Katja 10: Among Sheep (M/f sss/f)
Posted: Sat Sep 13, 2025 5:19 pm
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 08: Grandma's Wooden Spoon viewtopic.php?t=24038
Katja 09: Enjoy the Silence viewtopic.php?t=24055
-
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 10: Among Sheep - a Pastoral
WARNING: Some readers might find this story slightly blasphemic or sacrilegious.
Katja generally enjoyed helping out on the farm. The messier the work, the more fun it promised to be. The only real challenge was finding something old to wear for such chores. She had outgrown last year’s clothes, and the few good outfits she had brought with her in her holiday suitcase were not meant for muck and mud. Her solution was... creative: an old burlap sack — probably once used for potatoes — into which she cut holes for her arms and head. She tied it around her waist with a piece of coarse hemp rope. This 'peasant girl' look she would pair either with rubber boots or with bare feet.
Most people would consider sitting in a meadow on a warm, sunny day a pleasant experience. So why, on such a day, was Katja crying out for help?
I suppose it started on Wednesday, when I finally received a long-awaited package: a rare vinyl pressing of Gustav Mahler’s St. Matthew Passion. I put the record on, and soon the entire cottage was filled with the brooding beauty of early atonality. Katja didn’t just dislike it — she actively disliked it. And she made that perfectly clear. In response, she countered Mahler with her own idea of “contemporary” music, blasted from a Bluetooth speaker. But in my cottage — not even my own daughter gets to force me into wearing headphones. So I turned up the volume. She turned hers up louder.
Let’s just say those little wireless speakers are surprisingly powerful. Eventually, I’d had enough. I stormed into her room. She looked at me — and grinned. She knew she had it coming.
On Friday, in the early afternoon, I asked Katja to change into her 'peasant girl' outfit — without boots. Then I picked up a length of rope, walked up to her, placed my hands on her shoulders, turned her around, took her wrists, and tied them behind her back - seriously. She turned to face me, our eyes met for a brief moment.
“Princess, receive your penance.” I said.
“Daddy, as you see fit.” she replied in ritual submission.
I had left a long end of rope dangling, which I now used to fasten her temporarily to the iron railing outside the cottage. Then I packed the necessary items into our small handcart: two sturdy wooden stakes, another length of rope, a heavy hammer, a tube of petroleum jelly, something to drink for the two of us, and a sealed, unmarked bucket. My camping chair didn’t fit into the cart, so I hung it around Katja’s neck. I untied her from the railing, took the rope in hand, and we set off — she leading the way with the chair hanging from her shoulders, I following behind, holding the tether and pulling the cart. Her experience walking with her hands bound showed; she stumbled twice but didn’t fall.
“If your mother met us here,” I said rhetorically, “what might she say?”
We crossed the pasture in silence, heading uphill toward the 'head' in the center of the largest sheep meadow. There, I signaled her to stop, took the chair from her neck, and unfolded it beside the crest of the hill. Then I led her a few paces further and had her sit—facing away from my seat. I tied her ankles and knees with the other rope quietly, seriously. Then I took the first wooden stake and the hammer from the cart. I stepped behind her and began driving the stake into the ground, just behind her back. The vibrations from the hammer blows travelled through the soil beneath her. She didn’t flinch. That, I thought, was a form of trust.
When the stake was deep enough, I tied her bound wrists to it. Then I hammered the second stake into the ground in front of her and bound her ankles to it. Finally, I tightened both ropes. She was now secured between the stakes — able to sit, but unable to stand, turn around, or move with any freedom.
What followed might surprise you, dear reader, just as it surprised her: I knelt down and carefully anointed her bare feet with petroleum jelly*. I was gentle — any accidental tickling would have broken the somber tone of the scene. Then I opened the bucket. Inside was a wall painting brush soaking in a grayish slurry. I pulled it out, paused, and looked skyward, then across the pasture.
“No one sent to save you, it seems,” I said quietly.
I bowed slightly, then applied a generous coat of the goo — a mixture of water and powdered sheep salt lick — to the soles and tops of her feet. Then I walked off to gather the flock. If you grow up on a sheep farm, you learn how to herd early — and never forget. Soon I found my flok where shady trees line the little creek that runs through the meadow and led them over the green pasture towards my offspring's salty feet. Then I sat down on the camping chair to watch the scene unfold. The sheep approached slowly, grazing as they went. One curious ewe wandered close to Katja, sniffed the salty coating on her feet, and gave a tentative lick. Encouraged, she licked again. Katja began to squirm, but the ropes held her in place. Other sheep noticed and joined in, and soon half a dozen were crowding around her, licking with earnest enthusiasm. Katja wriggled, twisted, cried out—half laughing, half protesting.
“Daddy, make them stop!” she shouted.
I said nothing, watching the scene unfold while sipping a glass of grape juice from a nearby winery. Eventually, the licking slowed, most of the salt had been licked clean. I stood up, approached her, and applied a fresh layer of the salty mixture. By the time I had returned to my seat, the sheep were already back at work, their rough tongues exploring every inch of her feet.
“Daddy! Please!” she cried again. “Make them go away!”
But I stayed seated. After all, this was a sac... a punishment. It might have been 50% fun and 50% suffering now, but she lasted until the sheep had again licked her feet clean. I got up again, but before I applied another coat of salt I poured some of the grape juice into the glass and held it to her mouth - not her favourite drink, I knew, but better than nothing.
"Bah, take this glass away from me, daddy. I will drink back at your cottage."
Turning her face away she declined my offer ungratefully. So I gave her feet an extra thick coating and withdrew to my camping throne. The prolonged licking was now taking its toll on her. Katja’s cries and movements grew more frantic. The rope at her wrists had drawn taut; I made a mental note to check for marks later. Her reactions were no longer playful — they were desperate. What had been 50/50 now seemed like 10% amusement, 90% suffering. More and more sheep joined the spectacle, no hope of outlasting them. As I had remind silent, she at last cried out — desparately:
“Daddy! Daddy — are you still there? Or did you leave me?” I stood at once, went to her and we faced each other. Her face was flushed, damp from tears or sweat, or both.
“Father,” she said hoarsely, “I have to pee.”
I looked down on her, nodded quietly and began to untie her. While she ran behind a bush to do her business, I drew the stakes from the ground and loaded everything onto the handcart. She folded the chair and we went back to the cottage, still rather quiet. When we arrived there it was a quarter to four.
Back there I said to her
"Your punishment, it's not finished yet. In three days I want from you a list of all the bible motivs we have mashed up today."
Her list impressed me; she had found more motivs than I had consciously put into.
On Sunday when we visited her Grandparents she recounted her punishment. Grandma and Grandpa laughed. I laughed less because they told Katja for which infringement I had suffered the same punishment some 30 years before.
Just the glass has disappeared since then. Please PM me if you have found it.
(*) From my own experience I knew what prolonged exposure to the concentrated salt slush does to your skin. The jelly did a good job as a protective barrier.
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 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 10: Among Sheep - a Pastoral
WARNING: Some readers might find this story slightly blasphemic or sacrilegious.
Katja generally enjoyed helping out on the farm. The messier the work, the more fun it promised to be. The only real challenge was finding something old to wear for such chores. She had outgrown last year’s clothes, and the few good outfits she had brought with her in her holiday suitcase were not meant for muck and mud. Her solution was... creative: an old burlap sack — probably once used for potatoes — into which she cut holes for her arms and head. She tied it around her waist with a piece of coarse hemp rope. This 'peasant girl' look she would pair either with rubber boots or with bare feet.
Most people would consider sitting in a meadow on a warm, sunny day a pleasant experience. So why, on such a day, was Katja crying out for help?
I suppose it started on Wednesday, when I finally received a long-awaited package: a rare vinyl pressing of Gustav Mahler’s St. Matthew Passion. I put the record on, and soon the entire cottage was filled with the brooding beauty of early atonality. Katja didn’t just dislike it — she actively disliked it. And she made that perfectly clear. In response, she countered Mahler with her own idea of “contemporary” music, blasted from a Bluetooth speaker. But in my cottage — not even my own daughter gets to force me into wearing headphones. So I turned up the volume. She turned hers up louder.
Let’s just say those little wireless speakers are surprisingly powerful. Eventually, I’d had enough. I stormed into her room. She looked at me — and grinned. She knew she had it coming.
On Friday, in the early afternoon, I asked Katja to change into her 'peasant girl' outfit — without boots. Then I picked up a length of rope, walked up to her, placed my hands on her shoulders, turned her around, took her wrists, and tied them behind her back - seriously. She turned to face me, our eyes met for a brief moment.
“Princess, receive your penance.” I said.
“Daddy, as you see fit.” she replied in ritual submission.
I had left a long end of rope dangling, which I now used to fasten her temporarily to the iron railing outside the cottage. Then I packed the necessary items into our small handcart: two sturdy wooden stakes, another length of rope, a heavy hammer, a tube of petroleum jelly, something to drink for the two of us, and a sealed, unmarked bucket. My camping chair didn’t fit into the cart, so I hung it around Katja’s neck. I untied her from the railing, took the rope in hand, and we set off — she leading the way with the chair hanging from her shoulders, I following behind, holding the tether and pulling the cart. Her experience walking with her hands bound showed; she stumbled twice but didn’t fall.
“If your mother met us here,” I said rhetorically, “what might she say?”
We crossed the pasture in silence, heading uphill toward the 'head' in the center of the largest sheep meadow. There, I signaled her to stop, took the chair from her neck, and unfolded it beside the crest of the hill. Then I led her a few paces further and had her sit—facing away from my seat. I tied her ankles and knees with the other rope quietly, seriously. Then I took the first wooden stake and the hammer from the cart. I stepped behind her and began driving the stake into the ground, just behind her back. The vibrations from the hammer blows travelled through the soil beneath her. She didn’t flinch. That, I thought, was a form of trust.
When the stake was deep enough, I tied her bound wrists to it. Then I hammered the second stake into the ground in front of her and bound her ankles to it. Finally, I tightened both ropes. She was now secured between the stakes — able to sit, but unable to stand, turn around, or move with any freedom.
What followed might surprise you, dear reader, just as it surprised her: I knelt down and carefully anointed her bare feet with petroleum jelly*. I was gentle — any accidental tickling would have broken the somber tone of the scene. Then I opened the bucket. Inside was a wall painting brush soaking in a grayish slurry. I pulled it out, paused, and looked skyward, then across the pasture.
“No one sent to save you, it seems,” I said quietly.
I bowed slightly, then applied a generous coat of the goo — a mixture of water and powdered sheep salt lick — to the soles and tops of her feet. Then I walked off to gather the flock. If you grow up on a sheep farm, you learn how to herd early — and never forget. Soon I found my flok where shady trees line the little creek that runs through the meadow and led them over the green pasture towards my offspring's salty feet. Then I sat down on the camping chair to watch the scene unfold. The sheep approached slowly, grazing as they went. One curious ewe wandered close to Katja, sniffed the salty coating on her feet, and gave a tentative lick. Encouraged, she licked again. Katja began to squirm, but the ropes held her in place. Other sheep noticed and joined in, and soon half a dozen were crowding around her, licking with earnest enthusiasm. Katja wriggled, twisted, cried out—half laughing, half protesting.
“Daddy, make them stop!” she shouted.
I said nothing, watching the scene unfold while sipping a glass of grape juice from a nearby winery. Eventually, the licking slowed, most of the salt had been licked clean. I stood up, approached her, and applied a fresh layer of the salty mixture. By the time I had returned to my seat, the sheep were already back at work, their rough tongues exploring every inch of her feet.
“Daddy! Please!” she cried again. “Make them go away!”
But I stayed seated. After all, this was a sac... a punishment. It might have been 50% fun and 50% suffering now, but she lasted until the sheep had again licked her feet clean. I got up again, but before I applied another coat of salt I poured some of the grape juice into the glass and held it to her mouth - not her favourite drink, I knew, but better than nothing.
"Bah, take this glass away from me, daddy. I will drink back at your cottage."
Turning her face away she declined my offer ungratefully. So I gave her feet an extra thick coating and withdrew to my camping throne. The prolonged licking was now taking its toll on her. Katja’s cries and movements grew more frantic. The rope at her wrists had drawn taut; I made a mental note to check for marks later. Her reactions were no longer playful — they were desperate. What had been 50/50 now seemed like 10% amusement, 90% suffering. More and more sheep joined the spectacle, no hope of outlasting them. As I had remind silent, she at last cried out — desparately:
“Daddy! Daddy — are you still there? Or did you leave me?” I stood at once, went to her and we faced each other. Her face was flushed, damp from tears or sweat, or both.
“Father,” she said hoarsely, “I have to pee.”
I looked down on her, nodded quietly and began to untie her. While she ran behind a bush to do her business, I drew the stakes from the ground and loaded everything onto the handcart. She folded the chair and we went back to the cottage, still rather quiet. When we arrived there it was a quarter to four.
Back there I said to her
"Your punishment, it's not finished yet. In three days I want from you a list of all the bible motivs we have mashed up today."
Her list impressed me; she had found more motivs than I had consciously put into.
On Sunday when we visited her Grandparents she recounted her punishment. Grandma and Grandpa laughed. I laughed less because they told Katja for which infringement I had suffered the same punishment some 30 years before.
Just the glass has disappeared since then. Please PM me if you have found it.
(*) From my own experience I knew what prolonged exposure to the concentrated salt slush does to your skin. The jelly did a good job as a protective barrier.
