The Sex Commandos Thwart The Third Vaginal Apocalypse, part 1/6: The Knights Of Raw Phwoar

By Mikey Clarke

When Napoleon mastered warfare with romance and flirting and erotic tension, history swayed in a rather delicious-er direction, with less musketry and more cunnilingus championships.

A century and a half of martial humptacularity later, the fourth French Empire threatens anew to blush cheeks and quiver hips and kersplode gonads. France's funky new Imperatrix, Brigitte Bardot, some kind of retired actress apparently, has somehow fortified France into a terrifying tornado of femme-foam. Earth's free nations shall drown in sexy sexy darkness.

But Britain's answer to French raunch, the Royal Marines Sex Commandos, ain't taking that shit lying down. They're stealthing a sultry strike force into Paris disguised as a particularly frumpy French nun convent, the notorious KNIGHTS OF RAW PHWOAR.

Hundreds of gorgeous, superb, mega-ch0nk Brit raiders thus launch a fab nocturnal flirtfest against Bardot's Parisian pad, the Elysee Palace. They trounce the thousands-strong garrison with hours of rad genital jousting, then take on the Imperatrix herself.

But turns out her seismo-flirts are truly apocalyptic. Turns out she can out-raunch the lot. And things start going horribly wrong ...

Discover the true humongousness of Froggy femme-phwoar in Part Two, The SOVIET SLUTS SUPERB: mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/2-soviet-sluts-superb

(But read this Part One first)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mikey Clarke
• Release date: Sep 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9798890082770

Book preview

Also by this author

THE SEX COMMANDOS Thwart The Third Vaginal Apocalypse

Part One: The Knights Of Raw Phwoar, mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/1-raw-phwoar

Part Two: The Soviet Sluts Superb, mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/2-soviet-sluts-superb

Part Three: The Cervical Supremacy, mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/3-cervical-supremacy

(In progress)

Part Four: The Praetorian Prostitutes (92%)

Part Five: The Caliphate of the Bullshit Muslims (78%)

Part Six: [haven’t decided yet, maybe something like I’m Sick Of France’s Shit] (50%)

The Sex Commandos Unclasp The Bible Belt (~40%)

Cardinal Flaccid Versus The Sperm Baron (~30%)

The Million Male Milking Machines (~10%)

The Battle Of Bootyliciousgrad (~5%)

The Succulent Thundercunts (~5%)

The Burg Of The Bodacious Space Bitches (~5%)

Part One: The Knights of Raw Phwoar

Chapter One: The Funquisition

THE FUNQUISITION’S GOONS just tried to confiscate my cock. There’s nothing like being a medal-spangled veteran from a World War as frumpy as the third Vaginal Apocalypse to attract thug punches like a nun at a cross-burning. Like, I might take a morning constitutional down my local street, smelling the roses, necking my ahem ‘Bovril’ and jangling the aforementioned medals pinned across my breast. I’d amble past the usual gangs of ‘roided-up thugs, with their police-badge knuckledusters flashing in the sun.

And all they do is whinge! Nothing but "yo lads incoming one-poof pride parade check it out, and It’s the re-education gulags for you m’laddo, and Fuckfuck he knotted our willies together, run like hell in the same direction you fools, and We’ll be good boys sir, may we please have our prostates back?"

Kids, eh? When you’ve par-tayed for an entire century in a wee outfit called the Royal Marines Sex Commandos, when you’ve battled the hawttest and most formidable Sexy soldiers on Earth, you brush off lightweight dandruff like them without even breaking a sweat. Maybe I should stop moonwalking past their precincts, waggling my wrinkly ol’ patoot as bait. They’re only human!

More the others in our Underground I’m worried about, and why I’m banging this screed out now. The Funquisition point out that the 20th Century’s three vast erotic tussles have each tattooed humongous emotional welters across humanity’s soul. They insist that although their provocateur ain’t us Brits but bloody France, the exquisite martial and/or marital seduction techniques championed by yours truly have brought civilisation to its knees.

They hint loudly that Sex Commando emeritusses like me might perhaps chillax and convalesce and halt the unconscionable corruption of today’s youth.

I mean yeah they’ve got a point. Ever tried to fuck neutronium through nine stacked refractory periods? I managed it during Hell Week¹, but you just trash yourself still further. These days the world has become a quivering scarlet wreck of overstimulated erectile tissue.

Thing is, the Funquisition’s chillax and convalesce is everyone else’s imprison and brainwash anyone opposing soul-numbing dead-bedroom marriage.

And holy shit is it working. No-one these days knows how to pleasure a lovely orifice. Their pillow talk? Shit m8. Spooning? Abysmal. Knowledge of matching rose varieties to wines? Awful. Matching cocks with appropriate throats? Simply ghastly. Perfumes to poetries? Horrid d00d! It’s all coming to bits! Today’s young’uns are sloppy even on sex itself, let alone Sex Commando-ing. I might blab about, say, the Hump Summit², and they’d gawk like I’d clambered from the Four Yorkshiremen³ sketch. It’s appalling.

So I figured I’d fight back.

I figured I’d write this.

It concerns the third Vaginal Apocalypse, way the hell back in 1974. This one’s a tall tale, so strap in, baby.

A French female once straddled the world. Her name was Brigitte Bardot. She first modelled, then actressed, then transitioned to animal rights activism, sociology, biology, genetics, genetic engineering, cyberneticism, your classic cackling mad science, weekend dictatoring, then actual professional politicking. She sought then won France’s Presidency. She resurrected France’s tantric war-phwoar. She created and claimed the title ‘Imperatrix’ (Latin for ‘empress’; can’t deny Latin sounds cooler.) She threatened a third Vaginal Apocalypse. (Never heard of the first two? Read on, grasshoppah.)

For the third bloody time in a century, she stood resplendent atop a vast fearsome Frog⁴gy war machine bent on conquering the world in general and the British Empire in particular. Five million leashed Frogs spat hate across the Channel and bawled invasion-y dread. An invasion so humongous and gruesome that even the Empire’s own war planners admitted would trounce us in three short months.

So we Sex Commandos figured we’d nip that shit in the bud.

We figured we’d sneak a stealthy strike force into Paris; we’d pulverise Bardot; and we’d thus ensure France wouldn’t be a threat in our or anyone’s lifetimes.

One out of three ain’t bad, right?

Chapter Two: The Stroppiest Frogs In Christendom

FOR GOD’S SAKE, Private Kowalsky, get down from that luggage rack!

Sorry, Mike, I replied, sliding back into my bus seat with a clatter. Seventy other Sex Commandos squirted subtle glances in my direction. It’s just—

Yeah I know. Abducting the Imperatrix is your first official mission as a Sex Commando. ‘Course you’re jittery. Christ. I bloody was on my first. Who isn’t? But you’ll be no good on tonight’s raid this spazzy. Mike’s craggy glare softened a tad. Finish that letter to your folks. Might soothe you.

Right.

I’ll try to describe the typical Parisian, I eventually scribbled in my well-thumbed notebook, then stared out the bus window. Muffled applause and cheering from assorted exterior crowds spooged right back. "… And, it’s possible you’ll not think me off my rocker. First, a reference point familiar to all: remember Ole Tobi challenging her cousin to that duel a few years back? If you don’t, the grievance was over her cousin’s wedding tuxedo: allegedly her specific choice of tailoring style was the ever so scandalous Demure Immaculate Emeritus XII, and not the more chaste NASCAR Bridezilla Jug-A-Licious Slut Contest. Her hemline exceeded by an inch the ‘Unconscionable Jezebelite Harpy Threshold’, as dictated by, by …"

Aah. Shit. I frowned.

"How do you spell ‘unconscionable’? I enquired of Mike. Thanks, I replied, scribble scribble, err, ‘Unnkawnshinnnibil …’, as dictated by Vatican IV. The duel devolved into your classic riot, claiming fifty-nine wedding guests, six kegs of communion JD, and two thousand roundshot. It soon became an four-year feud, peaking at that inter-Papacy football match against the Washington Whiteskins, where both sides’ fans fought an actual line infantry musket battle. Most never got their hearing back. It only resolved a year ago with the landmark legal ruling of Papacy Of City-of-Jackson v. Apparently A Pack Of Complete Bastards: ‘I cannot believe I had to flatten both your cathedrals with my monster truck to get you dickheads round a table.’ All over an inch of décolletage …"

I sucked my pencil, lost in thought, staring at outside’s fabulous visual bounties. Three femme-Frogs popped.

But ship these feuders here to Paris? Their heads would explode. I remain astounded mine hasn’t. Half would think they’d quite literally died and gone to Hell. The other half would think they’d ascended to Heaven. Their relationship with anything even faintly sexual is, is—

"—Need help spelling ‘sex’?" asked Mike, smirking over my shoulder.

"Need help spelling ‘fourth prenup’?" I retorted without thinking.

His smirk perished. Aah sorry, I added, "bit below-the-belt? Come on, if you kick off your, what do you Poms say, your ‘banter’, you gotta expect comebacks."

M’colleague Staff Sergeant Michael Donovan glowered at me. One of my Sex Commando genetic bio-upgrades informed me his glower-duration clocked in at four hundred and nine milliseconds.

But then he cracked up in a hearty guffaw. The rookie has a point! His eyes went twinkly. But we’d been bussing across France for a whole week, he