It was time to leave Fowler’s. After 25 years of extoling the virtues of English spring water all over Europe, I was ready for a change.

As I walked down that familiar corridor and into the impressive office, I had only one memory on my mind. I accepted my gift and the words of thanks offered by the business’s current owner, the elegant but rather shy Lady Helen Fowler. How different an occasion this was to 23 years ago when I had also visited this office.

I relished my early years in sales at Fowler’s. For a dark haired, single, attractive 23-year-old, just out of university and with a slim but curvy figure, this was a perfect role. Travelling across the continent I met a host of interesting people and was well rewarded. I sold a lot of water and had a lot of fun.

The expenses and bonus schemes were relaxed and, after a couple of years, I began to think that I could make some claims for things outside the normal run of the mill expenses and get away with it. My lifestyle was proving to be increasingly expensive.

My line manager, Mr Allen, was happy to sign off my claims without much interrogation, but the eagle-eyed Leane Milner in accounts was, I later came to know, building a picture of my fraudulent activities.

A £75 bottle of wine and a dinner for two, enjoyed with a gorgeous Spanish client, tipped Leane over the edge and one grey October Thursday morning I was called to see Abigail in HR. The interview was short, and Abigail was precise and to the point. I offered no real defence and accepted that I was either to be sacked or ‘go down to see Mr Fowler’.

My friend Holly had been ‘down to see Mr Fowler’ so I had no doubt what was in store. A thick set, red-faced man in his mid-60s, Mr Fowler had inherited the ownership of the firm from his father and grandfather and had maintained some of their management methods.

Holly had shown me the six red cane stripes adorning her buttocks after her visit to Mr Fowler and she explained how he pushed her over his desk and dispensed his fierce form of justice.

I knocked at his door later that day, at the appointed time of 2.00 pm. I had a feeling of both resignation to my fate and acute anxiety. He shouted for me to come in, but, once inside, I saw that there was no seat for me in front of his enormous desk. I stood anxiously fidgeting whilst he silently read my personnel file.

He commented that I seemed to be good at my job but casual with his money. He told me that he was going to thrash me, in the same way that his father and grandfather had dealt with silly thieving girls. The alternative he offered was to be sacked on the spot and leave with no reference and the possibility of being reported to the Police.

It was no choice really and I miserably agreed to this quite outrageous fate. I liked my job and in the back of my mind knew that I had pushed my luck. He told me I was making the right choice and that this would be the end of the matter, once I had repaid what I owed and had taken my punishment. He hoped I learned my lesson.

“Come up to the desk and bend over,” he instructed in a rather gruff but quite kindly way as he brandished the devilish looking cane which I had been staring at, as it lay, ready for action, on the top of his desk. I complied instantly and immediately felt my skirt being lifted onto my back, no doubt revealing my lacy red panties.

I heard Mr Fowler’s deep intake of breath before he commented that I should think myself as being lucky, as his father would have taken my knickers down and thrashed my bare bottom. This concession, whilst welcome, seemed somewhat lost in the overall indignity of my current position.

Then it began. Swish, thwack, then the burning sensation, the like of which I had not previously experienced. I stayed in position for the second swipe but sprang up to clutch my burning bum after the third.

He pushed me roughly back down and stung me with the fourth and fifth strokes. To my immense relief, he said, “Last one coming up,” as he prepared for the sixth stroke. This one caught the top of my thighs and hurt like anything!

However, it was over. I stood, pushed down my skirt and fled, following his instruction to, “Get out of my sight.”

Twenty-three years later and it was time to move on from this company. As I walked up that corridor for the last time, I felt myself involuntarily touching my bottom as I had on that same walk all those years ago after going ‘down to see Mr Fowler’.

The End

© Katherine Jones 2025