Manhandled

By Noah Justice

How many times have we seen or heard, “He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the LORD.” Proverbs 18:22 But is it written anywhere that a wife can “Manhandle” her husband?

In so many instances we hear or read about domestic violence or spousal abuse; our thought processes instantly think of a man abusing a woman. In very few situations do we ever observe or notice the exact opposite or “role reversal.” However, “Manhandled” reds and captures this role reversal at its best with high intensity. It exemplifies many areas of our daily domestic and intimate relationships, and makes one wonder how and why this could happen?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664167766

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Copyright © 2021 by Noah Justice.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover photograph property of and taken by

Mr. Fierce Productions, Houston TX

Rev. date: 04/14/2021

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

826316

To

everyone who dreams.

Acknowledgment

A special thank you to Dr. A. Johnson, for her faith in me and

encouraging me to chase my dreams. My Mother Sisters and Brother.

And to all those that I have loved and lost.

Contents

Jason

Yolanda

Jason

Jason

Reunited

Lloyd

Donovan

The Kiss of Life

Surprises

Mad as Hell

Allison

Complicated

Compromise

Confession

I Got It

Come When I Call

Patches

Kindred Spirits

Release Me!

Just What I Needed

One Year Later

Jason

I don’t remember the first time she hit me, but I knew that this would be the last. This time it was a backhand across my face. It was not a bone-shattering, jaw-breaking slap, but it was wicked enough to draw blood from the corner of my lips. Many of you know me, but for those of you who do not, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jason Morris; I am thirty-five years old. I own and operate an art studio. From the outside looking in, one would assume that I have the perfect life. I specialize in black-and-white portraits. Many of my clients are rich, famous, or both. I have a beautiful wife who is at the apex of her career. Together we bring in enough income to live very, very comfortably. We live in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods on the outskirts of Houston, Texas.

I go by the name of Smooth because of my laid-back demeanor. I am five foot eleven inches tall and weigh a healthy 180 pounds. Over the last eight years, I have been beaten, stabbed, and shot at.

My story has never been told, but I am whispered about and laughed at by small-minded men. I am pitied by some and mocked by many. Why? you ask. The answer is simple: my marriage is hell.

My wife, Yolanda Bam-Bam Williams, is a five-foot-six-inch tall beauty. One of the many reasons I love her so much is because of her independent nature. I could go on and on about all her many unique qualities, but that would only make it harder for me to do what I feel I must. You see, the trouble is, my wife beats me.

I know. I know. To some of you, it is hard to believe; to others, it is sad, and to the coldhearted, it is funny. To me, it is sad, painful, and embarrassing. As I said before, I do not remember the first time she hit me, and it is impossible for me to start from the beginning, so this is my story as it unfolds.

Don’t just stand there holding your face, answer me!

Bam-Bam, baby, I told you, I don’t know.

You are a lying son of a bitch … Bam-Bam continued her tirade as I wiped the blood from my lips.

Now, I’m going to ask you one more time, and you better not lie … She paused long enough to let the intensity of her words imply the pain she would inflict on me if she did not like my answer. Whose fuckin’ panties are these? she asked, waving the lace panties in her right hand, making sure to keep her left hand free in case she needed to punish me.

What was I supposed to tell her? Of course, I knew who the panties belong to. The last time I told my lovely wife that her best friend, Lisa, was making passes at me, she stabbed me in the chest with her dinner fork.

It doesn’t matter. I have to get to work, but when I get back, you better not be here.

Bam-Bam threw the thongs in my face and turned to leave. I did not try to stop her for fear she would strike me again. Even if I wanted her to stay, I would not know what to say to her. By letting her leave, I did not have to answer her question.

Before you jump to conclusions and start to say things like I deserve to have my butt whipped for cheating, let me assure you that I am not now nor have I ever cheated on my wife.

I am as devoted and faithful to her as I was on our wedding night. Let me tell you what I could not tell my wife. Hopefully, you are reasonable enough to listen and maybe even give me some advice about how I can handle this.

It was around four this afternoon when Lisa walked into my home. It was Bam-Bam who insisted that she be given a key and the access codes to each section of the house, in case of an emergency.

My studio, Smooth Strokes, is in the back of our twenty-five-thousand-square-foot estate. We purchased the property from Roosevelt Properties. It has an eighteen-seat theater room, heated indoor and outdoor pools, twelve-car garage, two acres of lush gardens, and private walking paths. The five-thousand-square-foot guest house has a private entrance and serves as the location of my studio. We got an amazing deal on the estate because the previous owner’s daughter was shot to death in the front foyer. It was tragic for them, cost beneficial for us. I hate to sound callous, but the truth of the matter is that in this economy, you must save where you can.

I always wear headphones when I paint, which is why I did not hear Lisa when she came in. I was listening to a new and upcoming jazz artist and painting a picture of my mother. She died when I was six years old. I use a wallet-sized photo of her, given to me by my father. I do not remember my mother. I try to hear her voice sometimes. She always sounds like Patti LaBelle. I wish I could recall her smell, her smile, or the comfort of her touch. I long for a connection with her. Painting her makes me feel close to her. No matter how many times I paint her, she remains out of my reach.

I remember needing more blue paint to bring out her complexion. I set my brush down on the easel tray holder and turned to get the materials I needed. That is when I noticed her.

Lisa was standing in the doorway wearing nothing except a pink-and-white bra and panty set. The contrast of the clothes against her smooth, dark skin was intoxicating. I am an artist, and it is only from an artist’s perspective that I say Lisa Taylor is a masterpiece. At five feet five inches tall and a body measurement of thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-eight, she is a walking wet dream.

Jason, are you going to invite me in? She asked.

I could not hear her because the volume from my headphones were at full blast. I pulled the headphones off my ears and let them rest on my shoulders. I was tempted to take her into my arms and taste her tongue, lips, and neck. Instead, I said with more conviction than I felt, Lisa you need to leave.

She must have sensed my hesitation because she walked toward me. Her approach was erotic. I felt unworthy of such a beautiful sight.

I know you don’t mean that. Your lips say go, but your eyes and friend here are telling me to stay, she said, grabbing my member. You know what else they are telling me? She continued stroking me through my jeans.

My desire for a woman’s touch grew with her every word. My wife and I have not been intimate in months, and my body was aching. I did not answer her because I knew what my body was telling her. I stood there rigid, willing my strength to return so I could stop the natural thing from happening.

They are telling me to stay and stop the pain, she said before kissing my neck and nibbling on my right ear lobe. The warmth of her breath and the softness of her tongue set my body on fire.

"Fuck…Lisa…stop," I said, surprising myself with the force and strength I heard in my voice. I grabbed her hand, which was still gripping my manhood, and pushed her away.

Lisa stumbled backward, knocking blue paint off the table, splattering it all over the hardwood floors and spraying the portrait of my mother.

Get the hell out of here, I demanded, pointing to the open door. My arousal completely gone. She stood looking at me, and I could see the wheels in her brain turning, trying again to process my rejection.

"Fine! One day I will get you to want me. I’ll see just how smooth your stroke really is, but it will be you begging me for more." She turned and walked to the sofa. My anger was gone, but my erection was back instantly at the