Stories of Tie Up Games

This is part of a growing series of Katja stories:

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 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


Katja 08: Grandma's Wooden Spoon

On many Sundays, Katja and I would cook dinner together. I’ll admit, I had a bit of a didactic ambition, trying to teach her how to cook before her mother messed her up. Perhaps we were punching above our weight, but I called our culinary efforts “from Oliver to Escoffier”. Katja took to it easily. She quickly learned the difference between blanching and boiling, understood which utensils to use for what, and seemed genuinely curious about the process.

One Sunday when we had to stir a dough she went searching for a wooden spoon with a long handle. When I saw which one she was about to use, I reacted instinctively.
“No, not that one!” I blurted out. She looked at me, puzzled, because technically it was perfect for the job. “Why not?” All I could say was, “Well... just because.”

We finished the meal without further incident, and I hoped she'd forget about the moment. But after loading the dishwasher, she stood quietly at the counter, turning that very spoon in her hands. Then she challenged me, “Father, why are you afraid of this spoon?” She had observed more than I thought so she deserved an honest answer.
I said, “Because I used to get spanked with it.” She looked shocked. “By whom?” “By my mom.” That didn’t quite fit with her image of Granny.
K: “Did it hurt?”
F: “It’s supposed to hurt.”
K: “Did you cry?”
F: “Not at first.”
She silently returned the spoon to its drawer. I was grateful she didn’t suggest throwing it away or hiding it. I couldn’t have told her, “Don’t deprive it of its rightful place in the kitchen.”
We never spoke of it again, and from then on, Katja was careful never to use that particular spoon for everyday cooking.

[Two Weeks Later]

One of my most cherished possessions at our cottage was a wooden castle handmade by my grandfather. I didn’t have many memories of him, but the castle had stood proudly atop a cupboard for years. As a child, I’d spent countless afternoons playing with tin soldiers around its towers. One of Katja’s newest obsessions was a hard rubber ball that bounced like crazy.
Bong, Bong, Bong — "Katja, play outside with that ball!” I warned. “But it’s raining, Daddy!”
Bong. Bong. Crash.

The ball had ricocheted off the wall and knocked the wooden castle off the cupboard. It fell to the tiled floor and shattered into hundreds of pieces. I was stunned. Katja came over, wanting to help, but I turned her away. I didn’t want her near the pieces. As I gathered the fragments, it became clear that it couldn’t be repaired. Yes, I was justified in being angry. Why hadn’t she listened? Why wasn't she reasonable enough to leave that ball outside? etc. But, call it immature, I couldn’t let go. From that moment on, every memory I had of my grandfather and my childhood now seemed to end in a that pile of broken wood. I tried to return to normal around Katja, but something in our dynamic had shifted. And of course, she felt it too.

A few days later, after another awkward dinner, Katja disappeared into the kitchen and returned — spoon in hand. She stood in front of me, calm and composed.
“If you want to spank me,” she said, “then spank me!”
I was floored. That spoon still haunted me. And now I was supposed to be on the other end of it? What had I done — despite pretending everything was fine — that made my daughter believe this was the only way to fix things? I declined, said reasonable things like “I’m sorry, I’ll do better” and “Spanking is considered child abuse these days.”
She replied, “There are only four weeks of summer holiday left. I won’t spend them with you like this.” She was choosing spanking over distance. Was I really that unbearable?

Finally, I nodded. She handed me the spoon.
“You sit on the chair, and I’ll bend over your knees,” she instructed.
“Must I lift up my skirt?” she asked, half-joking, half-serious.
“Ahem—no. I think that won’t be necessary. But I never wore a skirt.”
And so I began. I didn’t know how hard to hit, so I adjusted by her reactions.
Maybe I should have stopped earlier, maybe I got carried away. Maybe she wanted to be brave and impress me.
But eventually, she cried out reather desparately, “Father!” — and that snapped me back.

I helped her up and hugged her tightly. We both shed a few tears.
But somehow, strangely, that act had worked through the tension between us.
Later, when I offered her some ointment for her behind, we both smiled genuinely.

After that, we established a kind of unspoken code:
If one of us placed the spoon on the kitchen counter, it meant there was something badly amiss and we were offering the other the chance to heal our relation by spanking. The other could accept — or quietly return the spoon to its drawer.

I never told my mom about this renewed tradition. Katja never said whether she spoke to her grandma about it either. Maybe some stories are best left in the drawer — like the spoon.

But we didn’t use that arrangement often:
Katja once placed the spoon on the counter after she had carelessly charred a beautiful Beef Wellington.
I once placed a spoon there after she had smashed the car door into the stone flower trough in front of the cottage.
The third and fourth times I will tell you in the following posts.
And one time Katja and I have agreed not to speak about. Let’s just say we had to call the fire brigade to free her and it took Grandpa two barrels of beer to keep them from reporting the incident to the police.

Hoisted by Zbigniew:

For a few years now, the farm had hired three or four helpers every summer, most of them from Poland. One of them was Zbigniew. He was 23 years old, quiet, and rather slim – quite unlike his colleagues. Since Katja often helped out with the sheep, it naturally came about that Zbigniew became her “favorite helper.” When she brought tea and soup for lunch to the workers, she would sit beside him quite naturally. If she had no tasks of her own, she helped him instead. In return, he taught her a few words of Polish. It was all rather innocent.

Until one evening, when Grandpa was waiting for Katja to finally come back to the farmhouse. When he went looking for her, he heard her calling for help — and found her hanging upside down in the barn. Someone had tied her hands behind her back and hoisted her up by her legs using the electric winch. Grandpa immediately lowered her and untied her.

"Who did this to you?" he asked, furious.
"It's okay, nothing happened to me," Katja managed to say.
"No one hangs up my granddaughter! Tell me who it was!"
"Please, Grandpa..."
Grandpa took Katja back to the farmhouse. Grandma tried to calm them both down and called me. Ten minutes later, I arrived as well.

"Hanging you in the barn is bad enough — but leaving you like that is dangerous." I exclaimed
"He was with me and only disappeared when he heard Grandpa calling for me."
"Who? Zbigniew?"
"Yes... please don't punish him," she said quietly.
"Did he... do anything else to you?" I asked, worried.
"No... nothing else."

Grandma suggested we bring Zbigniew in to explain himself.

Z: "Please, I say big sorry. I not want hurt Katja."
K: "He didn’t hurt me."
F: "But he shouldn’t have treated you like that."
Z: "I not understand what is with Katja today. Before, always she help me. Today she make everything bad."
F: "What do you mean?"
Z: "I paint fence post, put hook for electric wire. She turn post wrong way, they get dirty, they stick together. I say, 'Help or go!' but she still doing."
F: "Is that true, Katja?"
K: (softly) "Yes."
Z: "So I put rope next to me, look at her angry. But she not stop. So I tie her hands — behind back. I think, now she no can make stupid."
F: "Is that true, Katja?"
K: "Yes."
F: "And you didn’t resist when he tied your arms?"
K: "Only a little."
Z: "Then I paint again. I must finish. Now she use foot to turn post."
K: "Then he tied my legs."
Z: "Yes. Then she start talk, like this:

‘English girl much smarter than Polish girl.’
‘But Polish girl more pretty than English.’ I say
‘You have even girlfriend?’
‘Yes.’ I say
‘She have nice black hair like me?’
‘No, better, she blonde.’ I say
‘Brown eyes like me?’
‘No, better, her eyes blue.’ I say
‘She is fat, I think.’
‘No, she slim like you, but she have real…’" He made a gesture in front of his chest with both hands.

(A direct hit. Katja had been waiting for years for something to finally grow there.)

'Zbigniew, what’s your girlfriend’s name? Ludmilla, Agnieszka, Zofia? Or maybe… Piotr, Franciszek, Stanislaw?'

(A direct hit on Zbigniew’s side — but nobody could have known that.)

Z: “Then I see winch, hook her feet, lift her up. I’m very sorry, please.”
K: “He lifted me just high enough to be at his eye level. Then he said, ‘You’ll come down if you give me a kiss.’”
F: “Is that true?”
Z: "Yes, but I say like this — on cheek!" He gestured to his cheek. Katja nodded. "But she give headbutt! Then try bite my ear!" (Katja giggled.) “Then I hear boss call her ‘Katja, Katja’ and I run away. I really sorry, please.”

Grandma, who had been quiet until then, finally spoke. “I think we all need to sleep on it.”

Later, back at the cottage, I had a serious talk with Katja:

"Katja, I get it — sometimes the oats kick in, you're a frisky filly. That's normal at your age. But what you did today? That was just plain dumb."
“I just teased him a little, and nothing happened.”
“But something could have happened.”
“But the ropes on my feet were tight — I couldn’t slip out hanging from the hoist. I think he’s done this before.”
“Katja… something else could have happened to you.”
…
“But Zbigniew—”
“He’s an adult. You’re not. He would be held responsible — not you. They could sentence him, send him to prison, or back to Poland — or both. But no one could ever unrape you. That’s what I meant by plain dumb.”

The next morning, I laid that wooden spoon on the kitchen counter. She accepted.

Katja’s holiday was ending soon anyway, and we made sure she didn’t spend time with the helpers again unless Grandpa was around.
Zbigniew never applied to work on our farm again.

The following case was somewhat disputed between us; it was her who finally put the spoon on the kitchen counter. Here's why:

We were on one of our evening rounds to check on the farm — the sheep, the fences, the gates. This was during the time Katja wore that dog collar, which meant I led her on a leash. We were glad to be finishing up, as a thunderstorm was approaching fast. Almost back at the cottage, a car suddenly came speeding towards us. That was very unusual for that late in the evening. When the driver saw us, he slammed on the brakes, rolled down the window, and asked,

"Is this the road to the farmhouse? I haven’t been there in a while, and I think I’m lost." It was Dr. Peters, my parents’ longtime family physician.

"Hello, Dr. Peters. No, this is the track to the cottage. What are you doing here at this hour?"

"Oh, it’s you, John. Your father called me — your mother’s not feeling well, and I wanted to get there as soon as possible."

If my mother actually let my father call a doctor for her, her condition had to be serious. I was worried about my mom. And I was worried about Dr. Peters, who might crash his car speeding over the bumpy road up to the farmhouse.

"Let me hop in and show you the way," I said.

I wanted to be with my parents in this situation — but I didn’t want Katja to witness whatever might happen. Without thinking much, but with a practiced hand, I tied her leash to the nearest fence post. Dr. Peters was too focused on turning around his car to notice anything unusual. Or maybe village gossip had already prepared him for scenes like this. We rushed up to the farmhouse, where Dr. Peters immediately began examining my mother. He was clearly alarmed.

"We need to get her to a hospital immediately. May I use your phone?" He called the hospital in the nearby town, spoke some medical gibberish, then handed the phone to me so I could give the ambulance precise directions.

"They’ll be here in 25 minutes," I said, setting the phone down.

Now even Dr. Peters looked tense. He went out to his car and came back with some 'defi' equipment. Soon we heard a beep-beep from her pulse and blood pressure. He poked a needle into the crook of her arm and connected it to a drip bag. We waited the longest 22 minutes of my live. Then we heard the siren of the ambulance. One minute later we saw its blinking lights speeding up the street. As the first heavy raindrops began to fall, the paramedics rushed into the farmhouse. Dr. Peters gave them a quick update. They checked the equipment — and now they looked worried.

"In her current state, we can’t transport her yet. We need to stabilize her first."

They did what medics do — things I didn’t want to see done to my mother. After about 15 more minutes, they finally seemed a little less concerned. One of them looked out the window and said to my dad and me,

"While we get her into the ambulance, could you hold an umbrella over her and our instruments?"

By now the rain was pouring. They carried my mom on a stretcher and loaded her into the vehicle. My dad and I held two large umbrellas over her and the blinking, beeping machines. The ambulance crew themselves got soaked. With lights flashing but moving cautiously, they drove off into the night toward the hospital. Dr. Peters turned to my father and said,

"That was just in time. I told you last time not to wait so long. There’s nothing you can do for her right now — call the hospital in the morning. If things turn out badly, they’ll contact you anyway."

"What do you mean, 'last time'?" I asked — not sure whether I was addressing Dr. Peters or my father.

"Didn’t your dad tell you? She had a similar episode before, but back then she refused to let him call an ambulance. He drove her to my office in his old Merc."

"No... he didn’t tell me." Until now I had wanted to stay and console him — but now I felt angry at him.

"Dr. Peters, can you give me a ride back to the cottage? Just to the junction, so you won’t have to reverse on the muddy road."

"Goodbye, Dad."

I grabbed an umbrella and got in the car with Dr. Peters. From the junction, it was just a two-minute walk. The rain was still coming down hard, and now the wind had picked up. By the time I reached the cottage, I was soaked despite the umbrella. I took off my wet shirt and began looking for Katja—but she was nowhere to be found. Had she crawled into some new hiding place?

"Katja, it’s your father! Come out, wherever you are!" I called out — no response.

Then I noticed the wardrobe. My jacket and boots were there — but not hers. Was she still outside? We had parted just a minute from the cottage door. I grabbed a flashlight, opened the door, and searched the rainy darkness. Just where I had tied her leash, I saw a pitiful figure hunched over, shivering. Without a coat or umbrella, and wearing only my slippers, I ran out to her. When I reached her, she looked up at me — shaking, but full of reproach.

"Daddy, Daddy, why have you forsaken me?" I quickly untied her leash and rushed her inside, straight into the bathroom.

"Get in a hot bath. Stay there at least 30 minutes."

While she warmed up, I laid out her warmest clothes and started cooking soup. Half an hour later, we were sitting at the kitchen table with two bowls of hot chicken soup.

"You're going to catch a serious cold. I'll give you some medicine for the night."

"Daddy, why did you forget me in the rain?" she asked. I was beginning to feel angry.

"Katja, up at the farmhouse tonight, your grandma almost died. She’s in the hospital now, and we don’t even know if she’ll make it through the night." Katja looked shocked.

"I left you tied to the fence because I didn’t want you to see your grandmother dying. This is life. This is reality.
You being led around on a leash by me is a game between us. You can say no. You can unclip the leash. You can take off the collar. You’re not a dog — you’re an intelligent human girl, or so I thought.
Staying out there in the rain, waiting for your daddy to untie you, was f**king stupid. You risked your health — for what? For not breaking character? To prove how strong and committed you are? To show me that you take these games more seriously than I do? Or to make me feel guilty for forgetting you there?
...
Well, I only feel guilty for overestimating your maturity and intelligence. Your little brother would not have been that stupid." (That was meant to hurt.)
"I left you tethered there because I thought you would take care of yourself. If you don't care for yourself when necessary, then daddy and his princess can no longer play these games. I tie you up whenever you ask me to, because you can say 'Father, let me free!' anytime. If you don't say that when needed, tying you up becomes irresponsible."

The next morning, the wooden spoon lay on the kitchen counter.

But I had to wait almost a week before her cold had subsided enough to carry out the spanking.

Grandma returned from hospital after one week, she tried hard to be the same as before, but ... well.