Katja 14: Butchering my Daughter (FMM/f)

[Jenny_1972]

You might be surprised why this series starts with story 14. That is because the 13 previous stories are 'For Everyone'. Only this story, maybe the last one, I was advised to publish under 'For Adults'.

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
Katja 07: The Big Red viewtopic.php?t=23977
Katja 08: Grandma's Wooden Spoon viewtopic.php?t=24038
Katja 09: Enjoy the Silence viewtopic.php?t=24055
Katja 10: Among Sheep viewtopic.php?t=24067
Katja 11: Reading Tolkien viewtopic.php?t=24096
Katja 12: All about David viewtopic.php?t=24109
Katja 13: Boxing Katja viewtopic.php?t=24151
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Katja 14: Butchering Katja

WARNING: This story is probably the most extreme in the Katja series - and it's definitely not for vegetarians.

APOLOGY: Anyone who has ever slaughtered a pig, please forgive me for any technical inaccuracies.


For those readers who are not familiar with the Katja scenario: Katja is the teenage daughter (12-14 years) of the narrator. She lives most of the year with her mother in the city, but spends the summer holidays with her father. He lives in a cottage that belongs to the sheep farm of Katja's grandparents. Katja has a penchant for TUGs and her 'daddy' often indulges his 'princess'.


The idea had come from Grandpa. Together he and I worked out the details of the scenario. But we didn't dare to put it into action until Grandma enthusiastically agreed to participate. And we're still proud that Katja didn't notice any of our preparations.

Next to Katja's grandparents' farmhouse stood an old barn. Inside there was a crossbeam about 2.5 meters above the ground from which hung two rusty chains with large, pointed hooks at their ends. Katja had always been interested in these chains and hooks and every summer she would ask what they were used for. By now Grandpa had truthfully admitted to her that the chains were used for slaughtering and butchering pigs when the farm still kept pigs and the butcher was allowed to slaughter them on-site. Since then these chains had held a morbid fascination for Katja, but Grandpa didn't want to tell her any more details — nor did Grandma.

But now we felt the time had come. Katja should experience firsthand how pigs were slaughtered on our farm!
Under some pretense Grandpa, Grandma and I managed to gather in the barn under the chains and call Katja over.

Grandma: "Katja, you've always wanted to know how we used to slaughter pigs."

Katja nodded, somewhat uncertain about her gathered family. And about the equipment she saw: a large hammer, two large butcher knives, a steel kitchen knife, an axe, a wide wooden trough.
What she didn't see: two warmed plastic buckets with lids, two warmed watering cans, two thick cotton belts, a large plastic sack, a grill, sausages.

Grandma: "Today you're going to experience it for yourself. - Strip!"
Neither Grandpa nor I would have dared to give that command, but when it comes from Grandma, even such a harsh order seems less severe. Katja took off her dress. Meanwhile, Grandpa and I tied on white butcher aprons and donned rubber boots.

Grandma: "As far as I remember, our pigs went completely naked."

Katja hesitated for a moment, but then obeyed. After an awkward moment she soon stood before us confidently, but with visible anticipation. Grandpa took the large hammer he had prepared, stepped forward and gently tapped Katja's forehead with it.

Grandma explained: "The blow with the hammer renders you unconscious. You can't see anymore."
With that, she stroked Katja's eyes like you close the eyelids of a deceased.
"And you can't speak anymore." With that, she pressed Katja's lips shut.

Grandpa and I grabbed Katja by the upper arms and carefully lowered her to the ground. With a loud clatter, we released the two chains with the hooks. Grandpa took the left chain, I took the right one. We poked the hooks against the skin covering Katja's Achilles tendons, just above her ankles.

"The sharp hooks are inserted between your Achilles tendon and bone, on both legs. These areas are strong enough to carry your entire weight." Grandma explained.

But we wanted her to be able to literally walk away from this experience. Instead of permanently ruining Katja's legs, we tied thick cotton straps around her ankles. We placed the hooks between the strap and her leg, so that she would at least feel the cold metal. Then Grandpa and I pulled her up with the chains, while Grandma held her arms to make sure her back and head didn't scrape against the hard concrete floor of the barn. Finally, Katja hung in front of us, suspended by her legs, her arms dangling just above the barn floor. I slid the wooden trough, scraping against the floor, under her head. Grandma placed a bucket with a lid, which had been hidden until now, next to the trough. Grandpa took the large knife and gently poked Katja's neck from the side.

GM: "A single cut to your carotid artery causes you to bleed to death. Five liters of warm blood flow into the trough below you. From it we will later make blood sausage."

Grandma opened the bucket. It was filled with pig's blood, which we had gotten from the butcher that morning and reheated earlier. The bitter, metallic smell quickly spread throughout the barn — I almost had to vomit. I grabbed the watering can with lukewarm water, Grandpa poked her neck just a little harder, and I poured five liters of the blood-warm water slowly over Katja's neck, ear, hair, and arms into the wooden trough. I tilted the watering can up and down to simulate a heartbeat and let the stream slowly die down.

GM: "You're feeling dizzy, you can't breathe, your heart stops, you're dead."

I moved the trough away. Then we waited a bit ... like in mourning.

GM: "Your skin is covered in stiff bristles. They come off most easily if we scald your skin with boiling water and then scrape it off."

I got the second watering can, checked the temperature — 45 degrees Celsius, hot, but not too hot. I started at her lower legs, poured some of the 'boiling' water from the can, and Grandpa took the dull edge of his butcher knife and scraped away the nonexistent bristles.
We worked our way down her body, both of us glancing periodically at Grandma, who, in turn, kept an eye on Katja's face and body posture - but Katja kept her eyes and mouth stoically shut. With Grandma's silent approval, we pretended to remove the bristles from all over her body.

GM: "Now, when we roast your skin in the oven as a hearty crust, we won't chew on your bristles."

GM: "Next, your head is severed from your torso."

Grandpa placed the knife with the blade facing the wrong way and drew the tip once around Katja's entire neck, leaving a thin red scrape.

GM: "Now your abdominal cavity is opened, and your intestines, bladder, liver, spleen, and gallbladder fall out. Your organs, of course, won't be thrown away, but processed if possible."

Grandpa placed the knife, again with the blade facing the wrong way, at her navel and carefully guided it down to about her diaphragm. I took the second bucket, in which water-filled balloons were floating, and slowly poured Katja's "entrails" down her stomach, neck, and face.

GM: "Now your meat is inspected for trichinella."

Since neither of us had any idea how such a meat inspection actually worked, we had to improvise. I 'inspected' several areas of her body by pressing the round, cold steel handle of a kitchen knife against her skin.

GM: "Since your meat is free of trichinella, you are approved for consumption."

The butcher in town wouldn't lend me his stamp, but he did give me their long-lasting stamp ink. With that, I stamped our farm's old receipt stamp on both of her buttocks and both of her breasts.

GM: "Now your head and most of your organs are gone. What's left of you is now split in two."

Grandpa stepped behind Katja and carefully pressed the blade of the axe against her spine, from the top down (that is from her buttocks to her neck).

GM: "Your right and left body halves are now separated, because that's simply more practical for the butcher. Both of them will go into the cooler until further use."

I grabbed the large plastic sack and stuffed Katja into it, arms and head first. At the level of her mouth and nose I tore a hole. Grandpa and I released the chains and lowered Katja to the floor again. We removed the hooks, tied the plastic bag shut behind her feet, and carried her to the freezer together. With our combined strength we lifted Katja into the freezer, next to some frozen lamb shanks and vegetables and closed the lid. Of course we remained there in standby should she panic.

By now the aroma of the sausages that Grandma had already put on the grill became noticeable. We waited another minute or two until the smell of the sausages was really strong. Then we took Katja out of the freezer and untied her from the plastic bag. Shivering she rushed to dress herself again — and a short time later she was standing with the three of us by the grill behind the barn.

"Darling, you endured your butchering with impressive calmness. How was it, Katja?" Grandma asked.

"Wow! Intense. Unforgettable. Thank you." She hugged Grandma, Grandpa, and me.

"What do you think now, Katja?" Grandpa asked.

"I think you gave me this demonstration at just the right time. Last year I was still too young to endure this, next year I might be... too adult."

"For everything there is ONE season." Grandpa said.

I could hardly refrain from asking her if we had now converted Katja to vegetarianism.

"You guys are really crazy. Please, never again ask me where I got 'that' from!" Katja beamed.
...
"When I tell this back at school as 'my best holiday memory' they'll all be so jealous!"

For a moment Grandma, Grandpa and I looked at Katja in shock — but then all four of us burst into laughter.

The scratches Grandpa had made with the knife completely disappeared within two days. The ink of the meat inspection stamps, however, lasted longer... much longer.