Katja 07: The Big Red (M/f -/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
Katja 00: Prolog 2 - When TUGs were simple viewtopic.php?t=23905
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
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Katja 07: The Big Red / Backstory 1: Being Bored

Katja’s 'first love' might have been that adventure sports bag. My brother had received it as a promotional gift but never found a use for it. So he gave it to me — but I never did, either. The oversized nylon bag was simply too big. Sure, it was robust, had a sturdy zipper, and straps you could tighten around it. But it was just too large to carry around comfortably. So I stashed it away somewhere in the cottage — until one day, Katja and the bag found each other.
(Interested in the bag’s point of view? See 3 postings below!)

Without hesitation, she unzipped it, climbed inside, and zipped herself in. From what I could see from the outside, her arms and legs began exploring how much space she had — and it seemed to be quite a lot.
"It’s huge, Daddy. Can you tighten the straps?" she asked. Carefully, I pulled them tight. They limited my little princess’s movements but still left her with enough room to wiggle and squirm.
"Perfect, Daddy! And I can’t see a thing," she exclaimed.
"Just tell me when to let you out," I said.

She was in no hurry to be released. She tested how she could move around on the floor. There were two techniques: either wiggling forward like a worm, in a peristaltic fashion, or rolling sideways. In both cases, she would inevitably bump into something.
Knowing the layout of the cottage well, she would then ruefully apologize: "Sorry, kitchen chair.", "Sorry, fridge.", "Sorry, sofa."

Eventually, I had to let her out — but of course, she wanted to do it again. By then, though, asking "Daddy, stuff me in that bag so I can blindly roll around and bump into things" felt too silly for someone who’d soon be in middle school.

We found a workaround: Whenever Katja complained that she was bored, I’d threaten her: "If you don’t stop complaining, I’ll stuff you in that bag until you come up with something better to do!" It never stopped her complaining — so I had to follow through. And it usually took her quite a while to think of something better to do than being stuck in that bag.

This went on for two or three years. But now Katja has grown too big for it.

Still, I’ve found a use for it: Whenever she leaves me at the end of summer break, I put all the things she left behind inside that bag — hoping she’ll return next summer.

[Jenny_1972]

Katja 07: The Big Red / Backstory 2: Volkswagen vs. Mercedes


Whenever Katja visited me during her summer holidays, she traded her mother’s city life — with all its possibilities, stimulations, and distractions — for a rural farm life that some might describe as peaceful, others as dull. I admired how easily Katja adjusted to this sudden change of pace. Once at the farm, she was incredibly creative in finding ways to keep herself entertained, captivated, absorbed...
Perhaps she accepted this vastly different environment because we all knew it was only temporary. While on vacation, the rules of daily life, growing up, and being reasonable weren’t entirely suspended — but they could be bent.

A few years ago, Katja had explored the idea of riding in the trunk of a car. When my little princess asked me, I helped her climb into the trunk of my VW Golf. I shut the hatch and asked if she was okay. She said she was. Then I rummaged around in the garage. When I asked whether she wanted out, she said no. I checked the air pressure of the car’s summer tires, asked again, then even checked the pressure of the winter tires hanging on the garage wall. Eventually, I let her out — I had to go back to the cottage.

The next day, we drove around the farm with her in the trunk. I navigated the bumpy roads carefully. Eventually, I stopped up at her grandparents’ farmhouse. I had parked my VW Golf next to my father's old Merc. When Grandpa saw Katja emerge from the trunk of my car — somewhat surprised — he asked if she’d like to try out the trunk of his. He had to clear out a lot of stuff first, then helped his granddaughter climb in. With a smile, he slammed the lid shut.
“Sorry, but without a bit of force it won’t close anymore,” he said apologetically.

Standing next to the cars, Dad and I chatted for maybe five minutes, then we opened the trunk and asked Katja how she liked it.
“Can you take me for a ride, Grandpa?” she asked. Grandpa was happy to oblige.

About ten minutes later, they returned. When I opened the trunk, Katja jumped out, smiling, and exclaimed:
“This is a real car! It smells like a car, the trunk is metal all around, it’s completely dark inside, there’s soft carpet everywhere — and when Grandpa drives me around, it’s much less bumpy!”
She embarrassed me in front of my dad.

From then on, it became Grandpa’s special privilege to drive my princess around in the trunk of his old Mercedes — which he didn’t mind at all. The tours around the farm soon extended into short trips into the village. People who saw her getting in or out of the trunk might have asked questions. So Grandpa and Katja decided she would stay inside while he ran his errands. (The trunk of this old Mercedes didn’t have an emergency release for kidnapped passengers yet.)

I had a long discussion with my father — I didn’t like those village trips. What if they got rear-ended? But Katja was also his beloved granddaughter, and I was his respectful son. His judgment and sense of risk were still as sharp as mine.

We finally agreed that I wouldn’t like what they were doing, but I would tolerate it — as long as they stayed within the village limits. No highways. Grandpa initially objected: “I was driving on highways before you were even born.”
I replied, “Sure — but our village police know you and probably even know Katja. If they pull you over, you could talk your way out of it.
But how would you explain a girl in your trunk to the highway police?” That potential confrontation convinced him. If they ever went beyond the village, they never told me.

But Dad did tell me how he once faked running out of fuel. He brought the car to a jerky stop at the side of the road and — within Katja’s earshot — asked passing drivers if they had a jerry can with some gas. This was a rural village, a long time ago. He knew most of the people who might stop, and many still kept a jerry can in their trunk. Katja later told me how relieved she felt when she finally heard the cap of the fuel tank being screwed open and the gurgling sound of fuel being poured in.

Compared to other “girl-in-trunk” TUGs I found, Katja never asked to be tied or gagged. The confined space, the darkness, the smell, the sounds, and the motion were captivating enough for her.

[Jenny_1972]

Katja 07: The Big Red / Main Story


I think this was during Katja’s collar-and-leash phase. She was helping me carry some old stuff up to the attic of our cottage. The attic was a dark, dusty, stuffy place, and to get there, one had to climb a steep ladder that was clearly past its prime — I didn’t want Katja to go up there alone. While we were up there, she discovered the BIG RED suitcase. She asked me about it.
“I once got it from your grandparents, but I never used it much. It’s too big for short trips — for those I use a smaller suitcase. And for longer ones, I still prefer that old hard-top over there,” I said, pointing to a battered Samsonite of similar size. Katja took a closer look at the big red one. It was a soft-shell suitcase with wheels on one side.
“It’s huge,” she said in awe. “Do you think I could fit inside, Daddy?”
“In a crouched, folded position — probably yes,” I replied. (I really should work on my think-before-you-speak skills.)
“Can we try it?” she said, already tugging at the zipper.
“Not up here in the attic. Let’s take it downstairs — it’s cleaner and less stuffy there.”

With some difficulty, we got the suitcase down the ladder. I told Katja to clean off the dust it had collected up there. Then she opened it and folded the top half back. It looked even bigger now. She wanted to step inside, but I stopped her. “Shoes off first.” Now in her socks, she stepped in and began trying to fold herself into the bottom half. The suitcase was indeed large, and Katja wasn’t very big — but it still took her a few tries to arrange her arms and legs just right. She finally managed to close the top half over her. After some further readjustments inside, the zipper rows came close enough. “Can you zip it shut, Daddy?” she asked. I closed first the left, then the right side, so the sliders met at the front, just above the handle.

“All closed, my princess. We’ve proven you fit. How do you feel?”
“It’s really dark inside — only a little light comes through the zipper.” I pushed the sliders all the way together. “Thanks — now it’s really dark inside.”
“Is it cramped?”
“No. I found a position where I still have some room to move, and there’s lots of space above me.” She pushed her hand upwards, and I saw the fabric bulge.

“Now that we know you fit, shall I let you out?”
“Not yet. I want to know if I’m using up the air inside or if enough fresh air comes in through the fabric.”
“Okay, but tell me immediately if you feel dizzy or if breathing gets difficult.”
“Yes, Daddy. Don’t worry.”

I sat down and started reading the newspaper, listening for any sounds from the suitcase. At first, I could tell Katja was exploring her little prison from the inside — feeling around, folding and refolding her limbs. I got the impression she was discovering more compact configurations for herself, becoming smaller in a way.

After a while, she spoke:
“There’s not only space for me — there’s even room for luggage.”
“How’s your breathing?”
“Still okay. How long have I been in here?”
“About 30 minutes. I think we can safely say that breathing works.”
I unzipped the suitcase and helped her out.
“Thank you, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome, my princess. Now put that red behemoth away — it clutters the whole living room. We’ll put it back in the attic tomorrow.” (I still had hope.)

The next morning at breakfast, Katja brought up the suitcase again:
“Daddy, I’ve been thinking about the suitcase. A lot. Wouldn’t it be great if you packed me in it when I travel back to Mom at the end of the holidays?”
“Your mom already thinks I’m not acting my age. This would only confirm it. She’d never send you to me again.”
“Okay, then let me out of the suitcase just before we ring her doorbell.”
“You said you were THINKING. The trip to your mom’s is far too long.” (Seriously, I must improve my think-before-you-speak reflex.)
“How long?”
“By car, normally three hours — four at most.” (Shut up, idiot...)
“By train?”
“Also three hours, but we’d have to change trains and then take the subway. And traveling with such a huge, heavy suitcase just wouldn’t work. I’d have to carry you up the stairs, onto platforms, into trains...”
“I’m not heavy!”
“You’re not heavy for a girl, but for something someone usually puts in a suitcase — you are. The suitcase will cry ‘overload’ — and so will my back.”
“I bet I could stay in there for four hours.”
“You’ve only lasted 30 minutes so far.”
“But you ended it. I could have gone on much longer.”
“That suitcase wouldn’t even fit in the trunk of my Golf.”
“Grandpa would lend you his Merc. It would fit there.”
“And what if we’re halfway there and you suddenly want out? I can’t stop on the highway, and I might not even hear you.”
“We could do a dry run here, safely in the cottage.”
“Even if you lasted four hours inside here, I won’t drive you around like that.”
“Maybe four hours is too long — but we won’t know unless we try.” (That moment when your daughter outsmarts you.)

“What’s your plan?”
“I start with one hour today, then two, three, and finally four. If I have to abort a session, I’ll repeat the same duration the next day.
Each afternoon during your home office. You’ll see and hear me. I can hear you. Totally safe. And while I’m inside, you won’t have to worry what mischief I’m up to elsewhere.”
“You’ve really thought this through, haven’t you, princess?”
“Aren’t you proud of me, Daddy?” (Isn’t she too young for irony?)

Although I didn’t approve of the plan, I had to admit it was well thought out — and she stuck to it faithfully.

That afternoon, just as I was about to start my work, she appeared with the big red suitcase. She had changed into comfy clothes — leggings and a t-shirt. She fetched the kitchen timer and set it for one hour. Slipping off her slippers and placing them neatly beside the suitcase, she folded herself into the bottom half and pulled the top part over.

“You just need to zip it and start the timer,” she said. She’d thought of everything. I couldn’t really refuse. I zipped it shut, started the timer, and heard a beep.
“Thank you, Daddy,” said the suitcase.
“You’re welcome, suitcase,” I replied.

I sat down and got to work. Watching a suitcase is much less distracting than having a girl rummaging around the house. I was about to say something when my phone rang — I was on the call for half an hour. When I hung up, I asked, “Are you okay, princess?”
“Yes, everything’s fine. Don’t worry, Daddy,” came the muffled reply.
The suitcase didn’t seem to want to be disturbed.

When the timer beeped, I jumped up and stopped it. As I unzipped the suitcase, I heard her exclaim, “What, already?”
She got out and, with a wide smile and a graceful arm movement, posed like a magician’s assistant.
“Katja vs. Suitcase: 1–0.” she proclaimed.
“I think I liked it better when you were inside,” I said.

The next afternoon went similarily. True to her plan she set the kitchen timer to 2 hours. She got into the suitcase and folded the top part over. But instead of asking me to zip it shut and start the timer I heard her first fidgeting around some then I heard the sound of the zipper being slowly closed from inside. It took some time. Finally she said "I have closed the zipper already. You must just start the timer." I did as I was told but I was a little worried. The fact that she could get the suitcase shut by herself, unattended, could lead to serious accidents. I had to do something about that. But for now I had to stay with her for the next two hours. They went on as uneventful as the day before. We were both startled when the timer started to beep. I helped her outside (she didn't insist in opening the zipper by herself). She didn't give her magician's assistant performance but smiled and proclaimed "Katja vs. Stuitcase 2-0"

The next morning, I went into town and bought a small luggage lock. Back at the cottage, I locked the zipper — with Katja outside.
(Locking the suitcase shut with the girl outside might be a first in the world of TUGs.)

Later, when she noticed it I explained to her "I saw you close the zipper yesterday. It's an admirable feat, but if you do it unattended it's incredibly dangerous. Daddy plays along with his little princess as much as possible, but here I must protect you as your father. She accepted it, probably fearing her objections might threaten her entire plan.

The next afternoon saw Katja take on the 3-hour mark. Around the two-hour mark, it seemed to get boring for her, because she started a conversation with me. I don’t remember what it was about, but it skillfully avoided the topic of suitcases. When the timer finally went off and I helped her stand up, she struggled a little.
“As elegant as your grandfather,” I commented.
She rolled her eyes and said defiantly “Katja vs. Suitcase: 3–0.”

Before putting the suitcase away, she had to sit down on the sofa for a few minutes, stretching her limbs.
“I’m impressed. Three hours is more than I expected. I wouldn’t mind if you ended this challenge now,” I said, fanning faint hopes.
“No. Tomorrow I’ll break the 4-hour mark,” she replied confidently.

I had to stop this nonsense. And I had just the right idea.

Had you asked the pharmacist in the next town, he might have confirmed that a man looking much like me came in that morning asking for a laxative suitable for children.
But you didn’t ask! And you also didn’t see me pour the juice that Katja drank at lunch.

After lunch, she set the timer for 4 hours — the final challenge.

At the 2:20 mark, I noticed increased fidgeting from inside the suitcase.
At 2:30, she asked me to confirm that I was still nearby and on standby.
At 2:35, she urgently asked me to unzip the suitcase.

She crawled out and limped as fast as she could to the toilet, where she remained for quite some time.

When she came back, looking pale, I pitied her. Maybe she had eaten something bad. These things happen — even to the best. “Better luck tomorrow,” I said.
Nevertheless, I added, “Katja vs. Suitcase: 3–1.” (The look she gave me — I felt guilty afterward.)

The next day, she attempted the 4-hour challenge again. (Silently, I admired her determination.)
But the result was similar. Her digestion once again ended her ambition shortly after the 3-hour mark.

When she returned from the bathroom, I made a 'constructive' proposal:
“Don’t let your digestion beat you. I’ll drive you into town and we buy diapers. They’re not just for babies — even astronauts wear them.”
“If you need help with them, I can put them on you. I still remember how from when you were little,” I offered.
But for the record, I declared: “Katja vs. Suitcase: 3–2.” (I can be such an asshole.)

That weekend, we had planned a trip to the beach with her grandparents, so there was no time for more attempts — and she didn’t even ask to bring the suitcase along.

On Monday, I half expected her to resume her self-imposed challenge, but to my great relief, she didn’t mention the suitcase.
Nor did she on Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday.

On Friday, she didn’t object when I carried the suitcase back up to the attic — where it still sits, its zippers locked shut.

[Jenny_1972]

This text was as is generated by ChatGPT. I asked it to retell the story "Being Bored" from above.
It was originally told by Katja's daddy - now you find it told from the perspective of the bag instead.

These AI's are fckg scary!


Katja 07: The Big Red / Backstory 1: Being Bored - as narrated by the bag


For years, I sat in silence, waiting.

I was born for adventure — tough nylon skin, heavy-duty zippers, rugged straps ready to brace against anything. But after arriving as some promotional gift, I was tossed aside. First by the uncle (never even took my tags off), then by the dad — who didn’t know what to do with a bag my size. So I ended up tucked away in a dusty corner of the cottage, waiting for someone who saw me for what I really was.

Then one summer day, she found me. Katja.

No hesitation. She unzipped me, climbed right inside, and zipped me shut from the inside like she knew. Like she'd been waiting for me too.

From the inside, I felt her limbs stretch and press and squirm — testing my space. I held her. All of her. Easily.

"It’s huge, Daddy. Can you tighten the straps?" she said.

Ah, the straps! Finally, someone appreciated them. Her father cinched me snugly around her, not too tight — just enough to give her a challenge. I could feel her grinning in the dark.

"Perfect, Daddy! And I can’t see a thing."

She didn’t want to see. That was the game. In the dark, she was free to explore — crawling like a worm, rolling sideways, bumping into every piece of furniture with gleeful apologies. "Sorry, kitchen chair." "Sorry, fridge." "Sorry, sofa." She knew exactly what she was bumping into. The cottage was her world, and I was her escape pod.

Eventually, he’d unzip me and let her out — sweaty, giggling, hair stuck to her face — and she’d beg to go again. But as she got older, asking to be zipped inside a bag got… trickier. Something about middle school pride.

So they invented a game. Whenever she said she was bored, he’d threaten: “If you don’t stop complaining, I’ll stuff you in that bag until you come up with something better to do!”

She never stopped complaining. Which meant I got to do what I did best.

This went on for years — summers full of rolling, squirming, muffled laughter, and the occasional "Sorry, coffee table." But kids grow. That’s their job. One summer, she didn’t fit inside me quite so easily. The next summer, she didn’t even try.

Now I’ve been repurposed. At the end of each summer, her dad fills me with the things she forgot — the books, the hairbands, the odd sock or two. I carry her absence like I once carried her giggles.

And I wait. Sturdy, zipped up, straps tightened. Waiting for her to come back.

Because I know, one day, she will.

[sweetvillain]

Beautiful and original Jenny, congratulations