The Evil Inventor Scores the Virgin Villain

By P.F. Ward

It's the swinging sixties and London, England teems with treacherous criminals. Doomed to a life of crime just to survive, petty thief Veronica Vixen aspires to become queen of the underworld. To battle her way up the hierarchy, she'll need gadgets and weapons of groovy proportions. Yet finding the perfect inventor is easier said than done in a world where female villains are second-class citizens.

Alan Hayes is a brilliant inventor with a flair for far out devices, but he can't find anyone who appreciates his unique talent. After his wealthy parents kick him out, he seeks refuge in London's notorious underworld, only to find himself in a world of danger.

Veronica never realized how lonely she'd been until Alan enters her life. Though he seems too good to be true, his inventions are exactly what she needs. He's also incredibly hot, a fact her body isn't letting her forget. But past experiences taught her that trusting people—especially the wrong people—only leads to heartbreak. She's a ripe, untasted fruit for exactly that reason. If Veronica partners with Alan, will she be able to resist the temptation of surrendering to his deviously seductive charms?

• Language: English
• Publisher: P.F. Ward
• Release date: Aug 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370528233

P.F. Ward

Greetings! Thanks for stopping by. I'm a mild-mannered suburban mom who loves books, movies, and starry nights. The pseudonym P.F. Ward is an outlet for my interest in monster erotica.Reviews of all kinds are fine by me, so feel free to share your thoughts about my story any way you see fit.

Book preview

The Evil Inventor Scores the Virgin Villain

By

P.F. Ward

Copyright 2017 P.F. Ward

Cover Art: P.F. Ward

Smashwords Edition

License Notes

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author's imagination. Any resemblance to events, places, persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Please don't reproduce it in any form including physical, electronic, or other. (An exception is the use of brief quotations for the purposes of critical articles and/or reviews.) The author has asserted her respective rights to be identified as the author of this book.

Adult Reading Material

Chapter One

If a villain needed somewhere to hide from the law, they went to the Crypt, a subterranean flash house in the seediest part of London. The largest of its kind, the underground facility was one of the few neutral places where criminals of all kinds could network, run business meetings, and grab a bite to eat without having to watch their backs. Mostly. The Crypt had only one rule: no crime allowed.

The Crypt offered many services besides a place to lay low. It boasted a dealer's room for selling and trading gear and weapons; various types of consulting services; training for anything from planning heists to money laundering; shops for fencing stolen goods; and even a service to have one's police record wiped clean — for a hefty price.

At his tiny booth in the dealer's room, Alan Hayes hunched over a clipboard. To pass the time, he was sketching designs for one of his dream inventions, a plasma gun. Technically, a Plasma Pillager, as he had dubbed it. Powered by nuclear fusion, it would have a breathtakingly destructive force, one he could modulate depending on the size of the gun. The only obstacle was money — an obscene amount of money, actually — and the facility in which to build it. He currently lacked both kinds of resources. In fact, he could barely pay his rent. If he didn't sell anything by the end of the week, he'd be out on his ass.

His pitiful few wares lay spread out before him on the table. A handful of customers had trickled by his booth, but so far, the night had been a bust. Criminals always needed weapons, didn't they? So why hadn't he made any sales?

He rearranged his Electro Whip, the weapon he had priced at two thousand pounds. Could be the cost of his gear was a deterrent — more than once a potential customer had taken one look at the price tag and cackled derisively — but if they wanted the best gear, they had to pay for it. Things like daggers and pistols were for amateurs, and primitive to boot. Alan knew his inventions could make a good villain into a great one, so he wasn't about to sell himself short.

The problem was that no one else seemed to agree with him. Maybe he was an inventor ahead of his time — by about one hundred years or so. He took out a red pen and slashed the price of the Electro Whip in half. This wouldn't be the first time he'd had to resort to such tactics. It was a necessary strategy if he wanted to keep inventing. And eating. However, if it came down to a choice between eating and inventing, he'd choose inventing. It was what he did.

Back home in Hertfordshire, his wild ambition had landed him in trouble more times than he cared to count. He'd been kicked out of four schools, usually for commandeering the science labs and transforming them into a mad scientist's amusement park. Some of the devices he'd created were extremely dangerous. One type of explosive, cleverly disguised as a lady's compact, had enough firepower to blow up Big Ben. He snorted at the thought. He did love a good, noisy explosion.

Then he sighed. Several months ago, one of his inventions had blown his family's country estate to smithereens. He had made sure no one else was inside while conducting his experiment in his homemade lab, but his parents had still exiled him. Permanently. It saddened him, but he couldn't blame them. Better to be out on his own than being cooped up in prison. Wealth and status did have its advantages.

The problem was — well, he didn't see it as a problem, but some people did — he couldn't not create infernal devices of one kind or another. It was in his blood. What he needed was the right environment. A patron who could support his work and benefit from it in turn.

Toward that end, his main goal was to simply find the perfect crime boss, one who'd appreciate his formidable skills. He frowned. Or maybe it wasn't so simple. The villain world was vast, and he'd only been exploring it for several months.

He'd encountered garden-variety criminals galore, but villains even more powerful than typical crime lords existed as well. In adventure stories, they were described as supervillains, so he'd decided to categorize them as such. One of the reasons they had achieved such success was because of the technology at their disposal. Their fantastical weapons and equipment went beyond the usual contraband and into the stuff of science fiction, like the weapon known as the Gap, which sucked one's enemies into an alternate dimension. One boss apparently commanded a robot army he controlled using his mind. Some of the technology had been stolen from university science labs and technology companies, but other kinds had been developed by rogue genius inventors like him. Seemed like that was a role he'd been destined to play, especially since regular, law-driven society had given him the boot.

In fact, he'd been surprised to discover how closely the villain realm resembled the one in the James Bond films. It was as if someone in the film industry had learned the secrets of the criminal world and had decided to represent it on the silver screen. Too bad he couldn't afford the ticket price to see You Only Live Twice, which had premiered in London a few weeks ago.

Unfortunately, the potential bosses he'd approached so far already had their own private inventor, or couldn't afford anything more than utilitarian weapons for robberies or territorial warfare. Such a drag! Where was their style, their finesse? Who didn't want to use fabulous gadgets while burgling banks or stealing historical artifacts? The criminal underworld had existed for hundreds of years, but there hadn't yet been anyone like him in it. A supervillain using Alan's mod gear for out-of-this world heists, now that would make some serious waves in the London underground — and beyond.

To the few supervillains around, though, he was small potatoes. He needed to find someone at his level so they could grow their careers together. A villain with the potential for greatness. Someone smart who dug his unique design aesthetic. Naturally, that was easier said than done.

He glanced up from his blueprint and stared at the room, now empty except for other bored merchants. The guy on his right was already packing up. The one on his left was dozing, his cap pulled down over his face, so no chitchat opportunities there. Alan stood and stretched. Might as well call it a night. He'd head to the pub and do some networking before heading home.

He stored his gear in his rolling trunk and secured it with his patented booby traps. This way, he could relax at the bar without having to worry about anyone messing with his inventions.

The main section of the Crypt served as a combination pub and general-purpose room. Along one side, a huge bar stretched the length of the entire wall. On this Friday evening, one criminal or another occupied nearly ever stool, from lowlifes just starting out to grizzled veterans spinning tales of their greatest heists to whomever would lend them an ear.

Servers buzzed among the tables, precariously balancing platters and mugs. Silverware clinked. Patrons guzzled ale and tucked into plates of hearty food. The air vibrated with conversation. The Beatles' Hello, Goodbye blasted from the jukebox. Tarnished light fixtures bathed the action in harsh white light.

Alan wandered among the tables, passing out his homemade business cards to whomever would accept one. Growing thirsty after a while, he headed to the bar.

He grabbed a seat and signaled the bartender. Hey, man.

Bart the bartender nodded. The usual?

He nodded. Moments later, Bart — a short, wiry man whom Alan had once seen kick the living shit out of a customer who hadn't been able to stop laughing at the fact that he was a bartender named Bart — deposited a large glass of ice cold milk on the counter. Anything stronger would have to wait until after business hours. Plus, milk filled him up and was cheaper than a meal.

It wasn't, however, too early for another type of recreation. He withdrew a silver lighter and a joint from his jacket pocket. Lit up and took a deep drag. Relaxation flowed through his system. Probably should have spent more of his money on food than drugs, but oh well. A man's gotta live. He took a few more drags in between sips of milk. When he was deep in the zone, he passed the rest to his neighbor, whose face brightened upon receiving the freebie.

Alan grabbed his glass and then spun on the stool to face the room. He had hung out here enough times to have memorized the layout, so it was immediately apparent something was different about the north corner of the pub tonight. Of all things, a boxing ring had been set up there.

Sports didn't really appeal to him — not at all, in fact. But boredom had sunk its hooks into his brain and the night was still young. Apparently, someone had decided to provide a little entertainment for the evening, with gambling on the side, most likely. He had no intention of risking any of his money, but was happy to check it out.

He sipped his milk, watching idly as a woman in black capris and a red, sleeveless top climbed into the ring. Her midnight black hair was styled in a sleek Bardot ponytail. From this distance, he couldn't manage a proper look at her face. No matter. Probably worked for whomever was boxing. The woman tossed a satchel down in one corner. Then she began setting up a sign.

He drained the rest of his milk and signaled for another. Who's fighting tonight?

Bart deposited a fresh glass of milk on the counter and pointed at the ring. She is.

A spray of milk shot from Alan's mouth and onto the floor before he could stop it. Wiping his lips, he looked at the ring again. Now he could read the sign, attached to a pole above the ring. Flowery red and black lettering on a white background.

The top part read, Battle of the Villains and beneath that, Veronica Vixen Vs…You!

He shot a questioning look at Bart. 'Veronica Vixen'? He'd never heard of her, but something about the name made his heart beat faster. Weird.

Bart shook his head as he handed Alan a mop. A wannabe gangster if you ask me. She promised the boss a show in exchange for an opportunity to make a little cash on the side, but I don't know. A woman who looks like that is biting off more than she can chew.

Alan dutifully mopped up his mess, stealing glances at Veronica all the while. She did seem awfully slender for a boxer. Well, except for her breasts. They were full and perky — not slender at all. His gaze traveled lower, to her bottom. Shapely and perfect, as though sculpted by an artist. Then again, he wasn't the athletic type, so what did he know about the ideal body for boxing?

Veronica sure had an ideal body for other activities, though.

He resumed his seat. Slapped his last twenty-pound note on the counter and caught Bart's gaze. On the other hand, it's nineteen-sixty-seven, man. A woman like her could be full of surprises. Alan grinned, feeling a bit drunk even though he hadn't had a drop of alcohol. Something about tonight made him feel like taking a chance — a gigantic chance. Which was strange, because he didn't even know the woman.

Keep makin' idiotic choices like that and you'll end up in the poor house. Bart matched Alan's note with one of his own. But you got yourself a bet!

Chapter Two

Hands on her hips, Veronica swept her gaze across the ring. Kind