Some Items Should Never Find Thier Way Into The Bedroom

I used to think that there was no such thing as a “bad scene idea” That is until after what I like to call, the Swedish Chef Incident. You see it was Thursday night, my weekly date night with Dancer and it was also my turn to be the top. If you have been reading this blog for long you will have probably surmised that I’m not what you might call “high protocol” when it comes to my D/S play. Rather, I’m more about the humor and fun of kink, SM play for me is all about the irreverence and hedonistic joy. Oh sure I’ll hurt you nine ways to Sunday, don’t get me wrong, just don’t be expecting me to keep a stoic expression on my face when I do it.

So, as I set to load up my toybag for the night, I needed to come up with a theme. A sctick, a something to set the tone for our play. Hmm. What do I have in my arsenal that she has not seen? Then, like a bolt from the blue I saw it. Something that I just knew would make her laugh… and if I can get her to laugh then it’s all good. Tambo is watching as I stuff the item into my bag, she looks at me with a raised brow and says, “Oh you are not going to bring that tonight, are you? She is going to kill you!”

Over the dinner I made it a point to drop hints about what was in store for her later. Things like, “I have something really special for tonight. Came all the way from Sweden” and, “The man who bought me this, could kill you with a spoon”. By now Dancer knows all about my habit of leaving misleading clues, so these just made her more curious and eager to see just what I had in the bag. Funny part is, I was not lying. The guy who brought me the mystery item from Sweden could in fact kill someone with a spoon quite effectively.

When the time finally came, I bound her hands and feet to the bed. Lots of rope, I wanted her good and secured when I sprung it on her. She giggled and struggled against the ropes as I slipped out of her view to ready my surprise.

Reaching into the bag I grab it. A plush novelty Viking hat, complete with stuffed horns. Made of crush velvet and garishly colored in blue and gold, it sort of looked like a cross between something the pope or a soccer hooligan might wear. My friend Jester found it in Sweden recently and thought that I, of all people, MUST posses one of these.

Popping back into her view with the hat on my head and a riding crop in hand, she let out a strange cry of surpize and laugher. “What the fuck?!” With a smile I launch into the Swedish Chef’s song from The Muppet show as I approach her with the crop at the ready.

I’m not exactly sure what happened after that. I was just about to the climax of the song, you know the bit where the Chef goes “BORK! BORK! BORK!” the plan was to strike her upturned breasts with the crop at the same time. Plans have a funny way of changing. In an instant, she is out of the rope. How she did it, I have no idea. I used a LOT of rope too! She is out of the rope and grabbing for the hat. Laughing like mad she informs me that she is, under no circumstances, bottoming to the Swedish Chef tonight.

I fear dear readers that my ego prevents me from telling you just what happened next, suffice to say that my Viking hat is no more, save for one stuffed horn I found a week later wedged behind the bed and I am now sworn to never sing the Muppets in Dancer’s presence ever again. At least while we are both naked.