of young Julie here! It’s up to her to keep a clean slate. If she doesn’t she knows what to expect!’
‘Hear that, Julie?’ Basil chortled. ‘Just you behave yourself between now and then, else you’ll end up over my knee again!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Julie sniffed penitently, knowing full well that Martin was ingenious enough to engineer a fresh set of circumstances that would no doubt call for more punitive action.
Her final chore was to record the minutes of her own punishment: ‘Secretary Julie Williamson duly disciplined for petty misconduct.’ She scooped her knickers from the floor and retired ruefully to the sanctuary of her office to nurse her tender bottom. For a moment or two she almost wished she was back at school. At least at St Angela’s there were plenty of other bottoms eligible for knickers-down whackings — a girl had a chance that someone else would cop it instead. And then the thought slipped into her mind.
Tomorrow morning, first thing, she’d find a way to suggest it to her boss. What the company needed, she would say, was a few more ex-St Angela’s girls. She’d leave it to Mr Martin to speculate on the possibilities such a policy would offer.
The final instalment in the (mis)adventures of Julie Williamson are detailed in Customer Relations at Boutts.

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