Katja 00: 2. Prolog - When TUGs were simple (M/f)

[Jenny_1972]

This is part of a growing series of Katja stories that starts with

Katja 00: Prolog 1 - Early Signs viewtopic.php?t=23922
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Katja 01: What's a collar without a leash? viewtopic.php?t=23816
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 04: Caged Birds Do Sing viewtopic.php?t=23931
Katja 05: How not to dance viewtopic.php?t=23950
Katja 06: A Bald Decision viewtopic.php?t=23963
Katja 07: The Big Red viewtopic.php?t=23977

Katja 00: Prolog

Katja's mother worked in tourism and the summer holidays were her busy time. That's why her mother and I had agreed that Katja should spend her summer holidays with me at our cottage every year.

Most of the other Katja stories happened when she was between 11 and 13. An age when the relationship between my princess and her daddy was becoming more complex. Things were much simpler three years before, like on that one rainy afternoon:

Katja came up to me with a piece of rope in her hands, stretched out her arms, and asked with utter innocence, “Daddy, can you tie my hands?”
I smiled — just as innocently — and, feeling more like "Daddy" than "Father" in that moment, I obliged.
Carefully, I wrapped the rope around her little wrists and tied a gentle knot.

She beamed, admiring her bound hands like they were a new Christmas toy.
Then she trotted off, first stopping at the mirror in the hallway — I could hear her steps — and then wandering around the cottage, probably testing the limits of her new situation.

Five minutes later, she came back.
“Daddy, the rope came loose. Can you tie it again — better?”

I tightened the knots a bit more the second time. This time, they held for fifteen minutes. Again, she returned, a little disappointed.
“Daddy, it came undone again. Can’t you tie it so it stays?”

In fairy tales asking for something three times means you'll get it. I gave it more effort and my knots held for nearly an hour, until she finally returned and said, “Daddy, I need to pee. Can you untie me?”

From that day on, it became a kind of pattern. Every now and then, she'd ask me to tie her wrists until she got bored of it.
But she didn’t get bored quickly. I remember one of those sessions lasted most of the afternoon.

One evening, while we were watching a TV show — cops and robbers — she was fixated on a scene where the criminal got handcuffed.
“Why are they tying his hands behind his back?” she asked, curious as ever.
“Because that way he can use them even less,” I explained.

The next time she brought me the rope, she turned around without a word and presented her hands behind her back.
“Are you sure, Princess?” I asked. “Please let me try!” she said.
I tied her wrists behind her. She instantly noticed how much more limiting that was — and that only seemed to intrigue her further.

Later that same evening, still bound, she came in for dinner. Without a word, she sat down at the table and smiled at me expectantly.
We had a sort of unspoken rule: she decided when she wanted to be untied.
To keep her food from getting cold, I began feeding her.
Of course, she didn’t make it easy for me. She giggled, squirmed, and turned her head at just the wrong time — like a toddler who could behave but chose not to.
It was a mess. But it was also wonderful. We laughed like children.
After dinner, I untied her so she could help clear the table and do the dishes — her responsibilities, rope or not.

The "tied dinner" became a small ritual during that summer.
Sometimes she'd ask to be tied only for mealtime — usually after helping me set the table. And it is the only way she'll eat broccoli.

Even with her bound hands, she roamed freely — through the cottage, across the yard, even up to the farmhouse to visit her grandparents.
Once, when she came back, I had difficulties untying her knots. I suspect her grandfather had improved on my work.

I still keep a picture she drew for me back then — drawn with her feet, holding the pens with her toes, while her hands were tied.
I’m still not sure what it’s meant to show. But it’s signed with her name in crooked, sprawling letters, and that’s enough.

As mentioned, time has passed. Those simple days are mostly gone.
But every now and then, during meals — especially when the food promises to be messy, like tomato soup or creamed spinach — Katja will hold her arms behind her back and grab her left hand with her right (no rope needed anymore).
And I play along. I feed her, ignoring any glances or judgment. People may see a childish daughter or an overindulgent father. Let them.
For us, it’s something else entirely — a secret thread that still ties us together.

And, hopefully, it’ll be a long while before our roles become reversed.

@WhereAmI

[Jenny_1972]

Dear Readers, these Katja stories are my first attempt at story writing and English is not my first language.

Therefore I'd appreciate your feedback.

[sweetvillain]

Very nice introduction