Katja 01: What's a collar without a leash? (M/f)

[Jenny_1972]

This is my first contribution to any platform and English is not my native language.
I admit I had some help from an AI. Feel free to give me feedback on my writing.

I hope to post here a few stories of Katja spending her summer holidays at her father's cottage

Katja 02: Making the shopping mall less boring viewtopic.php?t=23853
Katja 03: A question of peg and chain viewtopic.php?t=23881

Katja 01: What's a collar without a leash?

Katja, my twelve-year-old daughter, comes to spend her summer holidays with me — just like every year.
But this time, there’s a new sign of independence: for the first time, she traveled alone by train.
I waited on the platform, watching the passengers disembark until I spotted her — taller than last year, more self-assured in posture.

And there it was: a dog collar around her neck.
I blinked. It was simple black leather, a small silver ring in the front. At first, I wanted to say something.
I guess she wore it behind the back of her mother. As her father I felt immediately compelled to criticise it.
But then I reminded myself: these are her summer holidays, and I try, as much as I can, to be her “Daddy” not her “Father”.
That means allowing her space, letting her explore — within reason.

So I said nothing for the time being. Just hugged her and carried her bag to the car.
We arrived at the family cottage later that afternoon. It belongs to my parents, but we get to use it all summer free of charge.
The only condition: keep an eye on the sheeps and make sure the pasture gates are always closed. Hikers often pass through and sometimes forget to shut them. Every evening, Katja and I do the rounds — check where the sheeps are, close the gates. The route is always the same, but each evening feels unique. The light changes, the wind shifts. It’s peaceful, and it gives us that quiet “father-daughter time” with no distractions around.

Katja settled quickly into our idyllic cottage live. She visited her grandparents daily, helped with little chores, and seemed to enjoy the slow rhythm of cottage life. But her stupid collar stayed on.

A few days later, during a grocery run into the village, I decided to make an extra stop at the shopping center. Among the dog supplies, I picked up a nice leash. That should discourage here from wearing that silly collar. Back at the cottage, I hung the leash on the hook beside our boots, where we kept our gear for the evening rounds.
I waited all day but either Katja didn't notice it or didn't know what to make of it.
That evening, as we pulled on our boots, I took the leash in hand. Without asking, I swiftly clipped it to the ring on her collar and said with a grin, “A collar is nothing without a leash, my princess.”
She froze — wide-eyed. Her fingers moved to the clip, exploring it. We both knew she could unclip the leash or undo her collar anytime. But she didn’t. I gave the leash a light tug. “Shall we?” I asked. And so we set out.

It wasn’t as easy as I’d imagined. Neither of us had any experience with walking dogs. I kept almost tripping over the leash, and she kept forgetting to adjust her pace. Learning how to give subtle tugs — clear, but not harsh — took some effort on my part. Learning how to respond to them took effort on hers.
When we reached the far gate on the eastern meadow, we found it wide open. Usually, she’d hold the pin up while I pushed to close the gate from the other side. But now, with one hand on the leash, it didn’t work. I had to tether her to the gatepost temporarily so I could swing it shut properly. She took it without the bat of an eye. We finished the rest of the round like any other evening — talking, laughing, enjoying the twilight.
But neither of us mentioned the leash or the collar that connected us.

Back home, I unclipped her and hung the leash back on its hook. Later that evening, we had our “debrief”, how did we feel?
“I knew I’d have the collar talk coming” she said quietly, “but I never imagined it would start with a leash.”
I asked how it felt.
“It’s weird,” she admitted, “but… it made me feel like someone was watching over me. Not in a creepy way. Just — safe. Like I wasn’t going to drift off or disappear.”
She paused. "And I am surprised how much you can express with just a few tugs on my leash."
This definitely doesn't sound like a ‘never again’, I thought. But it didn't discourage her from wearing that collar either.

From then on, it became our quiet ritual. Every evening, before the pasture round, I would clip on her leash. We improved: how much distance to keep, how to signal, how to pause. It became smooth, almost natural.

A few days in, two mountain bikers came racing through the pasture just before sundown — fast and loud, not paying attention.
Instinctively, I pulled Katja’s leash close, holding her as if she were a startled animal. Afterwards I felt a little guilty, but then I saw her face — grinning. She loved how I had 'handled' here.
That evening marked another change. From then on, during our rounds, she didn’t speak. Instead, she answered “woof” for No and “woof-woof” for Yes. Our little code, "dog talk" we called it.

Two days later, we had another bicycle incident — just as we were finishing our evening round. A man approached us on an old, rusty bike that screeched with every turn of the pedals. He wore a tweed cap, a neon green cycling jacket, and pants that had gone out of fashion before the Beatles split. Katja tried to hide behind me, but instead of simply riding past, the man stopped and greeted us.
"Good evening, Mr. Miller. And this must be Miss Katja — my god, how you've grown!"
"Good evening," I replied. It was Mr. Richardson, our trusted farmhand.
We started to talk about this year's sheep prices, the new vet with the purple hair, the tractor that was leaking oil, my father's ailing knee and my mother's eyesight. While I chatted with him, Katja stood unusually close — probably trying to make her leash less noticeable.
When the conversation finally wound down and Mr. Richardson was about to climb back onto his bicycle, he added with a wink, "Wise idea. Such a beautiful young lady should be kept on a leash."
Once he was out of earshot, Katja let out a sigh. "What a weird guy!" she muttered, momentarily forgetting to stay in character.
I explained to her that I valued Mr. Richardson for his sharp eye and keen powers of observation.
He always seemed to know what was happening on the farm and in the farmhouse—especially the things my parents told me not to worry about.
"So instead of calling him weird" I said "you could rather say old-fashioned or quirky — or just say woof"
"By the way," I added, watching his flickering taillight disappear down the path, "riding his bike this late, and in that direction, means he’s heading to the pub. Which means by tomorrow all the world - at least within a five-mile radius - will know about our collar and leash thing."

Sunday lunch with my parents followed as usual. As I was about to lace my boots, Katja was already waiting, leash between her teeth, tail — well, metaphorically — wagging. “Shall I put it on you?” I asked. “Woof-woof.”
We walked across the fields to the farmhouse like that — me and my dogter. I half-expected my parents to say something, but they didn’t bat an eye. In fact, Grandma even asked Katja a few things and laughed at her enthusiastic barks. As soon as I unclipped her inside the kitchen, she returned to almost normal, very much to the relief of Grandpa.

In a similar way - she waiting at the door with the leash in her mouth - the next weeks saw us go to the grocery store in the village.
The village grocery store is cramped, but outside there’s an iron ring where locals tie their dogs.
Since this ring was currently vacant, I left her outside. She waited patiently, seated on the sidewalk, collar glinting in the sun.

But not all days were calm.
One evening, Katja went crazy. She started barking loudly, jerking her leash, running in circles, deliberately tangling herself and me in the line. At one point, she pulled so hard on her collar that I feared it might hurt her.
But I also stayed in character. I held her close, wrapped her leash short, even slipped two fingers under her collar to steady her.
And had to remind myself that this was my (most often) reasonable human daughter just acting crazy very convincingly.

When we got back to the cottage, I didn’t let her inside. Instead, I tied her leash to the iron handrail by the doorstep. I brought out an old sleeping bag and a camping mat, placed them beside her. Then, without anger but with some gravity, I put a bowl of water beside her and said, “Good night, bad dog.”
Of course I left the door unlocked when I finally went inside.
At the next morning when I went into the kitchen to start making breakfast I remembered how we parted last evening - what exactly this game had become? Indeed she was still outside sleeping with her leash clipped to her collar. Had she spent all night like this - who knows?

When summer holidays finally came to a close, I took her to the train station. She still wore her collar — but her leash stayed behind, hanging by the boots in the cottage.

[WhereAmI]

Great story, if only my sub would act as good as your Dogter. My SUB/SLAVE needs to learn his manners.

I sure hope there will be more TAILS (pun intended) this posted in the near future.

[KBondage]

A perfect story for me!