Manhandled Quotes

That did it. I'd gone through a lot in the past few days. Everyone I met seemed to want a piece of me: djinn, magicians, humans...it made no difference.I'd been summoned, manhandled, shot at, captured, constricted, bossed about and generally taken for granted. And now, to cap it all, this bloke is joining in too, when all I'd been doing was quietly trying to kill him.

I like her," Brad said, chuckling. "For a Red Sox tee shirt wearing woman I guess she's okay," Jason grumbled. "Does no one care that she just manhandled me?" Trevor demanded, facing the men who should be properly outraged on his behalf. Jason snorted. "A s long as she brings me food she can bitch slap you and call you spanky." Trevor narrowed his eyes on the men who dared laugh at his pain. Betraying bastards.

I just want to be tossed around a bit. Manhandled, you know? Call me a dirty little slut and I’m all for it.

Okay, when you smile at me like that, I want to climb. And God knows it's been forever since I've been properly manhandled.

The heaviest impact of the work of art is in the guts. Art does not reason. It manhandles you and changes you...

Alexia suspected Lord Maccon's handling was a tad more than was strictly called for under the circumstances, but she secretly enjoyed the sensation. After all, how often did a spinster of her shelf life get manhandled by an earl of Lord Maccon's peerage? She had better take advantage of the situation.

Jared’s lips were suddenly at my ear. “The only vampire who’ll be manhandling you tonight is me.” “If I let you.” “You get such satisfaction out of teasing me, don’t you?” “I still maintain that you like it.

In a nutshell, the universe is 4% visible, 23% undetectable and 73% unimaginable. Welcome to the cosmos, full of mass you can measure but not manhandle, driven by a force you can infer but not explain.

Never hit a man with a closed fist," he told her. He could feel her pulse. "Why? Because it gives you an excuse to manhandle me?" He let go. "Slap his face instead." "Ha." "It will make him take you less seriously, and then he won't be expecting it when you knee him in the groin.

I assume you have a reason for manhandling my mate?” Cool words but his amusement was apparent. “Riley likes Mercy,” she stage-whispered, trying to twist around to look at her mate. “But she told him that h—oomph.” Riley set her on her feet without warning. She swayed, but Judd's hands on her hips kept her upright. Pushing her hair off her face, she leaned into her sexy Psy mate and smirked at Riley. “Sooo...” “Judd.” Riley ignored her. “You're obviously not interesting enough for my sister—she's got way too much time to poke her nose into other people's business.” Judd wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin on her hair. “I'm more interested in you and Mercy.

Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are done, we recognize one thing: that the human race has been badly manhandled, but that it has moved forward.

You’re a big old brute, you know that, Cash? You can’t just manhandle something when it doesn’t do what you want,” Clare huffs out, and crosses her arms over her chest. “When it’s mine, I do.

I knew you’d be soaking for me, baby. You like being manhandled till you can’t breathe. You like how I confiscate your will. It turns you the fuck on, doesn’t it? Admit it, you don’t like my nice side. You’re a fucking whore for my devil side.

Authentic faith leads us to treat others with unconditional seriousness and to a loving reverence for the mystery of the human personality. Authentic Christianity should lead to maturity, personality, and reality. It should fashion whole men and women living lives of love and communion. False, manhandled religion produces the opposite effect. Whenever religion shows contempt or disregards the rights of persons, even under the noblest pretexts, it draws us away from reality and God.

When you make things too easy on someone, you’re giving them a discount on your worth; and this causes them to regard you as inferior.

It is not fun to be pulled over by a police officer. We’re upset or anxious when we’re pulled over by the police. We often know what we did wrong and await the penalty, or we wonder what we did wrong and await the explanation. But, do we expect to be manhandled or abused by the officer? Do we fear that he might kill us? For black people, especially black men, those fears are too frequently an unfortunate reality.

In ways that certain of us are uncomfortable about, SNOOTs’ attitudes about contemporary usage resemble religious/political conservatives’ attitudes about contemporary culture. We combine a missionary zeal and a near-neural faith in our beliefs’ importance with a curmudgeonly hell-in-a-handbasket despair at the way English is routinely manhandled and corrupted by supposedly educated people. The Evil is all around us: boners and clunkers and solecistic howlers and bursts of voguish linguistic methane that make any SNOOT’s cheek twitch and forehead darken. A fellow SNOOT I know likes to say that listening to most people’s English feels like watching somebody use a Stradivarius to pound nails: We are the Few, the Proud, the Appalled at Everyone Else.

She would either continue to be obedient or give him a reason to threaten and manhandle her again, and he wasn’t entirely sure which one he preferred.

Okay, when you smile at me like that, I want to climb you. And God knows it’s been forever since I’ve been properly manhandled.

Jess." He whispers. "That was far from manhandling you sweetheart. I'm just claiming what I want, and make no mistake," He places tender kisses along my jaw leading down to my neck. "I. Always. Get. What. I. Want." He breathes in between kisses. "You would do pretty well to remember that." -Max Wild

Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are done, we recognize one thing: that the human race has been badly manhandled, but that it has moved forward.

Have you lost your mind? What have I told you Charlie about whales? You can’t MANHANDLE THEM!

Neither a land nor a people ever starts over clean. Country is compact of all its past disasters and strokes of luck–of flood and drouth, of the caprices of glaciers and sea winds, of misuse and disuse and greed and ignorance and wisdom–and though you may doze away the cedar and coax back the bluestem and mesquite grass and side-oats grama, you're not going to manhandle it into anything entirely new. It's limited by what it has been, by what's happened to it. And a people, until that time when it's uprooted and scattered and so mixed with other peoples that it has in fact perished, is much the same in this as land. It inherits.

Honestly, it was more of a frog march than a romantic post-ceremony stroll, but the joke was on him because I was into being manhandled.

I’m on a dry spell. You’d think there would be some hot musician types on the road but they’re all way too emo. I just want to be tossed around a bit. Manhandled, you know? Call me a dirty little slut and I’m all for it. These cry-into-the-mic types aren’t doing it for me.

When I was alive, I lived in a time of beautiful men. They were everywhere: big and broad and manly, managing everything mannishly, manifesting whatever they wanted and manhandling what they didn't.

Bet you’re wet like a dirty little slut.” He effortlessly pushes down my shorts so they pool around my ankles and slips a ruthless hand inside my underwear, cupping me. “I knew you’d be soaking for me, baby. You like being manhandled till you can’t breathe. You like how I confiscate your will. It turns you the fuck on, doesn’t it? Admit it, you don’t like my nice side. You’re a fucking whore for my devil side.

Then they began saying, "Get hold of him. Put him in Mercury." Now as you know I have two sculptures by Brancusi and several pretty things and I did not want them to start getting rough, so I said, pacifically, "Dear sweet clodhoppers, if you knew anything of sexual psychology you would know that nothing could give me keener pleasure than to be manhandled by you meaty boys. It would be an ecstasy of the very naughtiest kind. So if any of you wishes to be my partner in joy come and seize me. If, on the other hand, you simply wish to satisfy some obscure and less easily classified libido and see me bathe, come with me quietly, dear louts, to the fountain.

I can’t fathom the day when I’ll be able to figure out how to independently maneuver my way into my bra, like I used to, every day since I was thirteen. The left arm through the left loop, the left boob into the left cup. Never mind the clasp in the back. My poor injured brain gets all twisted up like some circus contortionist even trying to imagine how this procedure would work. I’m supposed to at least try every step of getting dressed on my own, but when it comes to the bra, I no longer bother. My mother just does it for me, and we don’t tell the therapists.She holds up one of my white Victoria’s Secret Miracle Bras. I close my eyes, shutting out the humiliating image of my mother manhandling my boobs. But even with my eyes closed, I can feel her cold fingers against my bare skin, and as I can’t help but picture what she’s doing, humiliation saunters right in, takes a seat, and puts its feet up. Like it does every day now.

Since I have undertaken to manhandle this Leviathan, it behoves me to approve myself omnisciently exhaustive in the enterprise; not overlooking the minutest seminal germs of his blood, and spinning him out to the uttermost coil of his bowels.

Sometimes being strong for the other person means determining what’s best for them, even when they think they know best. You’re already used to me manhandling you…” She pops her mouth open to argue but I dive in for a kiss that I drain all of my passion and determination into. I need her to feel my strength—a strength I didn’t even know I possessed. “…now it’s time for me to manhandle your heart.

...leaning down for a quick peck on Jeff's lips, and then he starts squirming and rearranging and manhandling until somehow they end up with Dan in the middle, Jeff stretched out on his left side, Evan on his right. Dan isn't really sure how that happened, and he's not at all confident that it's a good idea.

I wanted him to wrap those blood-stained hands around my throat. I wanted him to manhandle me with even a fraction of the strength he’d just used to rip that thing limb from limb. I was staring down what was very likely the most dangerous man in Abelaum, and I wanted him to rip my clothes off right there in that graveyard.

Come on." She grabbed my arm and hauled me to my feet. "You're not going to sit around and watch Netflix and eat ice cream all day. Get in the shower." "But I like ice cream..." My argument was ineffective as she manhandled me down the hall toward the bathroom. "You'll like brunch better." She was right. Brunch had mimosas.

Love is imperfect—it’s downright fucked up sometimes, honestly—but you can’t manhandle it into shape and you can’t force anyone to be yours.

All she’d had to do to earn her new life was get kidnapped, be forced into marriage, be repeatedly manhandled, get kidnapped again, and finally be beaten.

A brick could be used like a duck could be used like a cat. My duck soup is meowing to be manhandled by a construction worker.


I cannot allow you to manhandle my students, Dolores,” said Dumbledore

Don’t manhandle me, asshole.

We are not okay; do you not see that I’m naked and being manhandled? We’re about as far from being okay as it fucking gets! Where are you going?

The truth is smudged forever by Roman manhandling." (218)

How dare he manhandle me and be in a bad mood towards me.

On one hand, I’d like a man who makes a good living and wants a family someday. On the other, I’d like to be manhandled once in a while. Just sort of thrown down and told who is boss, you know? Is that so much to ask? But on the three occasions I’ve dated a man long enough to…to do…it, they insisted on treating me with respect in bed. It was incredibly disappointing. Zero stars. Would not recommend.

Sensing an ally, Priss took two steps toward her, but Trace pulled her up short by grabbing her arm. “No, you don’t,” he told her, and no matter how Priss yanked and pulled, she couldn’t free herself. “Settle down, will you?” Trace said near her ear. “You’re not helping things.” The woman’s expression pinched even more. Dare started toward her in a ground-eating stride. “Back inside, Molly,” he said, sounding more cajoling than commanding. “I’ll explain in private.” Like hell! Priss didn’t want to lose whatever opportunities this might be, so she shouted, “Molly, help me. Trace drugged me to bring me here, and Dare manhandled me when I tried to escape.” And before Trace could muzzle her, if indeed that was his intent, she added, “Some other guy stole my cat!” The woman’s mouth dropped open, then firmed shut again. With one raised hand, she halted Dare’s progress. Dare dropped his head and groaned.

Later these thoughts would come back to haunt me, though I could not have anticipated that your compulsion to manhandle your unruly, misshapen experience into a tidy box, like someone trying to cram a wild tangle of driftwood into a hard-shell Samsonite suitcase, as well as this sincere confusion of the is with the ought to be—your heartrending tendency to mistake what you actually had for what you desperately wanted—would produce such devastating consequences.

To avoid being manhandled, as soon as the judge said, “Remove the defendant from the courtroom,” i would say, “The defendant will remove herself.” Most of the time it worked, but one day the marshals were so gung ho they jumped on me and started brutalizing me in open kourt.

Come here", he said. ”No." ”Piper." ”i'm fine." He sighed, then reached for her. There was nowhere to escape. He hooked his arm around her and dragged her in front of him. ”Just because you're stronger than me doesn't mean you can manhandle me!" ”I wouldn't have to if you'd stop being ridiculous.

Good morning,” he said as he placed his hand at the small of her back and steered her towards his truck. “Back to the manhandling, Yummy?” she drawled, smacking her lips lightly. “Never stopped,” he admitted with a smile, wondering what it was going to take to bring back that blush that he really liked.

she glimpsed Levi cutting through the crowd to get to her. Smoothing her hair and finding a smile, she greeted him as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Would you like a piece of cake?” Levi peered down at her, concern lining his face. “Are you all right?” “Yes, of course. I’m fine.” She tugged on her sleeve as if it could conceal the evidence of the sheriff’s touch and reached for a clean plate. “You should try some of Chloe’s lemon pound cake. It’s delicious.” Levi stroked her arm, his caress a soothing balm after the sheriff’s manhandling. “Eden, look at me.” She did, and all pretense fell away. “Did he hurt you?” “No.” Eden sighed.

Tell me how it is that whoever wrote out the great scroll could have decreed that such would be the reward of a noble act? Why should I, who am merely a miserable compound of faults, take your defence while He calmly watched you being attacked, knocked down, manhandled and trampled underfoot, He who is supposed to be the embodiment of all perfection?

You let yourself fall too fast For a boy Who doesn’t even have the common courtesy To manhandle your heart with the proper care. Didn’t someone tell you That you’re worth more than Dispassionate good morning text messge And tasteless afternoon dates? Your heart beats more heartbeats than the average human being. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?

The military authorities say uniforms must be preserved at all costs, but that means manhandling patients who are in agony. Cut them off, says Sister Byrd, and she’s the voice of authority here, in the Salle d’Attente, not some gold-braid-encrusted crustacean miles away from blood and pain, so cut they do, snip, snip, snip, snip, as close to the skin as they dare.

What are you doing?” she asked. I don’t know. Instinct not logic currently dictated his actions. But he didn’t admit this aloud. “Do you always ask so many questions?” “Only when I’m trying to understand what’s going on.” “Isn’t it obvious?” Confusion clouded her gaze. “No.” Did she not sense the attraction between them? Of course she didn’t. She was a simple human. She couldn’t know how his bear chuffed at her nearness. How the scent of her aroused him. How he wanted to lay claim to her body. What the (deuce) is wrong with me? Apparently, his grandmother wondered the same thing. “Reid Alexander Carver, what are you doing manhandling our guest?” Oops, caught harboring naughty thoughts and jolted back to sanity. What am I doing?

I know. Aha, Oho, and every other bloody ejaculation. Let’s take it as read. You’re delirious at the idea of manhandling me and can’t wait to start. I in turn may say I find your arrival offensive and your presence blasphemous, thus concluding the exchange of civilities and letting us get out of here. If there’s anything novel or extra you want to add, you can think of it on the way home.

Merry started and shook her head. No, even if the man were naked and in her shower right now, she could never just climb in there and start manhandling him. Not even in a fantasy. Because what she'd really do is screw up the courage to slip into the shower naked, and then she'd stand there awkwardly while he soaped himself. She'd probably crack a joke. Then make an excuse about how crowded it was and just slip away.

Somebody reported my book bag!” he says. “My promposal got fucked.” I take the teddy bear out of his bag and hug it to my chest. I’m so happy I don’t even tell him not to cuss. “I love it.” “You were going to turn the corner, and see the book bag right here by the telescopes. Then you were going to pick up the bear, and squeeze it, and--” “How was I going to know to squeeze it?” I ask. Peter pulls a crumpled piece of paper out of the bag. It says, Squeeze Me. “It fell off when the security guard was manhandling it. See? I thought of everything.” Everything except the ramifications of leaving an unattended bag in a public place in New York City, but still! It’s the thought that counts, and the thought is the sweetest. I squeeze the bear, and again he says, “Will you go to prom with me, Lara Jean?” “Yes, I will, Howard.” Howard is, of course, the name of the bear from Sleepless in Seattle. “Why are you saying yes to him and not to me?” Peter demands. “Because he asked.” I raise my eyebrows at him and wait. Rolling his eyes, Peter mumbles, “Lara Jean, will you go to prom with me? God, you really do ask for a lot.” I hold the bear out to him. “I will, but first kiss Howard.” “Covey. No. Hell, no.” “Please!” I give him a pleading look. “It’s in the movie, Peter.” And grumbling, he does it, in front of everybody, which is how I know he is utterly and completely mine.

The palliative of the primitive hut. The place where you are stripped back to essentials, to which you return—even if it happens not to be where you came from—to decontaminate and absolve yourself of the striving. The place where you disrobe, molt it all, the uniforms you’ve worn and the costumes you’ve gotten into, where you shed your batteredness and your resentment, your appeasement of the world and your defiance of the world, your manipulation of the world and its manhandling of you. The aging man leaves and goes into the woods—Eastern philosophical thought abounds with that motif, Taoist thought, Hindu thought, Chinese thought. The “forest dweller,” the last stage on life’s way. Think of those Chinese paintings of the old man under the mountain, the old Chinese man all alone under the mountain, receding from the agitation of the autobiographical. He has entered vigorously into competition with life; now, becalmed, he enters into competition with death, drawn down into austerity, the final business.

When Barlinnie’s Prison doctor, Dr Danson, came to see Dingus, he turned in disgust at the state Dingus was left to lie in. Doctor Danson refused to treat him as he knew Dingus’s injuries were life threatening, he told the top warden that Dingus would need to be rushed to Glasgow Royal Infirmary for emergency surgery. The screws in the seg block refused to listen to the doctor, they pushed and manhandled their own doctor out of Dingus’s cell and threatened him with a severe beating if he made anything public about Dingus’s injuries.

You needn’t manhandle me,” she hissed, though she didn’t fight him. “Trust me, Miss Butterfield, you’ll know when I’m manhandling you.” He stopped before a chair. “Sit,” he commanded, pushing her into it. “And try to restrain your urge to attack people for half a moment, will you?” “I was not-“ “As for you,” he growled at her companion, “give me the satchel that caused all this furor.” “Yes, sir…I mean, my lord.” Oliver took the satchel from the young man, whose face was drained of all color. Clearly, he lacked his companion’s fierceness.

I came across Nell like you would a Robert Mapplethorpe at a street art fair, gobsmacked that something so valuable would be lumped in with a bunch of other crap like that. She’d been slumped against the bathroom wall in Butterfields, a dorm we later took to calling Butterfingers, for the lacrosse team residents who manhandled girls made Gumby-legged by Popov vodka. Even with her mouth hanging open, her tongue dry and pebbled white from all the medically sanctioned stimulants, there was no question that she had a movie star face. “Hey,” I said, my

I’ll get right on that, boss.” “You can call me that for the rest of the night.” Before Tom could scoff at that, Prophet grabbed him, pulled him to his feet, leaving them chest to chest for just a moment. Until Prophet pushed him against the stone and wood railing, and Tom had forgotten how good it felt to have Prophet manhandle him. Because the guy was damned strong. As much as Tom trained and practiced, as violent as he could get, Prophet would always be stronger. And Tom had to admit that he liked that. Probably as much as Prophet did. Prophet’s

Ageing Woman I am invisible now, indistinguishable in a passing crowd - just another woman blending in. I remember, not long ago, in that whimsical way memory measures time, I ached with the desire to be desired. I was catcalled as soon I stepped out on the street, I was groped and pawed at sidewalk lights, pinched by Italian teenagers cruising on Vespas. My sex smelled then of camphor and oranges. It now smells musty books and cucumbers - And I love it. I am content in my ageing cloak of invisibility, I breathe a sigh of relief, free from the man-handling, unwelcome fondling, free from the incessant gaze of strangers, free from the foolishness of sex. There, I've said it. I'M FREE, FREE, FREE OF SEX. Free at last. I have faith in the wisdom of this old body which no longer craves what I can no longer have and I sleep like a baby, peacefully in my single bed.

You grabbed my tit a little, Mr. Old Timey Talker.” Blake seemed to swallow a smile. “Manhandling a lady is inexcusable. I would only do so if said woman was too stubborn to remove herself from a dangerous situation.” He took Kyle’s hand and kissed the top of it lightly. “Aw, crap. Well, aren’t you too fucking charming for words?” Kyle smiled despite her best efforts to look tough. “All right, Mr. Old Timey, I’ll let you get away with the boob palming this time.” “That’s fortunate because I hate ingesting my own testicles.” He gave her a devilish grin with naughty eyes to match. Kyle looked at Livia. “He’s adorable.

Will he travel tomorrow?’ They both gazed, united in fascination, at the insensible and manhandled person of the sacrosanct Voevoda Bolshoia. ‘I doubt it,’ said Ludovic d’Harcourt. But he did. He stirred some time after that conversation, and if his awakening took rather less time than was obvious, the effect was to cheat Danny Hislop’s expectant ears of whatever uncouth revelations he was hoping for. Without warning, his eyes closed, Lymond said, ‘Hislop?’ ‘Yes sir?’ said Danny, jumping. Then he said sympathetically, ‘How are you, sir?’ ‘Well enough to guess which vulture would be present,’ said Lymond pleasantly.

Batting, for once, in his accustomed slot at No. 3, Tavaré took his usual session to get settled, but after lunch opened out boldly. He manhandled Bruce Yardley, who'd hitherto bowled his offbreaks with impunity. He coolly asserted himself against the pace bowlers, who'd elsewhere given him such hurry. I've often hoped on behalf of cricketers, though never with such intensity as on that day, and never afterwards have I felt so validated. Even his failure to reach a hundred was somehow right: life, I was learning, never quite delivered all the goods. But occasionally—just occasionally—it offered something to keep you interested.

A lawman asking for bribe from a civilian to fulfill certain necessary paperwork, is committing injustice. A pervert who gropes and manhandles a woman in public transportation, is committing injustice. A college student who bullies the newcomers, is committing injustice. These are the injustice committed by ordinary people that occur around the world on a daily basis, all because the people around are either afraid or do not feel responsible enough to stand up to them. If they did, if you do, if only a handful of individuals in every corner of the society stand up to such everyday injustice, then we will witness a revolutionary decline in the very graph of crime and chaos all over the world.

Strong, good smells clash with each other, garlic against cinnamon, savory against sweet. Two dressings, Ma's traditional corn bread version as well as the stuffing she made last year for a change of pace, a buttery version with cherries and sausage and hazelnuts. The herb-brined turkey, probably larger than we need, and a challenge to manhandle into and out of the refrigerator. A deep dish of creamy, smooth mashed potatoes, riced and dried to make them thirsty, then plumped back up with warmed cream and butter. For dessert, a mocha cake I came up with one day. In the batter is barely sweetened chocolate and dark, strong coffee. The layers are sealed together with more chocolate, warmed up with a hint of ancho powder.

(William) Hamilton recast the central ideas (of the evolutionary theory of aging) in mathematical form. Though this work tells us a good deal about why human lives take the course they do, Hamilton was a biologist whose great love was insects and their relatives, especially insects which make both our lives and an octopus’s life seem rather humdrum. Hamilton found mites in which the females hang suspended in the air with their swollen bodies packed with newly hatched young, and the males in the brood search out and copulate with their sisters there inside the mother. He found tiny beetles in which the males produce “and manhandle sperm cells longer than their whole bodies. Hamilton died in 2000, after catching malaria on a trip to Africa to investigate the origins of HIV. About a decade before his death, he wrote about how he would like his own burial to go. He wanted his body carried to the forests of Brazil and laid out to be eaten from the inside by an enormous winged Coprophanaeus beetle using his body to nurture its young, who would emerge from him and fly off. 'No worm for me nor sordid fly, I will buzz in the dusk like a huge bumble bee. I will be many, buzz even as a swarm of motorbikes, be borne, body by flying body out into the Brazilian wilderness beneath the stars, lofted under those beautiful and un-fused elytra [wing covers] which we will all hold over our “backs. So finally I too will shine like a violet ground beetle under a stone.

Earlier, when Jesus sent out the 72 disciples, he spoke of “a money bag, sack, and sandals.” Now he speaks of “a money bag, sack, and sword.” He is speaking symbolically, referring to a new time of persecution. The disciples miss the point, take him literally, and produce two swords. His response amounts to: “Enough of that.” We’re sometimes taught to be quick with the sword, and we’ve all got our own “swords” – glaring daggers at someone, making cutting remarks. Throughout this Lent, I’ll watch Jesus face some “swords:” Mockery, manhandling, torture. The early Christians applied a passage from Isaiah to him: He was led like a sheep to the slaughter and as a lamb before its shearer is silent, so he opened not his mouth. (Is 53:7) How did he do that? How could I do that? Ask him.

Being a hangman requires you to take someone else’s life based on someone else’s judgment, and carry it out on someone else’s schedule. The job does not provide the same satisfaction that an ordinary murderer gets from smashing a skull. It robs them of the fulfillment of plunging a knife into someone’s throat. In the world of capital punishment, the prisoner’s crimes have been sanitized by years of sitting on death row. By then, the execution is a cold and impersonal affair. There is prayer, a noose, and a few last words. The prisoner then experiences a sudden rush of blood to the head. At the end of it all, you have a broken neck and a dead body swinging from the end of a rope. That is it. You don’t get to manhandle them with your own hands. That’s why the brutes you mention will never be hired. So you see, Vaida, this is not a job for a murderer. It is a job for a humanitarian.

I am concerned that the ladies are ill-treated." "The ladies who frequent the Fallen Angel are not ill-treated." Her brows knit together. "How do you know?" "Because they are under my protection." She froze. "They are?" He was suddenly warm. "They are. We do all we can to ensure that they are well treated and well paid while under our roof. If they are manhandled, they call for one of the security detail. They file a complaint with me. And if I discover a member is mistreating ladies beneath this roof, his membership is revoked." She paused for a long moment, considering the words, and finally said, "I have a passion for horticulture." He wasn't certain how plants had anything to do with prostitutes, but he knew better than to interrupt. She continued, the words quick and forthright, as though they entirely made sense. "I've made a rather remarkable discovery recently," she said, and his attention lingered on the breathlessness of the words. On the way her mouth curved in a small, private smile. She was proud of herself, and he found- even before she admitted her finding- that he was proud of her. Odd, that. "It is possible to take a piece of one rosebush and affix it to another. And when the process is completed properly... say, a white piece on a red bush... an entirely new rose grows..." She paused, and the rest of the words rushed out, as though she were almost afraid of them. "A pink one." Cross did not know much about horticulture, but he knew enough about scientific study to know that the finding would be groundbreaking. "How did you-" She raised a hand to stop the question. "I'll happily show you. It's very exciting. But that's not the point." He waited for her to arrive at the point in question. She did. "The career... it is not their choice. They're not red or white anymore. They're pink. And you're why." Somehow, it made sense that she compared the ladies of the Angel to this experiment in roses. Somehow, this woman's strange, wonderful brain worked in a way that he completely understood.

Take off your clothes. Better yet, I’ll do it.” “Oh, no!” She stepped back quickly in alarm, which prompted a swift frown from him. It vanished when Rycca said, “I saw how you manhandled that tunic. You aren’t about to do the same to this gown. Just wait a moment . . .” Even as she spoke, she deftly undid the laces down the side of the garment and lifted it carefully but quickly over her head. Her husband was in a mood, ridden by tension she could not understand. She wanted to placate him, yet she also wished to surrender to the urges he so effortlessly unleashed within her. Naked save for the gauzy chemise that hid nothing from his eyes, she stood before him, her head lifted proudly to conceal the quivering she felt within. She gloried in his gaze, hot and potent, raking over her. But when he reached for her, she stepped back again. “I ask a boon, lord.” She had never asked him for anything—save freedom and that he could not give. Caught, knowing he could hardly refuse, Dragon rasped, “What?” He had not meant to be so curt but speech was almost beyond him. He wanted her with a desperation he had never felt before save every time he lay with her, and even then he usually managed to maintain some semblance of control. Not now. He burned, his body drawn bow-taut. If he did not sheathe himself soon within his wife’s silken depths . . . She looked at him directly, her eyes wide and candid. “All day I have wanted to . . . touch you.” His dark brows rose. “All day?” Well, that was certainly pleasing but it didn’t make his condition any easier to bear. Harshly, he said, “You don’t have to ask permission to touch me.” She shrugged her lovely, almost bare shoulders. “I know, but under the circumstances . . .” Her gaze drifted down his body, rather pointedly, he thought. Which definitely did not help matters at all. “You can touch me later,” he said and reached for her again. She pressed her palms against his chest, tossed back her gleaming hair, and laughed. Really, he was going to die from this. “Just a little now . . . please?” Dragon squeezed his eyes shut and reached deep down inside himself for the control that was so intrinsic a part of his warrior’s nature. It had to be in there somewhere. Any moment now he’d stumble across it.

You poor dear. I can hardly endure it when my brothers are staying at the town house. They’re always causing some trouble or another.” “Oh, yes, and you never cause any trouble,” Oliver teased. “Never mind the shooting match where you brought three men to blows over whose rifle you should deign to use. Or the spectacle you made of yourself when you dressed as a man to enter a match. Or-“ “You can shoot a rifle, Lady Celia?” Maria leaned forward. “How did you learn? I’ve always wanted to myself, but Papa and my cousins refused to show me how a rifle works. Could you teach me?” “No!” Oliver and Freddy said in unison. Then Oliver added, “Absolutely not.” Lord Gabriel leaned close. “I’d be happy to teach you, Miss Butterfield.” “Stay out of this, Gabe,” Oliver growled. “Bad enough you taught Celia. Maria already has enough weapons at her disposal.” His grandmother arched one eyebrow. “Pray tell, what sort of weapons do you mean?” Oliver paused, then gave a lazy smile. “Why, her beauty, of course. That weapon is devastating enough.” “It won’t stop a scoundrel from manhandling a woman,” Lady Minerva put in. “As if you know anything about that,” Lord Jarret pointed out. “Just because the heroines in your books get manhandled with nauseating regularity doesn’t mean the average woman does.

If you know anything,” he said. “If you can give us any help finding—” “The truth is, I can help you find those mines.” Bay couldn’t believe the enormous lie that had just come out of her mouth. She took a deep breath and added, “But you have to take me with you to the Big Bend.” “I work alone.” “Then we’re finished here,” Bay said, turning to leave. Owen caught her before she’d taken two steps. “You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what you know.” “I’ll tell you everything when we get to the Big Bend.” “I can’t take you with me, Dr. Creed. It’s too dangerous. If you help me out, I’ll make sure your brother gets a chance to tell his story in court.” Bay gave an unladylike snort. “I don’t believe you.” She was surprised at the anger that flared in his eyes before he said, “I’m not in the habit of lying.” “I’ve never met an honest Blackthorne,” she said. “And I sure as hell don’t trust you.” “I ought to arrest you for obstruction,” he muttered. “Go ahead!” she challenged. “Then I can tell them how you manhandled me.” She glanced towards his tight grasp on her arm, then put her fingertips to her aching throat, and said, “I’m sure I’ll have the bruises to prove it.” He looked down in surprise to where his fingers were clamped on her forearm, as though he’d had no notion of how tightly he was holding her, and abruptly he let her go. She rubbed her arm and said, “When do we leave?” “You wouldn’t be able to keep up with me.” “Of course I would,” she replied. “I’m incredibly fit.” She felt her stomach flutter as his eyes raked her from legs to belly to breasts . . . and lingered there appreciatively. His heavy-lidded gaze lifted to her mouth, and she nervously slid her tongue across her lips. She felt a quiver of anticipation as his eyes locked on hers, hot and needy. “You can’t come with me,” he said at last. “You’d be a . . . dangerous distraction.

There exists today a dangerous relationship between the extreme left and the extreme right, and between black rage and white fear. The confrontation tactics of the one evoke a reactionary response from the other. When the would-be revolutionaries of the new left manhandle professors, occupy buildings, and destroy property, the right wins new adherents. When sincere but misdirected young black people engage in violence in the name of justice, they are strengthening those very forces which in the past have inflicted violence and injustice upon the Negro community. Such acts of protest may be cathartic, may appear to be bold and militant; but let us be very clear--their primary effect is to bring about a political reaction. These acts have set loose a wave of panic in this country, and opportunistic right-wing demagogues understand the nature of that panic and are building their political futures upon it. These demagogues do not believe in meeting the black community's urgent needs for income and education. Indeed, social justice, by removing the cause of social unrest, would threaten the very base of fear upon which they stand. Their program is the billy club and their staunchest ally the police arm of the state. They believe in repression. The lessons of these recent developments should be clear. An assault upon our democratic institutions will not reform them but destroy them. Violence will lead to more violence, not to social justice. And the fundamental tragedy is that the absence of justice will provoke more people to engage in violent acts. We must find a way out of this vicious cycle.

The artist in Hansberry saw in the photograph of a black woman being manhandled by white cops all the suffering, all the injustice, all the offense to black life. The brutality was grave enough; the spread of the image transmitted trauma and reinforced the vulnerability of black women and, indeed, the race.

Max thought of Passover and Jewish slaves—manhandle and beaten by their Egyptian taskmasters.

Okay, so far what I'm getting from you on this Reis guy is: he's hot, has buku money, and is mega powerful," Jaz said. "And you turned down the pig and Porsche, why?" I gave her the death ray stare. "Um, I don't know, maybe because he manhandled me, threw me across the room, broke my wing, and chained me to a wall?" "Oh yeah, I guess there's that.

never try to manhandle Lance, but because

Madison Kate!" he roared, following me and grabbing my shoulder with a bruising grip. "Don't turn your fucking back on me." Enraged, I spun around to break his grip on my shoulder and brought my hand up to crack across his face. "Don't fucking manhandle me, Archer," I spat back at him. "You don't fucking own me, so quit treating me like a damn possession.

Don't Move" Don’t move. Don’t move at all. Let me do this. Tomorrow you can wheel your bones along the edge of time’s illustrious curves. Next week you can make your deliveries, manhandle your offerings, perform your acts of contrition. Mold your vessel. Drop your footsteps like fireflies into the void. But now, notice your torso in flames. The sunlight from the east rises at your thighs and cuts the eyes from your face. Your legs lie like shadows on the bottom of a forest, keeping their collected secrets, burying their swollen names. I’ll touch your legs. Don’t move. I’ll slide up your skin like a slow boat fights an iron current. I’ll navigate toward light, my fingertips burning in the new world, and capsize in the hottest part of you. Can you hold the sunken treasure – garlands of rubies choking your worded thoughts? Can you hold up? Can you fight? Can you fight the urge to run? — Jan Richman, Because the Brain Can Be Talked into Anything (Louisiana State University Press, 1995)

Every time Asher showed him he was in fact fucking strong enough to manhandle Sid was as if he was lighting a candle in a cave full of moths, and each one of those insects was Sid.

What I've found is that I'm very in touch with my feminine side," he said. "I ain't got no problem saying that. Any good actor is. And any good lover is. Meaning that women don't always want to be manhandled. A lot of times they want to be made love to by a man who can do it softly, like a woman." - quote from Luke

Is this weird?” “Is it more or less weird than me manhandling your underwear?” he asked. “We can’t use you manhandling my underwear as a gauge for our entire friendship.” His pillowy lips quirked. “Is it more or less weird than you getting almost naked half a foot away without so much as a warning?

She grabs me by the shoulders, spins my back toward the bed, and throws my body onto it. Granted, it’s more like a shove, and I don’t know how she manhandled all one hundred and ninety pounds of me, but she did, and it was hot as fuck.

The Manhandling of Gilbert Gripes by Stewart Stafford Scrummage in a birch wood, Pyrrhic rut for an oval prize, Grinning studs rake my face, A flayed Garryowen as sport. Cauliflower ears throb with fear, Thunderous hooves charging, Poleaxed by a car crash tackle, Nosebleed kiss tickles my lips. The rite of passage staggers on, A butcher's initiation of brothers, Cutthroat razors kindly supplied, Wealthy primates whoop in safety. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

I’m a doctor,” he said. “I promise not to manhandle you.” Let’s not rule anything out just yet, the unhelpful part of my brain whispered as I settled onto the ottoman.

She bit her lip, yes, this was a fellow who would be able to manhandle a solid girl like herself. She would not mind one bit, she decided.

The problem universally acknowledged with giving a man your phone number is that you will spend the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours waiting for him to text

When I have him like this, he feels like he belongs to me. Like I found him and he’s mine, and that’s all there is to it. Close the book. We’re done.

You should really use a spoon and a bowl. Mikey won’t be happy if he catches you manhandling his Lucky Charms like that.” “On second thoughts, maybe he would?

See how easy it is for me to manhandle you, though?

I don’t have a problem killing anyone who dares to fucking cross me—be it a man or a woman—but I draw the line at manhandling defenseless females. Not that this one is missing her stinger. If she left her marks on dumb and dumber upstairs, and with my own blood dripping down my arm as evidence, this spitfire is the furthest thing from helpless. I bet she’s getting ready to deliver her next strike.

Uh-uh, girl, don’t be manhandling me just ‘cause you about to get caught hopping from cousin dick to cousin dick. It’s a good thing I don’t like coochie, or we’d all be in trouble.

Before being with him, I would have said I’m not into being manhandled, carefully or otherwise. Turns out I just needed the right man handling me.

It wasn’t the first time he’d met someone that made him want to kneel, to crawl, to submit, but it was the strongest reaction he’d had in a long time. And she had no qualms about manhandling him. His wrists still ached from where she’d grabbed him, and he wanted to savor that.

I see ye’ve told her what it means for a Keith to claim a woman,” he said to Darcy. Looking at her across the desk, he said, “Dinna be hard on the lad. If he hadna done it, I would have, and me with three daughters for you to become second mother to. I would ha’ been good to ye, lass, but Darcy, he will worship you.” He winked at Darcy, then spread some papers on the desk and reached for the black-feathered quill. “I have the contract ready, Steafan. Begin when ye wish.” Steafan smirked at her. “What’ll it be, lass, the stocks tonight, or a wedding?” “The stocks,” she said without hesitation, relieved she seemed to have some choice in the matter. What was a night of discomfort compared to the stripping away of one’s choice? Darcy surged around the desk and shook her by the shoulders. His eyes blazed with desperation. “Dinna do this,” he said close by her ear, his voice urgent and low, private from all but perhaps Aodhan, who stood near the desk. “A person in the stocks must be stripped to their skin and placed in the courtyard for the entire clan to laugh at and spit on. I’d sooner defy my uncle and be banished from Ackergill than see you dishonored so. Dinna make me do that, I beg you.” Fear kicked her heart into her throat at Darcy’s manhandling. But as his words penetrated, she stopped fighting his hold. He was serious. He’d abandon his home, his mill, Edmund and Fran, everything he had, all to keep her from a night’s humiliation. He might be a manipulative, lying brute, but he seemed to care for her on some level. She looked hard in his eyes and saw vulnerability glowing behind a glaze of very real fear. Fear for her and for what her actions might cause him to suffer. She shoved away the sympathy he didn’t deserve. He projected an air of absolute honor, but honorable men didn’t trick women into marrying them. “You lied to me,” she seethed. “You told me you’d help me get home.” “And I will,” he said. “Do ye nay remember what I told you before Steafan came in?” She remembered the words verbatim. “Whatever happens tonight, Malina, ye need no’ fash that I’ll keep my word to you.” Malina. The mere memory of her name spoken that way softened her, damn her romantic heart. “Trust me,” he urged.

Everything stinks: creosote, bleach, disinfectant, soil, blood, gangrene. The military authorities say uniforms must be preserved at all costs, but that means manhandling patients who are in agony. Cut them off, says Sister Byrd, and she's the voice of authority here, in the Salle d'Attente, not some gold-braid-encrusted crustacean miles away from blood and pain, so cut they do, snip, snip, snip, snip, as close to the skin as they dare. On either side of Paul as he cuts are two long rows of feet: yellow, strong, calloused, scarred where blisters have formed and burst repeatedly. Since August they've done a lot of marching, these feet, and all their marching has brought them to this one place.

In truth, if it isn’t to save your life when it’s in imminent danger, someone yelling at you is just plain wrong. The same is true for ranting or bitching. The same goes double for anything even close to manhandling.

She trembled under his hand. "You don't need to manhandle me." "I mightn't need to, but I'd certainly like to," he purred and was rewarded with another beguiling blush. Jonas couldn't recall the last time he'd consorted with a woman innocent enough to blush.