The Sex Commandos Thwart The Third Vaginal Apocalypse, part 2/6: The Soviet Sluts Superb

By Mikey Clarke

Continuing from Part One, the KNIGHTS OF RAW PHWOAR: mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/1-raw-phwoar ...

Disaster! Two hundred superb Royal Marines Sex Commandos with superb-er patoots have carved a gorgeous highway through trillions of flirty enemy Frenchies, through Paris, through the Elysee Palace, right up to Imperatrix Bardot's boudoir, to dissuade her and France from conquering Britain, and then Earth, with a third Vaginal Apocalypse.

But the Imperatrix spanks their magnificent martial butt-cheeks mauve with loathsome precision. Out-flirting the Imperatrix is like handjobbing Mt. Blanc (a cornerstone of Sex Commando training, but ever wanked off a mountain when it's wanking you back? Want to? Read on, young padawan).

The Brit special-forces babes and/or hunks fight like goddamn lions, but soon shatter and scatter. Only one escapee: a rad Mississippi hotshot/lunkhead named Charlie, now at large in the exotic abyss of Paris.

Now what? Rescue chums alone? Impossible! But he's amassed more Froggy intel in a day than from decades of spy-work. Smuggling his precious learnings Britainward might just swing this third Vaginal Apocalypse Britain's way.

Only one route Home. Hitch a ride within France's imminent Brit invasion force. Charlie thus sneaks into its million-maiden cannon fodder first wave: the notorious SOVIET SLUTS SUPERB. Blend in, head down, yap shut, avoid heat.

Charlie instead falls in love and/or bar-room brawls with every Army hotshot in his path. He can't help it. He'd never dreamed France could be this snazzy. His new Frog mates proclaim him the Seminal Sorceror, Louisiana's fightin' finest.

Neighbouring Army prodigies can't decide whether to marry him or enslave him or both. With each fresh duelling challenge and/or dowry dumptruck (you'd better believe these ain't mutually exclusive), Charlie's hopes of vanishing into the Soviet Sluts Superb and Home wilt by the second.

Plan B, then? Harness his newfound fame into actually leading the Invasion? Amass enough celeb clout to charge Britainward before Paris's pursuing police close in for the kill?

What's the worst that could happen?

Discover the full consequences of Charlie's buxom bullishness in Part Three, the CERVICAL SUPREMACY: mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/3-cervical-supremacy

(But read this Part Two first)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mikey Clarke
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023

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 Two: The Soviet Sluts Superb

A Word In Advance

THIS STORY, THE Soviet Sluts Superb, is the second part in a six part series.

It follows directly on from Part One, the Knights of Raw Phwoar, mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/1-raw-phwoar.

Already read Part One? Then by all means skip this intro, you crazy renegade, and get instantly stuck in to Chapter Eight.

Not read Part One? Then this Part Two may not make much sense. I mean I’m not your mum. If you’d love to nonetheless charge ahead and get immediately lost, then go nuts. Read away.

But if feeling spectacularly baffled isn’t your thing, though who knows maybe it is, then pop over to mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/1-raw-phwoar and grab a copy of Part One from a download link of your choice.

Read that and nourish your mind with the bullshit therein and return here fortified and warmed up.

But otherwise? Charge ahead and enjoy the ride and I’ll see you at the other end. Have fun, baby <3

Chapter Eight: THIS NUTSACK LOST TO BARDOT

I CAME TO.

I found myself down some kind of alley, sprawled amongst rubbish bins. Judging by the smell, and by glimpses of the Eiffel Tower out the alley’s mouth (which, as any movie buff will tell you, is visible from every single vantage spot in Paris¹, sometimes through multiple windows and directions simultaneously), I was in quite a different part of the city.

And judging by glimmers of sunlight, it was morning.

Memories squidged across my cerebrum. I ran my hands down my face, trying not to tear up.

Well!

What a catastrocunty disaster that was!

Did anyone else escape?

I became aware that my shoulder’s roundshot wound had leaked an ocean of blood. A scarlet river splashed my torso. Surprisingly little bruising from those slaps, though! Even my purpled patoot was reverting to standard tan. Colour me surprised.

I’d retained my equipment belt, thank Christ. Medicines and maps and rations and pheromones and other jolly wee gizmos. Loads o’ kit: you’d be amazed how capacious² these things can be.

No sign of my digital chronometer, though.

Hands trembling only a tad, I cleaned and treated my shoulder wound, twinkled across butterfly stitches, then a petite bandage. I tried to concentrate on only the wound and disregard my howling mind.

For a few seconds I found myself astonished at Bardot’s guards possessing roundshot launchers. I realise today’s televisual revolution is dissolving the world’s ancient cultural boundaries at a pace never before seen, but even as recently as the 1970s, I’d expect blasting-powder weaponry only in grimdark libertarian hellscapes like Lapland or Nunavat or Harrod’s or Fiordland, a zillion mud-soaked miles from civilised elegance.

But in the heart of Gay Paree? Good lord. The Sex Commandos had battled Froggy soldiers of a million flavours across the globe, and not once had we got the slightest hint that the French didn’t despise old-style firearms. Bardot defied two centuries of taboo.

Then I kicked myself. Duh. You don’t ascend to an Empire’s Imperatrix-ship, or whatever the term is, without having a keen sense of precisely how far one can get away with twisting societal norms. Obviously Bardot would maintain tip-top-secret weaponry stashes.

So she’s packin’ serious heat. Right. No good can come of rumination. Move on.

So I moved on to my pile-driven testes …

… And wailed a plaintive moan.

They’d gone black.

I don’t mean ethnically brown-ish, more’s the pity, though I’d be fascinated to discover what kind of Möbius-like family tree would be required to produce offspring with Afro-gonads and Honky-everything-else. Perhaps after this absurd War I could shack up with a bonny Swedish lass, and together give it the ol’ college try.

No, mine were quite literally charred black.

And, I stared and stared, teeny-tiny burn-letters spelled out:

THIS NUTSACK LOST TO BARDOT.

Her banana-boot steel caps weren’t simply shiny! They were yellow-hot!

And she had that embossed on the toes? She kicks strapping males in the balls frequently enough for that to be a necessity?

I shook my head and growled in bitter fury. Only she, only she would think like that.

For a few seconds I speculated how she avoided igniting her own frickin’ hooves, not that I cared. She could go skinny-dip in a smelter.

Every Sex Commando medical lecture I’d ever taken informed me that under these conditions, even a standard civvie stiffie would be a Bad Idea.

Attempting a 44psi BattleCock would cause damage only a full operating theatre could straighten out.

If you recall that finger-snap business back on the bus, you may think, waaah big deal, you healed your finger in a few short hours, can’t your dick heal fast too?

If mine was your bog-standard penis, then sure. But Sex Commando gonads are exquisite intricacies of biotech magnificence, with commensurate repair times. I won’t be humpworthy for freakin’ days, m8. Opinion is divided on whether male Sex Commandos should carry functional civilian spares to diversify their professional humptacular prowess, but honestly, you run into similar engineering tradeoffs as with landkreuzer guns³. Tested this myself. Trust me. Bad idea.

Long story short, Bardot had stripped my powers from me.

Now that I type this with the temporal distance of half a century, I’ll admit just here to a teensy bit of weeping, but rrr, I had no time to lose.

Seriously, I told myself, now what? I may be cockless, but I’m, hah, I’m hardly defenceless! What of Basic, eh? We spent six weeks training fully flaccid! And—a wee smile crept across my face—at the inevitable Hallowe’en parties, we’d dress up as Funquisition Commandos and be as deliberately antisexy as possible …

I found my thoughts meandering through happier times. At our last Hallowe’en party, I’d made a greater effort than usual and infected myself with leprosy ‘specially for the occasion. Towards the end of the party, for several glorious minutes I’d chatted up a group of sozzled, guffawing ladies. Stefan had crowned me with the Least Sexy tiara before my foreskin actually sloughed off inside one of them. The gal in question had a robust enough sense of humour to find the whole affair hilarious, and thence to accompany me to the base’s emergency ward, even though we’d fished it out before the ambulance arrived …

Good times. I cracked a desperate grin.

But come on. Focus.

Did anyone else escape? I didn’t think so. As far as I was aware, I was the only person to escape Bardot’s massacre.

So the others had no doubt been rounded up and captured. Could I mount a rescue?

Alone? Injured this badly?

Unlikely. With considerable regret I realised there was nothing I could do for them. My heart lurched as I pictured them in their hundreds, trussed and powerless in some random dungeon, put through one interrogation after another after another, for months and months. Their captors would inflict the most brutal of tortures, day in, day out, until one by one they’d crack and spill the beans on everything we’d ever worked for. A year of that shit and even the mighty Stefan himself would warble like a tame canary at Bardot’s casual command, for ohhyeah holy shit she’d informed me to my face that the entire Palace raid had been one colossal ambush and trap for Stefan and Stefan alone—

—I felt wobbly lumps of panicked bile rise up.

I shook myself. No! No! Think first, action second, then panic later.

What would Stefan want me to do?

The answer was forehead-slappingly obvious. Scarper home somehow, anyhow, and report to MI-6 on everything. Drain France. Crack apart the Velvet Vice. Report on the failed assassination attempts; the nature of Bardot herself; her libraries; her elite Guard varieties; their capabilities; the secret passages of the Elysee Palace; the military strength of Paris; its troop types and armaments; the fact they use roundshot launchers (what a propaganda coup!); even the day-to-day lives of its civilians, why not? Hordes of British spies had tried and failed to extract even the tiniest smidgeon of what I’d just observed. MI-6 prized it so highly they kept squandering spy lives even to-day.

And now I have nabbed it.

My intel could change the course of the imminent War.

And on that thought, my spirits began to rise still further. I clenched my fists. I’ll show Bardot. If I have anything to say about it, this intel leak will be very very much a two-way thang. For every secret my chained-up colleagues might spill, I’ll parrot off ten.

Great, so I skedaddle back home with precious cognitive cargo.

But how? I’m nude and hurting in some random alley—

A voice bounced down the brickwork. The blood spots lead in here, Commandant Fontaine.

Chapter Nine: Chlorine Trifluoride

RUN DOWN THE failed assassin, an echoey growl replied. Decent tracking at last, Private. The rest of you, cocks out.

A chorus of Velcro-rips.

For God’s sake.

I peeked my peepers over a group of handy trash cans. There I spied a group of ten French soldiers striding down the alley, still some way off. Military-Police badges sparkled atop their kepis. Navy blue greatcoats flapped in the morning breeze. Their street uniform dress trousers, replete with easy-access Velcro crotches, were duly ripped open, displaying proud plod cocks emerging from pubic jungles worthy of Godzilla.

Nothing so fearsome as the bodyguard battle-steels my mates and I had thrashed hours prior. Christ, it seemed an age ago already. But these seemed crack troops nonetheless.

Bloody French being Frenchies. They flashed flashlights in the pre-dawn gloom and poked thoroughly every last rubbish heap to ascertain absence of moi.

And here’s me minus pints of precious blood.

Woozy! Better make a break for it. Up I hupped to a crouching start. I burst from my dustbin alcove to a hard sprint, up up and away!

Shouts of alarm exploded behind me. Half a second later I staggered to a halt, stared down by brickwork. Blind alley, by gad. Trapped!

Halt, demon, shouted this Inspector Fontaine chappie. Or we’ll—

Which of you bitches first wants to dance? I replied in general high spirits, staring up the wall. One at a time or all at once? I added, speculating how swiftly I could scale it. Stand by to get some, candy-cervix!

An infant could see through bluffing that clumsy! roared Fontaine, and he sounded genuinely affronted. "This fool I think has earned the chlorine munitions, he added to his colleagues. Pacify him at once."

Chlorine? I could hear splutters behind, as I stared gamely up the brickwork. Then my neck hairs did a Riverdance impression. Something bloody strange was happening with that group’s collective vibe. Sir! said a husky voice. Chlorine payloads violate the Hump Summit—

The demon raised a hand to our Imperatrix, imbecile, said Fontaine. We’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget.

But but sir it violates our Praetorian oaths sir—

—You shut up. We all need more practice.

"More? Sir abusing even more prisoners won’t win your estates back—"

"—Capitane Travert, a fool you remain. For the last time, the proletarians ascend the Imperatrix’s new-fangled starbase duelling hierarchies, and we Gentlemen do not. Are you blind? This demon is a gift! Like it or no, we must grasp all opportunities to ourselves ascend. Otherwise the proletarians will carve us up until we are skeletons!"

Starbase? Good golly this male’s a chatterbox. I turned on my heel and stared. Fontaine still yakked.

"Of what use are our precious oaths then? he snarled. Eh? Eh? Answer me that! Well? Good. If practicing on demons is the only way to retain m—our estates and fulfil our oaths, then so be it! Then let us begin the morning’s lesson. This doesn’t leave the alley, understand? Understand? His group’s vibe jazz-hands’d like electrocuted seaweed. Good. Lock and load, then, all of you."

My ears detected many squirmy Kegel-clenchings. My my. One of the funkatronic-er bio-upgrades available to us (male) Sex Commandos (ladies too receive oodles of sweet femme-kit but I’ll get to that later) was compartmentalised pelvic innards. For any given cumshot, we fellas could select via relevant muscle-squeezings small but significant amounts of up to a dozen spunk payload types. Above and beyond bog-standard spooge, we could manifest: red-bull-and-vodka, hypersonic tungsten carbide, Evian water, keg-party Drambuie, breast milk, Chanel No. 5, diesel, ram semen (surprisingly lucrative, plus handy defence against piss-takings from Māori and/or Welsh buddies), 1973 FIFA World Cup Final tickets (prank that got out of hand, tell you another time), female precum (the subtlest mindfucks can be the finest), McRibs … and for those with only a casual relationship with war law, lethal chemical payloads.

Same with my adversaries, ‘twould seem. Incoming.

"One salvo on my mark … mark!"

I twisted in the air, just in time—a transonic cumshot snapped past my shoulder like a brilliant green meteor and struck a crater from the brickwork beyond. The hole sizzled and smoked. Yes indeedy acid payload, those supplements were banned in the last war!

My all-too-analytical brain huffed up just enough of its scent for analysis and then jerked my head and then entire body into a tremendous ninja backflip to avoid inhaling its corrosive fluoride fumes. My nasal cavity’s bio-substrates clunked away nonetheless—scanning, chlorine trifluoride payload confirmed, nasty⁴ stuff. Curious isotope ratios in the chlorine, 3:1 standard Med sea salt to Bavarian salt mines. The spunk substrate has absurdly high pineapple content, fresh not canned, nutrient ratios hint it’s from one of those old-money Senegal plantations. Posh, bruv, as Dave might say. But! The richest gunk comprises only the most senior wrigglers: sperms younger than perhaps five weeks appear built from merely conventional canned. Owners perhaps fell on hard times? Maps to what the leader said just now about proletarians carving up his estates, and starbase duelling. What’s ‘starbase’ mean? This lot don’t seem your typical Trekkies. Our constable chum sounds posh, and our plod Fontaine’s voice-tambre’s Fourier transform signature maps to chronological age of early forties; that age’s median rank is capitane—

—No seriously shut up, I reminded my brain, as I pinballed around the alley. Deducing a cop’s rank from his spunk scent is just st00pid. Fight the fellow first.

I may not have functioning gonads, but by cracky my hands could still sparkle. I bounced one last time, landed, spun on my heel, and faced down my attackers. Their commanding officer Fontaine, you could ID the leader by the grandness of his wipe-clean skirmish trousers, he had a nauseating, oily look. It irritated me in ways I didn’t care to analyse. His mates were the usual brute-squad types, all sledgehammer jaws and skulls housing only the mightiest biceps.

They advanced, bottling me up. Crap! No way out. With my back to the wall, they swaggered towards me, all ten of ‘em, grins plastered across ugly mugs, massaging their dicks diamond-y, ready to anti-personnel-spunk me in an instant…

But what’s this? Those trash cans lurked beside me. Aha! I snatched up a lid in each hand, winked, and blew my new lovers the most delicate, tender air-kiss you ever did see.

Bingo! We’d practiced this thousands of times in Sex Commando training. Wax-on-wax-off, as the kiddies these days say. In the demented turmoil of battle, you exert your uttermost to emotionally liquefy your adversary, make them lose control, make them give in,