The Red Sleeve Cuff Novels & Stories

"Did you notice if Mr. Murphy wore a red silk ribbon like this on his wrist?" The scout was stunned. "No, I didn't see that. Could it be someone else in disguise?" The scout knew that their communication was likely based on secret signals or marks. It was possible that Nicholas and Clifford had agreed beforehand that, if leading troops to the capital, Clifford would wear a red silk ribbon on his wrist. Thinking this, he grew anxious and said, "Your Highness, if it's a deception, we need to prepare immediately." Nicholas smiled. "If you saw him clearly, then there's no need to worry. Perhaps Mr. Murphy simply forgot to wear the red silk ribbon after such a long journey."

The servants in the room rushed over to the pedestal in front of the candles and carried an enormous leather arm sleeve. They proceeded to place it over the man’s arm and tied the laces under the sleeve to hold it in place. The sleeve covered most part of his arm, from his wrist all the way to the area below his shoulder. It had little etched chipping the surface, they were dotted in order. He walked out of the room, his broad shoulders scraping splinters off the rotten door frame. He then stepped onto the fairly raised balcony and stared down at the multitude of soldiers lined up, ready to be inducted into his ever-expanding army.

Then he bent his arm at the elbow and unbuttoned the wrist cuff of his dress shirt before he started to slowly roll his sleeve up his arm. My throat seemed to dry as I watched the slow movement of his fingers. My eyes remained glued to the skin he was revealing inch by torturous inch. His forearm is covered in tattoos and made up of thick muscles and pronounced, masculine veins traveling up the length of his arm and disappearing into his shirt. He repeated the same process on his other sleeve, his movements as unhurried as with the first because he knew he had me trapped with nowhere to go. When he was done, he grabbed the knot of his tie and yanked it down. He ripped it off like it was suff

The longer he continued, the wetter I got and he seemed to be picturing me used as well, his cock was noticeably lengthening and thickening. "This is a St. Andrew's cross. With the proper cuffs on, you can be suspended erect or upside down." Another twinge to my pussy. "It also needs padding." "What are the proper cuffs?" I asked. "Suspension cuffs. They don't put unnatural pressure on your wrists and ankles so they cut off circulation. You can hang for quite a long time." "Do you have any suspension cuffs? Is it one of the things sitting in our closet now?" "No. Mistress Dark will be bringing them and a couple other items when she comes on Saturday."

The dim light in the room dimly fell, and there was still a faint fragrance lingering in the air, making people feel hot and restless. The woman on the bed flirted with her gestures, seducing the man who approached step by step. She looked at this object in her hand, with a look of absolute certainty. Russell took off his suit jacket and draped it over the back of the chair. He then unfastened his shirt cufflinks and rolled up his sleeves, revealing his muscular forearms.

“Rae, get a swimming suit ready and bring it to me, let me use these few days to do something good before lucifer comes back” Rae’s face saddened with my words but I wasn’t wrong. She nodded and left. She came and handed me a red two pieces swimsuit perfectly fitted for my size. The bra was sleeveless with a silver ring in the middle holding de two parts and the under had to be tied on the sides and hanged perfectly on my waistline.

Just for a second, I catch a glimpse of it. A sleeve. Not the rolled-up forearm I’ve gotten used to. Not the usual hairy knuckles, grease-stained wrists, or chewed-up nails of the guy who usually drops my “meals” like he’s feeding a lion through a slot at the zoo. No. This one's a jacket. Sleek, dark, and tailored. There’s a crisp and pressed white cuff poking out from underneath it. And then… something else. A mark. I freeze. Scar? No.

The collar was digging into Elena’s neck. She tried adjusting it for the third time, tugging at the stiff white collar, but the fabric just bit harder into her skin. The servant’s uniform for the Gala was different from the everyday one—still black and white, but fancier. The shirt had cuffs that scratched her wrists, the skirt was longer and heavier, and the whole thing felt like it was made to pinch and pull in all the wrong places. Like whoever designed it wanted to make sure the help looked neat and presentable but felt miserable the entire night.

“You don’t get to watch. You get to feel.” I reached into my jacket. The cuffs were in the inner pocket, it was leather, and lined, the ones I’d bought the week she turned nineteen and wore that powder-blue camisole. I caught her left wrist, pulled it above her head, clicked the cuff to the sofa frame. Then the right. She pulled, testing it, and the leather held. Good. “Rafe—” she breathed, using my name for the first time since this started.

Colors that fit his aesthetic. I pushed aside the black silk dress he had ripped. I pushed aside the navy sheath. I reached for the back of the closet, pulling out a dress I had bought online weeks ago and never worn because I thought Stellan would hate it. It was red. A deep, vibrant crimson. It was short, fitted, with long sleeves and a square neckline that showed off my collarbone but hid the bruises on my neck—and the collar, which I covered with a thick gold choker that matched the dress’s hardware.