The Twisted Damsel

Rating: 5 out of 5.

When I say “whoa!” I mean it down to my bone marrow. Thank you for refreshing psychological thrillers! The twists for me twisted. Calling all fans of dark comedy!!!

The BookStandz

Rating: 5 out of 5.

Talk about a head spinner! I have laughed out loud, clutched my pearls, gasped, and scratched my head. This book is phenomenally twisted‼️

Amazon Reviewer

I made my way through the party. The asshole I was looking for had to be here somewhere. His name was Alexander Wright, and he loved the ladies. 

In his defense, he was a 20-year-old college student, which meant partying, girls, and poor choices were his life.

Word around campus was that he had raped several girls, yet none had reported it. I think it’s because they feared him and what he, or rather his family, could do. But I had no such fear.

Alexander was popular, rich, and, if I’m being honest, attractive.

Three things that would make it hard for an entire courtroom to believe he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but not me. I believed the rumors. Not only did he look the type, but the stories were all the same. He gets the unsuspecting victim drunk, high, or whatever people are doing these days and takes advantage of them. 

While my heart did go out to all of the girls he has wronged, it wasn’t my place to correct him. Sadly, I had to mind my own business, which could be trying for me, but I managed it pretty well . . . until I didn’t. 

Either way, Alexander would have been safe from my wrath. But he fucked up. Not figuratively, but literally. A few months ago, he raped my twin sister Clara. Unacceptable. 

Clara was one of the sweetest people you could ever meet. She’s quiet, shy, book smart, soft-spoken, and extremely kind—nothing like me. 

For instance, I loved dressing sexy and experimenting with hair, makeup, etc. I bartended, so looking good was part of the job. I didn’t mind a crowd, I loved being out in the world and having a good time. Clara wouldn’t be caught dead at a party, and if it weren’t for her lab partner, Tori, she wouldn’t have been.

They were late turning in an assignment, and Tori was supposed to have sent her portion to Clara, but she forgot and went to a fraternity party taking place that night. When Clara contacted her, she was apologetic about her screw-up, and fortunately, the hard drive was in Tori’s purse, but unfortunately, Clara would have to come and get it.

So Clara went to the party and spent thirty minutes searching but never located Tori. Instead, she ended up meeting Alexander, who was “oh so concerned” that my sister was there alone and couldn’t find her friend. Being the good guy that he was, he offered her a drink and said he would help her look.

Clara wasn’t thirsty, but she thought it would be rude to decline. I had repeatedly told her that most people couldn’t be trusted. But like I said, she’s too nice. 

A few minutes into looking for Tori, Clara started to feel dizzy, and Alexander offered her a quiet room to sit down in while he called her a cab. He did call the cab, but it was after he raped her. 

She spent days crying and reliving not only this new incident, but also the abuse from our childhood. I tried to get her to report it, but she refused, not wanting the attention and problems it could bring. Eventually, I left her alone about it, deciding that if she didn’t want vengeance to be hers . . . it could be mine. 

“GET A TRASH CAN!” a girl yelled from somewhere to the right of me. Her hand was on the back of a shirtless guy hunched over, covering his mouth.


I stopped walking as another guy rushed in my direction, carrying the requested trash can. He almost made it too, but at the last second, Mr. shirtless vomited, and it splattered all over the floor and the lower half of an oversized dark-colored couch. It was slimy, chunky, and wet. Gross.

Someone next to me grabbed my arm. I glanced up into the face of a man way too old to belong at a party like this. He probably wandered in, looking for someone to score with for the night. He was barking up the wrong tree.

“Hey, baby. How’s your night going?” he asked.

I counted to five, took a deep breath, and let it go. I know I dressed the part, sporting a low-cut half top and a short fitted skirt, but I was on a mission. Not to mention, I hated pet names from strange men, especially when they’re only using it to get some ass.

It’s sleazy, offensive, and makes me want to toss them into a giant meat grinder. I mean, did this guy honestly believe that referring to me by cutesy names would undo how filthy and untrustworthy he was? 

“My night is fine,” I respond, scanning the room in order to continue my search for Alexander. I tried to pull away, but he didn’t let go.

“Whoa whoa, where ya going? I want to get to know you. Maybe we can find somewhere to talk.”

He was holding my arm hostage. It wasn’t too tight, but, still, who the fuck did he think he was?

I looked down at my arm and then back up at him. He was maybe five-ten to six feet and slim, with a long beard. I was 5’ 5″ and 125 pounds. I could probably take him, but I wasn’t dressed for the challenge, and it was too crowded in here. 

So instead of kneeing him between the legs so hard it caused damages, I smiled and asked, “What’s your name?”

He released his grip, apparently thankful that I had gotten with the program.


“Well, J.D,” I touched his chest lightly with my fingertips. “I’m at this party because last weekend I fucked this gorgeous guy that ended up giving me chlamydia,” I tapped my chin, “or was it gonorrhea? Anyway, tonight I’m here to give it to someone else.” 

J.D. stared at me, highly disgusted as I continued on.

“I was hoping to find another football player, but I wouldn’t mind letting you in on the fun. It does burn like hot acid when you pee, though, but I think you can handle it. Come on, let’s go.”

He swatted my hand from his chest.

“Fuck that!” he said and walked off.

I rolled my eyes. He was such a dumb ass.

I proceed to push my way through the crowd again. If I weren’t so focused on finding Alexander, I’d be dancing with everyone else. My last good party was one that I attended with my coworker Cassie. Those were always an adventure. 

I earned myself a few glances of appreciation from several guys I passed. I was used to the admiration and I loved how unthreatening it made me seem. Damn, this place was packed. College students were everywhere, losing their minds and partying like there was no tomorrow. There was even a couple over in one corner having sex! 

Now, I liked a good time, but sex wasn’t my thing. I never understood the obsession with the act or even how people could do it so openly. Then again, I was a 20-year-old virgin and not interested in changing my status anytime soon, so what did I know? 

Up ahead, I heard a shout that was momentarily louder than the blaring music. It was a guy standing on top of a table screaming obscenities before he jumped down into a group of people gathered near a barrel of beer. No one could say he wasn’t having a good time.

I scanned the group of people around him and then . . . bingo. Alexander was standing across from the loudmouth, enjoying himself as if the incident with my sister, and God knows how many other women, had never happened. 

I took a step forward, but stopped. The tape I had wrapped around my upper thighs was starting to cut off circulation. I knew adding that extra layer would come back to haunt me, but I had to protect my legs. I rubbed my outer thighs a few times through my skirt and keep walking. 

There was a cup sitting on the edge of the counter in front of me, and I picked it up. The powerful scent of alcohol enveloped my sense of smell immediately. 

“Hey!” Some girl in a yellow bikini top and light blue shorts said. “That’s mine.” 

I stared at her. I did not have time for this bullshit. Alexander might get away, and I was starting to feel cramps from my period. This was not my night. Without breaking eye contact, I spit into the cup. 

“Want it back?” I asked offering it to her.

“Umm, no . . . you can keep it,” the girl backed away.

I moved on in the direction of Alexander. As I approached the crowd, I loosened my hips to emphasize a side-to-side wobble, showcasing my instability to hold my liquor. Alexander was still cheering on the guy who had practically inhaled two cups of beer.

“Fuck yeah, Don! That’s what I’m talking about.”

Everyone in this area was shoulder-to-shoulder. I had to squeeze in really close to him to facilitate my accidental run-in. I hoped like hell the sexy heels I was wearing didn’t get too messed up during this whole ordeal. I had a slight shoe obsession, and it’s the one downside to my revenge hobby. I bumped my arm into his and fell slightly forward onto him, then tipped the cup I was holding. Most of it got on his shirt and shoes. He jumped back and began wiping at his clothes.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“Maybe if you were looking where the fuck you are going—” he began, but stopped as he looked up at me.

His whole demeanor changed, and he took a break from wiping his shirt. His eyes scanned me up and down, and I smiled nervously, displaying an expression of deep concern and worry.

He cleared his throat and shifted to the left, guiding me with him. The repositioning placed us outside of the tight party circle. 

“It’s no big deal. Mistakes happen.”

“I’m such a klutz. I swear I can’t get anything right. Let me see how bad I got you.” 

I touched his shirt and winced at how soaked it was.

“Do you need me to have this dry-cleaned? I will completely understand if you do.”

If this asshole says he wants me to have this shirt cleaned, Im going to make my little surprise hurt even worse, I think to myself.

“No worries, sexy. I’m sure it was an accident.” 

I purposely wore a shirt two sizes too small, and his eyes were glued to my chest.

“Yeah, but . . . ” I pointed at his shirt. “It’s all over you.” 

“I could always take it off,” he suggested with a wink. 

I giggled. He was like putty in my hands and I noticed he was a lot closer than a few seconds before. His eyes were now checking out the rest of me. Alexander licked his lips and touched my waist, gliding a finger over my exposed tattoo of a dragon with grayish-blue eyes, holding a sword in between its teeth.

“That’s an intriguing dragon. What made you get it?”

“I like to slay people,” I respond innocently. 

He laughed, and like most people, took my answer as a joke. 

“Cute,” he said. “But I think you’ve got it wrong. In the stories, people slay the dragon, not the other way around.”

“Well, in my version, the dragon is pissed, and she is getting revenge on everyone that has wronged her.”

“A girl with imagination, I like that.”

“And a shirtless Alexander. I’d like that,” I said while stumbling a little.

He caught me in my pretend tipsy topple and seemed taken aback.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours.” 

“That’s because everyone knows the famous Alexander. I’m merely a freshman hoping to make some new friends.” 

I gave him an angelic smile. 

“You look familiar. Have we met before?”

I shook my head. I wasn’t worried about him recognizing that I looked like Clara. We were twins, but we weren’t identical. She wore glasses, had higher cheekbones, different color eyes and hair.

“You want to go somewhere and talk? I mean, I do need to get out of this shirt.”

“I don’t know,” I said, looking around. That’s a tempting invitation, but I’m here with a friend, and I don’t want her to worry.”

“I’m sure your friend won’t mind, plus I’ll keep you safe.”

I hesitated a little longer, and he attempted to seal the deal.

“You did spill your drink all over me. The least you could do is give me a little company while I get cleaned up.”

I danced on the inside, pleased with how easy this was.

“I guess so,” I shrugged.

He led me into a room upstairs at the end of the hallway and closed the door. I stood beside a large window. It had no curtains, and I could see out onto the busy street. Kids had flooded the street not the least bit concerned with the disturbance they were bringing to surrounding neighbors. Alexander went over to a dresser and pulled out a new shirt and pair of shorts. 

I looked around, genuinely impressed. Assuming this was his room, there were a lot of awards in here.

“You never told me your name?” he said.

“Tara,” I lied.

“Alright, Tara, what brings you to this University?”

“I’d like to be a pediatrician.”

“That’s a good field. Are you from this area?”

At this point, he was still standing beside the dresser, watching me. I looked up at him and then quickly down again.


I keep my mannerisms appropriate for the role I was playing. I needed him to think I was shy, unsure of myself, and mesmerized by the opportunity to be alone with him.

“Why are you so quiet, Tara?” 

He walked over to a mini-fridge and pulled out two drinks in unmarked plastic bottles. 

Hmm, I’ll bet those are his liquid rape accessories.

 I smiled a little and tucked my long wavy hair behind one ear.

“You make me a little nervous.”

Evidence of the pleasure he took in that response was written all over his face. He removed his shirt and smiled, revealing the picture-perfect chest that you would expect to see on the school’s Mr. Popular. He offered me one of the bottles and I took it.

“Why do I make you nervous?”

I walked across the room, placed the bottle on the nightstand and sat on the bed. I’m done giving boosts to his ego. It was time to get this show on the road.

He came over, still shirtless, and sat down way too close to me. He put his hand on the back of my shoulder and rubbed small circles, and I said nothing. 

“You aren’t going to have a drink with me?” he asked.

“Sorry. I’m a little dizzy. I’ve probably already had too much to drink.”

“I know something that might make you feel better.”

“You do?” I asked.

He tossed his bottle onto the bed and then kissed me full on the lips. After a few seconds, I pulled away. Honestly, slightly stunned. There was no way he could fall into my trap this easily. 

“I thought you only wanted to talk, Alexander?”

“Talking is one of the things I’d like to do.”

He went in for another kiss, and I leaned back. 

“I’m not that kind of girl.”

“Come on, Tara. There’s nothing wrong with a little kiss.”

He tried again. I slapped him and then attempted to stand, but he grabbed my wrist. 

“Let me go.”

“Stop being so uptight.”

“I think I’ve given you the wrong idea.”

“You come to a party dressed like that. Agree to come to a room with me, and now that you get the attention you want, you think you’re going to walk away?”

He was getting angry, which was good. Angry people make mistakes, and they are less likely to notice things. Yanking my arm out of his hold, I headed to the door, and he immediately blocked my exit.

Trying to push past him must have given him the ammunition he needed to use more force. Within seconds I’m on the bed, fighting (or pretending to) and yelling for him to get off of me. 

The music from the party was blaring so loud my protests were being drowned out. Alexander was stronger than me and very heavy, which meant I had to do this just right.

He was pulling his shorts off now, calling me a bitch and a tease. He stuck his hand up my skirt and yanked down my underwear. I continued to squirm and quickly snapped my legs shut, hoping he wouldn’t notice the sudden change in texture from my skin to the tape wrapped around my thighs. He didn’t, and I breathed a sigh of relief. 

Forcing my legs open again, he made some threat that I barely heard. Concentration was key at this point. Once he positioned his body in between my thighs, I pulled him close, locking my arms and legs around him as tight as I could. 

His expected screams were like music to my ears. He tried to break my hold on him, but I hugged him closer. That was something I learned in my self-defense class. When you are locked on to your attacker, it’s more difficult for them to punch, slap or kick you.

He struggled harder, and I waited a moment before releasing my grip and, using the force of his pushing away to perfectly time a kick that knocked him to the floor. 

“What the . . . fuck did you . . . do to me?”

Before I responded, I gave Alexander a kick in the side, and he screamed again. Grabbing my underwear and pulling them back on, I looked down at him.

He was in severe pain, and he should be. Razor blades can cut deep. He was the first to experience what I liked to called my ‘thigh-high cutters’. 

You see, I loved inventing cool things to aid me with my . . . self-protection. With this one, I took a thick foam cushion from an old bike seat and sliced it in half to make two thinner pieces.


Then I buried tons of tiny razor blades with the sharp side facing out, deep enough not to protrude unless pressure was applied. Next, I taped the edges of the pads to my inner upper thighs, and I was ready to party. 

The room was dim, but I could see blood spilling onto the floor. I still couldn’t believe my gadget worked so well. I should have it patented. Anyway, I didn’t think Alexander’s injuries were life-threatening, but he may be hurt for a while. Good.

“Mr. Wright,” I said, placing a foot on one of his injured sides and pressing down. I tried to avoid getting more blood on my shoe than necessary. ”Haven’t you heard that no means no?”

 He yelled and tried to wither away, and I kicked him again.

“You . . . fucking . . . bitch . . . you will not get away . . . with this.”

I leaned down, pressed a finger into one of his cuts, and warm liquid drizzled out. I tasted it and felt a familiar tingle between my legs. Now, this was a turn-on—the victory over bringing down a soulless piece of shit was incomparable. I would have killed him, but Clara would not let me hear the end of it.

I patted the top of his head.

“Better save your breath. How else will you call for help?”

He grabbed my arm, but I easily tore it away. There was a small puddle of blood forming underneath him. 

Would you look at that? Maybe, it was life-threatening after all.

I turned to leave, and once my hand touched the knob, a thought occurred to me. Clara and I may have been day and night regarding a lot of things, but we did share a love for reading. And the last book I finished was, The Scarlett Letter. This whole scenario was too perfect, and I couldn’t resist.

I walked back to Alexander. He was still grunting and swearing at me. I rolled my eyes, damn he was dramatic. I squatted down and placed my hand under my skirt.

“What…. the fuck are you…. doing?” he said, trying to sit up, but failed. 

I slid my underwear to the side, located the string for my tampon, gave it a pull, and it ejected smoothly.

I turned the open side down and placed a knee on Alexander’s chest. He grabbed my wrist, halting me, and I pressed down harder on his wounded side. He instantly let go and started pushing at my knee. 

I trace the letter ‘A’ onto his forehead using the tampon as a pen and my blood as the ink. He was moving so much it was hard to get it straight. It looked more like three squiggly lines with their own agenda than it did the letter ‘A’, but it would have to do.

I’d never seen a person get so angry.

“I’m going to . . . kill you.” He reached for me again, and I quickly moved back. 

“What . . . did you put . . . on me?”

“Only the letter A.”

I could see the rage and confusion on his face as I stood, reinserted my tampon, and left him there. 

Before exiting the room, I said over my shoulder, “In the book, it stood for adulterer. In this case, it can stand for asshole. Take your pick.”




The Twisted Damsel

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