In autumn, I bought a gorgeous mustard-yellow scarf for myself. It was warm and soft and despite its habit of shedding fluff everywhere I love it. (Seriously, everything is covered in fluff right now, including partners I have fucked since buying the scarf because the fluff travels with me.) I’ve worn it a lot in the last few months, and thus have had plenty of time to come up with lots of deliciously pervy ways it could be used “against” me…
There are so many ways he can turn my scarf – my innocent, fluffy scarf – into a perverted symbol of our power dynamic.
He uses the scarf to pull me closer, so I am close enough for him to kiss. Except I want and expect a kiss, so he keeps his lips cruelly out of range, using his height to make me strain upwards. He smirks and makes me work for the kiss, keeping me so close I can think of nothing but the kiss yet am unable to taste it. He teases me, whispering filthy words until I whimper.
He uses the scarf to bind my hands behind my back and bend me over the back of the sofa. He uses it as leverage, to pull me back on to his dick while he fucks me deeply from behind. It’s fast and dirty and he fucks me like he is using me solely to get off. It’s hot, especially when he pulls out and discards the condom, so he can press his dick against my ass and come all over it – making me clean myself up with the scarf after he’s untied my hands.
He uses the scarf as a short of collar, doing something clever so he has a twist of the main loop around his hand and the scarf is tight around my neck. It’s a sign of ownership that he can do when we’re in a semi-public place, making me gasp at the tightness and his cold hand against the back of my neck. It reminds me that if he ordered me to get down on my knees right now I would do it – he would not ask me to, but I would absolutely obey if he did. That’s a scarily hot thought that makes me shiver and makes him grin.
He uses the scarf to gag me while he beats me. It muffles my begging and cries, and when I try to spit it so I can beg him to stop he stuffs even more of it into my mouth. When I am choking on my sobs and my arse is burning, he takes out his hard cock and fucks me – roughly, as though the fucking is an extension of the beating and every stroke is a punishment. When he’s come, he gently takes away the scarf and kisses me, telling me that I’m a good girl.
He uses it, just once, to hide the fact that I’m wearing a ball gag. It’s thick and fluffy, and he positions it so it’s covering the lower half of my face. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel exposed, that I don’t feel incredibly vulnerable, when he takes my hand and leads me to the door of our friends’ flat. When he unwraps me in front of them, showing off his fuck toy, I blush and squirm. I hate that he makes me admit I love it – nodding eagerly and drooling – before he takes the gag off and allows me to greet our hosts.
Later that day, I ball up my scarf and use it as a pillow so I can nap as he drives me home after an incredible kink scene. I drift in and out of dreams where he blindfolds me with the scarf and makes me guess who is hurting me. It’s delicious.
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.