Stories of Tie Up Games

Scold's Bridled by Her Own Hand


I am Kathrin and for six years now I have been the mayor of our little town. It's an office I love although it's certainly no 9-to-5 job, rather one that follows me from the town hall into my home and sometimes into my dreams.

One of the few hobbies that I still allow myself is our historical guild. I've been with the guild since I was born, because already my parents were active members. My first role was baker's apprentice, then milkmaid, then (once and unconvincingly) a virgin princess. I was junior witch twice (more convincingly), a shield-maiden once (but was not keen on wielding swords) and I even wore the velvet robe of the dutchess at our castle's 600-year anniversary.

To make this very clear: we are no 'renfaire' guild, which hangs around at these commercial carnivals. We are a historic guild. We wear historic dress, we pitch tent in the shadow of real castles, we tolerate no elves and no orcs among our ranks.

Anyway, with a stressfull office my activity in the guild has dwindled down to one event per year:
Our town's annual castle festival is the heart of the year for our guild. Every August I enjoy the familiar scent of woodsmoke, warm beer and sausages that have been on the grill too long. After having run through all female positions the guild has to offer, I now prefer the role as a simple kitchen helper at our guild's tavern stand. Just a plain linen dress, an apron, bare feet and a few peaceful days with my old friends. And as mayor nobody denies me this role ... "doing some honest work for a change"

At least that is my hope every year. But reality is more like :

"Madam Mayor, could I just bend thine ear for a moment?"
“Milady, my cousin seeketh permit for a shed but the Building Council answereth not...”
Or just as bad in modern tongue:
“Mayor, can I talk to you real quick about zoning near the river path?”

I can't escape it. Even in a laced bodice and soot-streaked apron I seem to be on duty. They expect me to break character and be at their service - a walking Town Hall collecting empty beer steins. Last year, after a non-ending conversation about speed limits and festival parking — while I was scrubbing grease off our big copper cauldron — I nearly quit the guild altogether.

But before I could bring myself to send the email, we had a group outing. The castle in the neighboring town had finally been renovated. And before they opened for the common public, they invited our guild for a tour - we do have some historical expertise among us and with our costumes we always provide a great photo opportunity. A bus trip was organized, the visit fell on one of the few empty days in my calendar, so I just jumped on board.
A lady from the administration of castles and gardens guided us through the newly opened castle rooms. But instead of talking about the history and architecture of the castle she delved on costs, funding, emergency exits and wheelchair accessible toilets. 'Good to know when I renovate my own castle' I was tempted to say.
Thankfully she didn't guide us through the last station, which was the dungeon and torture chamber. There we were greeted by Ian, the local blacksmith. A bear of a man as you'd expect from a blacksmith, he wore a leather apron over his tunic and spoke fluent renfaire-lingo.

"Kind friends and gentlefolk" he went as we entered the chilly torture chamber "like any prisoner that arrived here hundreds of years before, let me show you the instruments of truth, order and obedience... As your schooled eye will certainly note, most of them are replicates, alas truthfully crafted from historic examples. How doth I knoweth? Ian, your humble blacksmith, forged them himself."

He pointed out the rack, the Iron Maiden, the heretic's fork. Well made but nothing we hadn't seen before. But then something unusual: a Scold's Bridle. A cage around the head, its front an iron mask with a flat tongue-press that jutted inward the mouth.

"When this piece is locked upon the head" he said with visible pride "the wearer may utter not a word lest their tongue be cleft or crushed. A tool for unruly women."

He laughed at his own joke. The female half of our group didn’t, the male half didn't dare to.

“Would any brave soul among ye dare try it on?” he asked, holding the mask aloft.

I almost raised my hand but a younger girl* beat me to it and stepped giggling forward. They buckled it on her. Her whole face disappeared behind its iron plates and though she tried to speak no intelligible sound came. Just wide eyes and awkward shrugs. Don't ask me about the other torture instruments that Ian presented to us afterwards - I admit I was captivated by the Scold's Bridle that the girl wore. A few minutes later they removed it already since we had to catch our dinner reservations.

(*) That girl was 'Barbara the Volunteer' as we call her. She had never volunteered for anything usefull. But whenever someone was needed to be locked in the tickling stocks, be dunked in the water or be lead to public trial as a witch one could count on her. Her favourite act was to walk over glowing coals as proof that she was no witch - most impressive after sunset.

Back on the bus I still thought what it might be like wearing a Scold's Bridle:

"Treated a commoner, unrecognised, and if - not able t'answer to the heart-aches and the thousand natural shocks that public's flesh is heir to: 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wish'd." I might have said had a skull been handy.


Only three days passed before I visited Ian’s smithy. He looked surprised to see me but recognised me despite me wearing business attire this time.

"A good morrow to thee, Lady Mayor! What seekest thou from mine humble forge this fair day?"

(Was he really staying in character all day? Hold my mead. A girl like me, born to the guild, can out-character you any day.)

"I am come to commission a Scold’s Bridle, good smith."

"Ah! Methinks thou wert taken with it, when last I did present the piece unto thy company." (Had I been that obvious?)
"Verily, such delicate smithwork is rare these days — a marvel wrought in iron." (Thank god not!)

"What cost dost thou set upon it?" (Maybe a little blunt.)

"The making of it shall keep me well occupied for a fortnight. Three thousand and five hundred Talers, tax included — shouldst thou require an invoice."

"Aye, I DO require an invoice. Who among us doth not?" (Who was kidding whom?)

"So thou art content with the price?" (As though he couldn't believed his luck.)

Breaking character a little, he turned to his computer. Soon an order confirmation slid quietly out of his laser printer.

"I had hoped for a parchment writ by quill, with waxen seal and all."

"Would that I could, m’lady. But alas — the king’s tax men cannot read the cursive hand." (He handed me the paper; I signed it with a cheap ballpen.)

"Dost thou require coin in advance?"

"Nay, not from a noble dame such as thyself, good Lady Mayor. I thank thee and shall send word when the work is complete — likely in a fortnight’s time."

And just like that, he figured we were done for the day.

"Dost thou not require my measurements?" I asked him.

"Measurements? For what purpose, milady?"

"If I am to wear it properly, it must needs fit, must it not?" (I was tempted to add “stupid.”)

"Wear it? Thou wouldst don the bridle thyself? But for what cause, madam?"

"For silence. For presence. For... peace." (I gave him a wry smile.) "And not for five minutes, good man. I mean to wear it a whole day."

(He blinked, nervous now. Wiping his hands on his leather apron.)

"Then must I fetch my tools of measure. Prithee, wait but a moment."

He returned less nervous and set to work: measuring the circumference of my head, the breadth of my jaw, the line of my throat, and more.

"I believe that shall suffice. Return in two weeks’ time, milady, and we shall see what the forge hath wrought."

[ to be continued ]

Thy feedback is welcome.

Its a good start and premise, interested to see where you take this. You set the scene well and made it clear to the reader why Kathrin would need such a device.

It would be nice to include some more description about Kathrin and what she looks like etc but you may be saving that deliberately for the big reveal once its made.

The big question though, will it work? Or will she find herself having to silently agree to things?

Scold's Bridled by Her Own Hand - Part 2


Some of you have asked what I look like. Shame on you! I’m a successful, ambitious politician — you should be asking about my values and my agenda! But fine, I’ll give in to public pressure:
At a little over 50 on good days I look like Giorgia Meloni, on bad days I struggle not to resemble Angela Merkel. I keep my gray strands at bay with a tint called '6TF Dark Toffee Blonde'. Apart from my earrings, if I had any other piercings or tattoos, they'd be on parts of my body that are none of my voters’ or readers’ business.


A 'fortnight' later I visited the smithy again, this time in my guild dress and barefoot to set the mood. The Scold's Bridle Ian had made looked just like the one I had seen in the castle's torture chamber. We tried it on. It fit my head well, maybe a little too high. And the plate that supressed my tongue was a little too wide. Apart from that, good job.

"The head cage sitteth a touch too high, and the tongue plate seemeth a mite too wide." (I was not going to break character first)

"My lady, ‘tis so because I did allow for a cushion atop thy noble crown. And as for the tongue plate, I have prepared two other sizes for thy choosing." (He wasn't going to break character either)

I was impressed. He removed the mask, unscrewed the tongue plate, replaced it by a smaller one and fitted a small round cushion for the crown of my head. I tried the mask again. Everything aligned much better now.

"As regardeth the cushion, I could craft one clad in fine leather, which appeareth more historic. But the ones I make of Neoprene prove more practical — or so sayeth my customers who wear chastity belts."

“Wait, you also make chastity belts? And have customers who actually wear them?” I wanted to say breaking character. But the tongue plate effectively silenced me.

"Dost thou wish to behold thyself in yonder mirror?" (He gestured toward the corner of his workshop.)

But as I rose to walk over, the front of the mask swung open with a rattling sound and nearly dropped to the floor.

"Ah! We did forget to lock it."

He shut the hasp with a padlock, removed the key and placed it atop his credit card reader. The grin on his face made it clear: you stay locked until you pay. When I had been there two weeks before he wouldn't even accept a downpayment from me. Were two minutes inside the bridle already chipping away at my status as Lady Mayor?

So, locked in the mask, all I could do was walk over to the mirror. And I liked what I saw. Wearing the mask I still could see rather well, but from outside one could hardly see my face behind the mask. And we had already established that speaking with the tongue plate in my mouth was not an option. The only thing I didn't like was the shiny finish of the mask, he'd have to work on that. But right now I was in no position to express this wish. So I gave him a quiet thumbs-up.

"If milady findeth my work satisfactory, might I humbly request her payment?"

I drew my credit card from a hidden pocket in my guild dress and swiped it through his machine. He stood there, key in hand, and the very instant the receipt stopped printing, he unlocked the — now my — Scold’s Bridle.

"What thinkest thou?"

"It doth work." I had no intention of explaining to him exactly how.

"And the cushion, milady? Shall it be leather, or Neoprene?"

"I shall follow thy other customers and choose Neoprene. One more thing — the finish shineth too brightly for my liking. Canst thou make it more dull?"

"Aye, easily done. But the tarnish must needs dry a day or two, so thou canst not take it with thee anon."

He ducked beneath his counter and emerged with a brass bell that rang far too loud every time it moved.

"May I offer thee this bell, free of charge, to go with thy Scold’s Bridle? I could mount it atop the mask."

"Hmm... let me ponder a moment. Canst thou mount it suchwise that it may be removed — e’en whilst the mask remaineth locked on me?"

"Aye, I believe so."

"Then do it. The bell shall be most fine for when I stride through the crowds at the castle festival. But it shall drive my fellow guild members in the tavern kitchen half-mad."

"Very well, milady. Thou shalt receive thy Scold’s Bridle within a few days. And... should any inquire whence it came, prithee let it be known ‘twas made at Ian’s smithy."

"Whilst I weareth tis mask, methinks such telling may prove... difficult." I smiled. "But I take thy meaning."

In fact it should turn out that such dialogues mostly went like this:
Where did you buy this mask? I had it made to measure at Ian's smithy. Nice ... does he also make chastitiy belts? Yes, but with them I have no first hand experience.

The Scold's Bridle arrived at our house on a day when I came home early in the afternoon to get some paperwork done. Of course I had to try it on immediately. I even decided to mount the bell on top of the mask — after all, I would only annoy myself. When the mask sat properly on my head I clasped the lock shut and placed the key on the kitchen counter. I went into my office and started working. I had to focus on not moving my head too much to keep that stupid bell quiet. And I had to resist picking up the phone. Calling the Mayor's office with someone on the line who couldn't speak - but ring a bell - would definitely raise questions. Aside from that, the mask wasn’t much of an obstacle to working from home. And I was slowly getting better at not ringing the bell on my head. I got so engrossed in my work that I didn’t notice my husband coming home.

My husband, Paul, I forgot to mention him. He’s an architect. We met at university, got married and he followed me back to my little hometown. He is NOT a guild member.
To complete my home story once we're at it: We have two kids but they already left our home. Our son is currently finishing his PhD abroad. And our younger daughter, well, I can neither remember her current major (the third now?), nor can I imagine who might need someone with such a degree. Paul said she’s studying until she finds herself a nice doctor. Maybe he’s right.

I had planned to show Paul my newest acquisition anyway, just with a few introductory words. It came differently.

He had already seen the packaging of the bridle in the kitchen, so he was expecting something. When he didn’t see me, he called my name — but I couldn’t answer. I got up from my office chair — and immediately the bell on my head gave me away. I walked towards the kitchen, he walked towards my office, and we met halfway in the hallway. He looked at me, amused. Walked a circle around me. Flicked the bell on my head. Checked the padlock.

“Perfect, Kathrin. Finally you can’t talk but you can still do your work — and your bell tells me exactly where you are. What more could a husband want?” He grinned. “I won’t ask how much you spent on it. But I’m guessing it wasn’t cheap. In that case, I’ll make sure it sees proper use.” With that, he held up a small key. “I found this lying on the kitchen counter. Now I know what it’s for. You can ask for it when we go to bed.” I had planned to ease myself into wearing the bridle slowly. But now I’d already been wearing it for three hours — and going to bed was another three hours away. Six hours as a start. And what about dinner?

Well, we had a very lopsided dinner. My husband helped himself to whatever he found in the fridge, while I sucked a rather bland — but certainly healthy — smoothie through a straw. I had to fold the straw to get it into my mouth. We decided we'd drill a small hole in front of the mouth plate to make handling straws easier... later, once I was unbridled again. During dinner, my husband told me all about his day... uninterrupted! And after dinner we sat and watched TV — soccer, of course. He even got to eat cashew nuts without me stealing most of them. After the match, he announced he was going to bed. He changed into his pyjamas, went to the bathroom, and then came back holding the key and looking incredibly smug. Imagine his surprise when I reached into the pocket of my jacket and pulled out the same key. I used it to unlock my bridle. After having that plate in my mouth for so long, it took me a moment to speak. “Every lock comes with two keys, darling,” I said, mocking him.
When we finally retired to our chamber, we consummated our sacred union like newlyweds.

Over the next few weeks, I slowly got used to my Scold’s Bridle. I learned to move without making the bell ring too much. The hole we drilled made drinking through a straw much easier. Soon I could last whole Saturdays. (Saturdays — because most Sundays I have one or more official appointments.) We reactivated an old piggy bank. After locking the bridle on me, I’d drop the key through the slot. The key to the trapdoor on the piggy’s belly stayed with my husband. He'd release me when he saw fit. But in case of an emergency, I could simply smash poor piggy on the kitchen floor.

Only sleeping with the bridle never worked for me, although I tried. I can only sleep on my right side — and lying on my right pushed the tongue plate painfully between my jaws and into my left cheek. Not bearable.

Apart from that, I considered my Scold’s Bridle a full success. Besides the promised goals — silence and disguise — I’d already lost two kilograms (not much, but I credit the bridle), and it had... rejuvenated Paul's and my passion.


[ to be continued ]

Thy feedback is welcome.