Strait Jacket Novels & Stories

“It's a good idea if you're really worried about hurting people. Besides, it's not like you'll look out of place around here.” He had a point. “Fine,” she said with a defeated sigh. “How do I put this thing on?” “You don't,” said Brendan, opening the lace-up back of the black straitjacket to hold it out in front of her. “I gotcha. Put your arms in.”

Clarette wаѕ a рrесосіоuѕ lіttlе bеd partner. Fіrѕt, a frеѕhlу рrеѕѕеd whіtе ѕhіrt wіth the tор button lеft undоnе. Next, dark grау wооl slacks wіth a 1 3/4" double lеаthеr black belt wіth a sturdy brаѕѕ buckle. I саn't have mу раntѕ fаllіng down оr having аnуthіng print. Next, I рut on a Nаvу Bluе Blazer.

She tries to suppress a cough as she enters the cigar's cloud, her eyes watering as she carefully looks down at him. He wears a dark shirt that clings to his broad chest, and she struggles to avoid staring at how it stretches across his stomach. He completes the look with a black leather jacket—an attire she had never cared for on men before. This time, however, something feels different. She's not sure if it's his relaxed demeanor or the way the jacket fits him, but she finds her gaze lingering on the cuffs as they brush against his wrists.

The single-breasted jacket features a slender, modern cut that accentuates his trim physique. The crisp white dress shirt peeks out from beneath the suit jacket, emphasizing his refined style. The shirt is expertly tailored, with a slim fit that highlights his athletic build. It boasts a subtle herringbone pattern, adding a touch of texture and elegance. As he adorns his wrists, silver cufflinks catch the light, subtly reflecting his refined taste. Each cufflink is delicately engraved with an intricate design, showcasing his attention to even the smallest of details. The cufflinks exude an aura of sophistication, hinting at the refined nature of our protagonist.

Now the jacket had tails, he'd added a red-striped waistcoat and there was a black bow tie around the high white collar of his shirt. Trying to draw in a deep breath, she found she still couldn't. She looked down to see what was binding her chest. Just for a second she grew dizzy again. Her tan tweed skirt and jacket were still tan tweed. But the skirt, which had ended just below her kneecaps, now went all the way to the tops of her black high-button boots. Shelby didn't own high-button boots. She'd been wearing sensible brown suede ankle boots.

Myself included. Jaykob is wearing a three-piece suit for the first time in his life. His hair is slicked back instead of the usual mess it is. His tattooed hands are clean, his nails buffed, and he actually accessorized today. Instead of his usual self-rolled cigarette, there's a cigar between his lips. It smells really pretty. He doesn't look like the brother I grew up with. He's taking his Alpha role seriously.

He wore tight fitting black boots, beige pants that clung to the muscles on his thighs, and a white shirt, open at the throat, but otherwise very stiff—the collar stood high and cuffs with cufflinks peeked out of the jacket sleeves whenever he raised an arm. The jacket itself was embroidered in thin gold and silver thread that blinked and flashed in the low light whenever he moved. At first I’d thought it was just a pattern, some kind of design. But when I was ushered to the front of the room to stand next to him, I realized the embroidery depicted scenes—wolves hunting, wolves fighting, and men… men taking women. I swallowed and prayed.

After drying his hair with a towel and coming out, he felt more awake and ready to tackle any obstacles the day could present. After putting on his clothes, he stopped to adjust his tie in front of the mirror, using his fingers to make a perfect knot. The charcoal-gray suit was expertly fitted, projecting refinement and power. The material, a delicate combination of wool and cashmere, had a slight shine that reflected light perfectly, hinting at both sophistication and usefulness. The jacket had a tailored fit, not rigid, showcasing sharp, tidy lines highlighting his shoulders and narrowing at the waist, forming an attractive shape.

"No way!" "What", Jazz asked. "There is no way I'm wearing this", she said stretching the dress out to him. "Put me on speaker!", Charlotte pleaded to Jazz and he did. "What's wrong with the dress?" "He got me a fucking strap dress. There is no way in hell I'm wearing that!" "What!", Charlotte shouted. "I said he got me a -" "No. Not that. Did I just hear you use the F word?" "Did I use the F word?"

I will not allow even this small defiance. I retrieve the jacket from where it lies in a crumpled heap, straightening the fabric and forcing myself into its confines once more. The sleeves are too long, the shoulders too wide, but I know the dimensions will return to normal if I can just hold on long enough, if I can just force my bones to comply with the limitations of this form.