Ripped & Twisted

By Jennifer Lassalle Edwards

Faith Dumont is a witty, confident, fiery fitness competitor, or so she appears to everyone else. Yet no one knows the horrors that she's endured and escaped to create this seemingly perfect life. No one knows the battle of self-loathing and deviant urges Faith battles daily.

She keeps her demons under control by her regimented, disciplined lifestyle. Faith has also implemented "rules" into her life, specifically a "no dating" rule. This rule was made to protect her heart. Life in the gym keeps her sane, to an extent, however, just because there is no dating does not mean there is not a bit of kink.
Slade is smoking hot physique competitor who works with Faith in the gym. Not only is Slade a co-worker, he is Faith's only friend, and a kin of the kink. He has always willingly followed Faith's conditions... that is until tattooed trainer Ty enters their lives throwing all that Faith has created into a tailspin. When Slade sees Faith falling for Ty's seduction, he decides to refuse Faith's rules and introduce her to his.

With her normalcy crumbling around her, Faith is slammed by the carnal and emotional enticement of both men. Can they make their triad of passion work or will Faith's past come back to decimate any spark of hope for love that she ever had? 

Warning: This book is fictional and depicts acts of violence, graphic sex, including BDSM, M/F/M menage circumstances, and oodles of kink. This book is recommended for mature audiences (21 and over) who are not offended by scenarios such as these.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Lassalle Edwards
• Release date: Dec 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781503199774

Book preview

Chapter 1

THIS. 

Pinks, oranges, reds, purples, and blues, they were the colors of a sunset. I could not help but think, How beautiful? In the same instant, I thought that was a sick and twisted thought to have at this moment just as everything turned black and the bright stars zoomed as though I were watching a bad sci-fi movie and the ship were taking off into warp speed. Then again, I had been in this scenario before. I never did scream or plea. Those things were simply impossible with his tight grip around my throat, my body hard against the wall, and my feet barely grazing the ground. Oh, I used to try to struggle and cry. I learned quickly that that was a futile effort. Soon enough, I learned that if I closed my eyes and allowed my body to go limp he would usually drop me to crumple on the floor. It became a good defense for me. It was my plan this time. Only, this time was different. I felt the release of one hand. I opened my eyes only to see the barrel of the gun raising, then pressing into my cheek.

Have you ever had a nightmare where you try to scream and there is only silence? Or have you ever once experienced sleep paralysis? It is that frightening time where you are conscious but your body is frozen. That was exactly what I felt like. My mouth flew open but nothing came out, just wheezes and gasps. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Our house was secluded. No one would have ever heard the screams.

Click

My eyes squeezed shut. My breathing stopped. My heart leapt. Wait. Wait. I slowly lifted my lids. He had the gun to his temple.

Click

He laughed, a maniacal laugh. A chill went through me, no it was more like a rush of ice flowing through my veins. He looked like a demon, face contorted, It’s not loaded, you stupid cunt. His hand dropped from my throat. I fell to my hands and knees and scrambled on all fours to try and get under the bed, like that would save me. Then, he left... Just walked out. He didn’t come back until the wee hours of the next morning.

I crawled out from under the bed about an hour later. Juvenile, but under the bed was always a safe haven for me as a child. It was the place I would go to be alone, to read, and to hide from the monsters after a scary movie. It was my own fortress so to speak, and I still clung to it as one.

I was sure he was out at the bar getting completely wasted and who knows what else with one of his whores. One would think that I would have left then. But I didn’t, not quite yet. It is truly hard to explain to people the prison of fear that traps you into a really fucked up situation. I was not really concerned with me. Hell, I had always thought that I wouldn’t live to see thirty anyway. To me this was almost destiny. I was only twenty-six. Twenty-six and I was living a complete and utter lie.

At this moment, I hated him. But, I hated myself even more.

Sometimes, I think about how I wound up with this demon of a man. I was young. I had lived a sheltered life, cloistered by private Catholic schools. Hell, at one point, I even thought about entering a convent. That was until my hormones kicked in. He was the bad boy. All the girls wanted him, and he wanted me. How could I resist?

It all seemed so harmless to begin with. I thought the first signs of jealousy meant he really loved me. In my young, innocent brain I thought this was how it was supposed to be. I mean, years of soap operas couldn’t be wrong. Shouldn’t a man be jealous at times?

Then it progressed further. He claimed he could judge others’ character better than I could which was why I was not allowed to talk to certain people. I began to believe him. I began to shut myself off from friends, family. After all, he claimed to love me and worked my virtuous body to heights I had never known could exist, my first introduction to the yearnings of lust. I sunk deeper. Once we were married and had moved a few towns away, I was completely his, isolated and caged.

Everyone on the outside, well, they had no clue what went on behind closed doors. He was good like that. He left no marks that clothes could not hide.

As I succumbed deeper to his possession, rules began to be implemented. Psychologically, he had manipulated my mind so much that I really did think that I was crazy. I sat passively as the verbal threats turned into physical actions.

I say no one knew, but I had gone to confession. Falling back to something I once held so valuable in my life, I had told the priest about my unhappy marriage and vaguely hinted at abuse. The holy man told me that it was my cross to bear and divorce was a sin. Obviously, I was not fulfilling my role as a godly wife. You have to love Catholic guilt as the cherry on top of everything else you hate about yourself, your life. I believe this was the final straw with me, and religion as well. I stayed.

I attempted to leave once. He punted my little dog across the yard. Then, he threatened to kill my parents. I did not doubt him. He was insane, and he had always had complete possession and control over me. I was not allowed to wear makeup. I was not allowed to talk to anyone unless he approved or was around. This made working in an office a little difficult needless to say. He picked out my clothes. I was not allowed to shower in the mornings and had to wear my hair in a ponytail because as he had told me time and time again, You don’t need to impress no one. Then again, he was never impressed with me either. As the years passed, he savored the control, but he did not crave me or my body. He curbed those cravings with other women.

I worked full time and handed over my checks to him. It was expected that the house be spotless at all times. I had to vacuum and mop daily. Dusting was also expected twice a week. Once a week, I had to move appliances and clean underneath and behind them. Yard work was my responsibility. Everything in the house had a place, and it best be in its proper place at all times.

Imagine the movie The Burning Bed combined with Sleeping with the Enemy.  Our pantry, yes, the canned goods were in a specific order, labels all facing forward. Water spots on any sink or surfaces were not tolerated. Curtains cleaned and pressed. Hell, I even had to iron his paper money. Have you heard of anything so irrational? Yet, I did it.

That was my life, and as long as I followed the rules and was a good girl, I was able to keep him calm enough to get through the day. I spent my life walking on egg shells, hoping not to poke the beast. Though, I had known no other relationship but this, in my gut I knew it wasn’t okay, but I allowed it and could not rationalize why.

Chapter 2

THE LAST STRAW.

We were over at a friend’s house. It was spring. Music blaring, meat grilling on the bbq, drinks being consumed. Everything seemed, well, normal for a change. Laughing, singing, dancing, talking, then like the flash of a camera bulb, it changed. For a very rare moment, I was relaxed and felt as though I could speak freely. I remember making an offhanded sarcastic comment joking around.

Flash

His eyes darkened, blackened. He strode a path straight for me, grabbed me by the arm and drug me into the bathroom.

Slam

His voice was low, harsh. I can’t even recall all of the words that spewed forth as he shook me and threatened me.

It was probably the usual rant about me being a stupid cunt, flirting, being a stupid bitch, a whore. As quickly as we entered, we were heading out of the bathroom where he announced that I wasn’t feeling well and he was taking me home. He had bought a new Corvette convertible. He had bought it without me knowing. He liked to drive like a bat out of hell in it, weaving in and out of traffic, going twenty to forty miles above the speed limit. We screeched to a halt across our manicured lawn. The pretty green St. Augustine now ripped and torn. He continued with an iron grasp to pull me inside the house, jerking me along by the hand he had rooted in my hair. He shook me more as he was now able to unleash his screams about me embarrassing him and being such a stupid little cunt.

For the first time, I dared to yell back at him. Fuck you!

That’s when he slapped me across the face. Out of my head, with a new found courage, I slapped him back. He was shocked, not for long though. That’s when he spit in my face.

I spit back.

He smacked me again in the face and threw me to the floor, then stormed out of the front door. I heard the tires squeal as he drove away. I sat in a slumped ball on the carpet and cried. I was repulsed. It wasn’t the fact that he had spit on me. No, that had happened quite a few times before. It was the fact that I had acted out, and in the same manner he had done to me.

He would often abandon me after any altercation to stew in my thoughts... think about what I had done until I would call and beg him to come back, apologizing profusely for my wrongdoings. Then, I would wait for him to arrive and face my punishments in silence, returning to my docile role once again. This time, though, this time I had fought back and tested him. Tonight would be indefensible to him. No apology, no amount of pleading would help me. My mind raced and became muddled with what torture he may inflict upon me in payback.

As I laid there sobbing, everything closed in around me. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had numbed myself to so much over the years. I had come to the point that I knew he would kill me eventually. I even had begun to welcome the thought. Peace from torment. That’s when I made the decision. At least I could deny him the satisfaction of taking my last breath.

I had several bottles of painkillers in a cabinet. I never took them, I had a very high tolerance for pain and never needed them. In fact, I welcomed it. Pain made me actually feel. Over the course of a few surgeries, and ‘mishaps,’ the bottles had accumulated. He liked to fill my prescriptions and sell them by the pill to people he knew. I knew he did it. I had said that I didn’t like it. How could I stop him?

We always had a full liquor cabinet and fridge full of beer. People usually wound up at our house every night after drinking all night so that they could eat and drink more. You see where this is heading right?

I started on the first bottle of pills and washed it down with a bottle of vodka. As I moved to the second bottle of pills, I switched to a six pack of beer. I sat down and began scribbling on paper. Who knows what I wrote because everything was turning blurry, and I was getting tired. I think it just resembled black swirls and scrawls across the sheets of white paper. I was feeling tired, but hot and even a little nauseous. I crawled to the bathroom and splatted across the cool ceramic tile floor. I remember being able to lift my heavy body to the toilet and vomiting, then lolling back to the floor. I don’t know how many more times I vomited. My eyes wouldn’t open anymore. I had no concept of time. I heard him laughing above me and sort of nudge me with his foot. I heard the paper of the note ripping and then him leaving again.

It was late the next day when I became conscious. My heart dropped when I did. My first thought was, Why?

I could open my eyes. I could even raise myself up from the mess that I was covered in. Looking in the mirror, my eyes were swollen to the size of golf balls with little slits. My hair was matted with dried vomit.

Why?

Why didn’t it work? Why was I still here? Had I really been that bad in life? I had to be in Hell, right? I just couldn’t take it anymore. How in the hell was I still alive?

This was the last straw. This is when I knew I had to plot escape.

Chapter 3

I’M A SPECIAL SORT of depraved.

We’ll get back to that part of the story, maybe.

I guess you should know that I did get out. There was no knight in shining armor to help, no prince charming, just little old me. This bitch was her own hero, sort of.... Here we are now, and if you saw where I was sitting at the moment, I’m sure that you would think that I had lost any little piece of sanity that I had left.

I’ve been pretty numb for at least six years now. I have not cried in the same amount of time. The only thing that I do feel is immense rage. This fury fills me until I feel as though I may explode. Don’t get me wrong, no one suspects how dark I really am. I live a complete lie to the outside world, once again. I have become a spectacular actress. I radiate fucking happiness. I plaster a glowing smile on my face every day that I walk out of my god damn door. I make people laugh. Trust me, I can be hilarious. I am quick, sarcastic, and have a quip for everything at any time. People always tell me that I make their day and love to tell me how I make them laugh all the time. It’s an art that I’ve perfected over the years. I give a great façade, social butterfly,