The Sex Commandos Thwart The Third Vaginal Apocalypse, part 3/6: The Cervical Supremacy

By Mikey Clarke

Continuing from Part Two, the SOVIET SLUTS SUPERB: mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/2-soviet-sluts-superb …

Ever enjoyed flirting so magnificent it whisks your mind, heart, soul, and nethers into gooey puddles of blissy-bliss-bliss?

Ever hungered for pilgrimage to an entire Empire designed around little else?

Yeah? Be careful what you wish for!

The Sexyverse French Empire's glorious new seismoflirt hierarchy is resculpting civilisation. Anyone who's anyone is going nuts for it. Radiant rookie tongue-twirlers fuel their social and martial ascendance by slurping asunder their neighbours’ ’nads, who in turn become vacuumed into heavenly aural oblivion by oral athletes yet mightier, up and up to lustrous Imperial infinity.

Just imagine the Mongol Hordes 96ing likewise. Go on. Picture it. They'd conquer Andromeda and you know it. France has never been mightier. A sweat-slick tornado of rad Imperial oomph throbs across Europe. France consumes all. France devours all. You? You're nothing. A billion bombastic Frogs will hump your screws loose and discard the husk.

Our Royal Marines Sex Commando correspondent feels like he's died and gone to heaven.

Yet Charlie gr0ks he's moonwalking across France far too friskily. Attention accretes. Thumbscrews turn. Vices clamp. Beautiful gangs of beautiful gangsters spurt penisly from every alley. Flirting with every ladybro Rambo in sight produces Rivals and Frenemies and Jilted Waifus galore, athirst for irresistible Sex Commando cock, France's finest socio-sexie rocket fuel.

The dazzling Alsatian wonder-grrl Yasmine "Sweetling" Gautreaux sweeps aside the lot. She and Charlie have already spent SOVIET SLUTS SUPERB becoming ever so chummy. There is no rival they cannot together crush asunder.

Yasmine schemes. Yasmine plots. If she could somehow liquefy and subsume this dreamy foreign volcano, then there is no Prussian fortress she could not cast down in ruin, no rival she could not trounce.

Trounce perhaps the Imperatrix? Can't a gal dream? Yasmine surely tightens her webs against Charlie, mapping his psyche, caressing his pain points, cloaking her smiling jaws of silken goddamn steel.

Charlie's vigilance can only crumble further as his captured Sex Commando chums are not only paraded around France, but their handlers invite Charlie, this alleged foreign Louisiana Seminal Sorcerer, to publicly torture them for intel but mainly for lolz.

And Paris's police have FOUND HIM.

Torment within and without! How much hurt can this tank take, man?

Find out! In Part Four! The PRAETORIAN PROSTITUTES [book coming soon!]

(But read this Part Three first)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mikey Clarke
• Release date: Jan 29, 2024

Book preview

Also by this author, moi

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 Three: The Cervical Supremacy

A Word In Advance

THIS STORY, THE Cervical Supremacy, is the third part in a six part series.

It continues from Part One, the Knights of Raw Phwoar, mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/1-raw-phwoar, and Part Two, the Soviet Sluts Superb, mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/2-soviet-sluts-superb.

Already read both? You’re the best, you know that? Skip past this Word In Advance and get stuck in to Chapter Eighteen.

Haven’t? Then proceeding may give you a serious case of the Bamboozles. You’ll have no idea what’s going on. Desire enlightenment? Then head to mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/1-raw-phwoar, then mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/2-soviet-sluts-superb, and grab Parts One and Two from any of the download links there.

Absorb them, and if you decide they’re to your liking, then pop back here again and enjoy the ride. Have fun, snookums <3

Chapter Eighteen: Stiff Upper Lips

THAT AFTERNOON, I at last entered in earnest the vast swampy ecosystem that is the French Army.

I jerked awake from our post-rumpy-pumpy stupor by hideous war-cries from a zillion speaker towers across Fort Gorgeous. They sounded like a grizzly-bear barbershop quartet pooing barbed wire¹. I couldn’t believe it. I levered Clarice’s snoozing thighs apart, and freed my head and more importantly my ears from their supple flesh prison to listen better. Yasmine rubbed the sleep from her eyes. My face’s top half must have had a quizzical expression, for she blearily informed me that this was the Bardot-sanctioned bog standard summons for that afternoon’s conscript Basic Training, so a Private like me had better move it move it; also French Sergeant-Majors sound like that, you silly yokel, it’s one of the martial reforms of Horndog-General de Gaulle remaining so cherished by the rank-and-file that not even Imperatrix Bardot can get away with purging it. How could you not know that?

Blowing off sensual steam with Yasmine and Clarice had been such a load off my mind that it didn’t even occur to me to freak out at yet another intel blind-spot. I rebooted my overexerted BattleTongue and extracted it with some difficulty from its berth coiled snugly around Clarice’s cervix (seriously, she’d insisted). Once speechable, I retorted to Yasmine that when us Dauphiners poo barbed wire we harmonise like exquisite angels and not like dry-humping krakens at all. I flung on my uniform and made it to the bedroom door while Yasmine was both scrunching up her face trying not to laugh, and staring around her bedroom for something chonky to chuck at me. By this time Clarice too had awoken and was blowing me a quite astounding quantity of waggly-eyebrowed air kisses. I returned several hundred of them before nine well-aimed throw pillows paffed off my forehead.

At length I popped into blinding exterior sun. I joined a gazillion Froggy orc cataracts from a gazillion other dorm structures together slouching their way to what looked like training fields a couple miles off. The standard drill-sergeant tugboats roared the streaming conscript tributaries into mosh-pitty marching order. A particularly slouchy and twiglike cataract streamed from Quisine Snazzi, with apparently starving physiques yet their torsos wobbled like overfilled water balloons. Most still gobbled Snazzi grub down their gobs, dining not on the immaculate cuisine of which I’d become so fond, but instead bolting instant noodles and toast sandwiches and raw flour, the really really shit slop, and with every sign of delight and rapture.

Curious! I speculated that Clarice’s thigh-based earmuffs had perhaps impeded my audio comprehension, and perhaps I should give these speaker tower broadcasts a second listen.

… And rejoice, the nearer speakers throbbed, for the 19th Madagascar Assemblage Of Military Talent arrives before Fort Gorgeous two days ahead of schedule. Aah. Bloody loud! The Calais Muster shall further strengthen by two hundred and fifteen thousand souls. Calais Muster? What’s that? These 215,000 Madagascar cats sound snazzy.

But my conscript neighbours did not share my enthusiasm. A convulsion swept the crowds. Mutters of oh those conceited bloody showoffs abounded.

The vigour of the Nineteenth honours France, continued the speakers. Their commander Marshal Archambault is pleased to announce that, to maintain the swift and timely Enlisted trainings in which Fort Gorgeous takes such pride, the National Assemblages queued ahead of his 19th: the Mekong 17th, the Algiers 33rd, the Coromandel 41st; shall be eager to accommodate by redoubling their own training swiftness.

The social convulsion redoubled. Scowls and cries and groans. "Oh gimme a fuckin’ break, someone spat. ‘Eager’ my ass, bawled a neighbour. Bloody Archambault thinks he can charge his gals over our corpses," others cried. Crowd fury throbbed. Ten thousand patriots howled.

The Calais Muster grows mightier by the hour, continued our interlocutor, oblivious, and Britain shall fall ever sooner. My blood ran cold. Crowd fury perished. Ten thousand patriots stared at their shoes. That is all. Long love our beloved Imperatrix. The speaker towers produced an ear-splitting howl of feedback then terminated.

Oh yay. I’d better enquire further. The conscript crowds resumed their throbbing, but now minus the uproar. Chat to one? A neighbouring blob shimmering across my peripheral vision seemed to vibe chummier than most. I therefore embarked upon an equivalently chummy Nudge. I’m not from these parts, I said, nudge, what was all that about doubling our training swiftness—?

—Aargh! Watch where you’re stabbing, imbecile!

Eh? Had I mis-vibed? I commenced rotating my skull and eyes in his direction—bloody hell! For fifty-seven milliseconds, my rotating peripheral vision insisted I’d nudged a looming airborne eyeball fully two metres across. The milky sphere Glared at me like an Eye of Sauron eugenics’d with a set of douchemobile pickup truck LED headlamps. An ocular bio-upgrade I’d honestly forgotten I possessed autoinitialised pronto, and snapped three solar-eclipse-filters across my own eyes’ interiors.

The filters dimmed the stink-eye supernova to reveal not a raging Eye at all, but instead some kind of genteel orc. Or a goblin? Can’t tell with French folk. I think the orc intended much radiation of prim regal dignity, for he came clad in what appeared to be a seriously upmarket Havana suit, but gunked, alas, with months of outdoorsy grime. His fab threads drooped from his limbs like cellophane draped over twigs. His vibe mirrored that of an anorexic ‘90s heroin-chic catwalk model after snorting sufficient cocaine to actually complete back-to-back Ironfemale triathlons. Go on. Ask me how I know that. The male’s sparrowlike limbs trembled like a colt two minutes after birth. It occurred to me that half the surrounding crowd was similarly grubby and trembly and bolting shit Quisine Snazzi grub.

I finally connected the dots. Holy crap. This cosmo crowd has just walked to Fort Gorgeous. From where? That broadcast mentioned Mekong, Algiers and Coromandel: Siam, Algeria, and either Bharat or Te Ika-a-Māui (both rock locales called ‘Coromandel’). All four: half a world away. Holier crap. That’d explain these cats’ unearthly exhaustion, their wretched attire, and their rapturous gobbling of hideous grub, but … seriously? I bet I could jog to Siam and back inside three months, that’d actually be awesome, but I’m a friggin’ Sex Commando baby. This shower are random civilians. It’d kill them.

Though then again, maybe my new chum had merely depleted his vigours away from the rest of him and concentrated them into his eyes, because bloody hell what a glare.

You ‘roided-up pretty-boys! he growled. All alike! He winced and rubbed his torso where my nudge had connected. If you ever left your harem gymnasiums, sir, you might learn this War’s effects on us regular folk. Our pedestrian neighbours’ added glaring suggested his aggro was contagious.

You said it, Doc! slurred another neighbour between peanut butter fistfuls. Give this muscle-bound weakling what for!

The hell are you on about, mate? I retorted. I’m training here because I signed up like everyone else.

Indeed, sir? At a Paris brothel, I’ll wager; no doubt your Assemblage’s forced march to Fort Gorgeous took you minutes not months. This Doc bloke Glared me up and down, or rather, up and further up. Or are you conducting another of those appalling famine safaris?

No! I’m here from Fort Dauphin … it’s in Even Greater Louisiana, I added, noting his blank stare. Hadn’t set foot in Europe until a couple days back. I’m not your enemy, mate! I just don’t know a thing about Europe’s ways. Especially Assemblages and forced marches.

The Glare diminished to a mere scowl. That is grotesquely evident.

So … what’s with this training queue redoubling?

If your kind, kind sir, ever looked up from your perfumed calisthenics, this Doc creature continued, glaring, and slummed it with the rest of us, you’d know full well Marshal bloody Archambault’s propensity to declare Teacher’s Pet to whichever Assemblages stroke his ego the most, and to ruin with the rest.

Oh yay. I might have guessed. Office politics never changes. You mean like, I scratched my nose, like, these Madagascar VIPs double-timed it here two days early just to suck up to their boss, this Marshal Archambault bigwig, make it appear it’s his patronage that causes their elite performance, but he then used that eliteness as a pretext to ordering us non-elite schmucks to train twice as fast to get out of their way?

Doctor Orc blinked. … Did it take you all morning to memorise that? he said tersely.

I wasn’t about to rise to that provocation. "No. So what’s the deal with Assemblages more generally? They just walk to France?"

This Doc bloke froze and Glared anew. I thought fast. "The others back at, what did you call it, your Fort Dauphin harem gymnasium, think I’m a damn fool just for coming here and chatting and training with you. You think I’m an ignorant moron? Fine. I’m an ignorant moron. And still listening. I genuinely want to learn. If you’d like to teach, I’m all ears. I meant every word. So random schmucks think I’m a dick? Who cares? In a day or three I’ll be out of here for good. Why not sup sweet lemonade from France’s bitchy bitchy lemons? How about it, mate?"

"Learn? Learn, sir? Simply look around you. Do you really think the rest of us have the fitness and nutrition to again double-time our training? Few indeed enjoy fat-cat gladiator educations like yours. How many villages surrendered their suppers to fuel your physique, eh? Eh?"

"Mine? Quisine Snazzi’s grub out-grubs any other chow hall I’d ever known, I said, truthfully. It seriously did. Dine there for a year and a bloke could leapfrog the Atlantic. True facts also. I claim zero monopoly on yum yums, man. Looks like it’s open to the whole Empire. Everyone’s in!" I gestured at the crowds. That component of them gobbling even the shittest Snazzi grub had already tripled their radiance of supreme fitness and conditioning. Even the most gnarled of gnarled urchins. Seriously, from our particular Fort Gorgeous vantage point, I could crane my neck, stare down our particular boulevard, and spy yet another vomitous mass of an Assemblage stagger their way into another Quisine Snazzi entrance half a mile off, with the most frail forced-march victims staggering and held upright between mates. The tail-end dregs of our current Assemblage, however, moonwalked forth from the immense eatery’s nearest entrance like chirpy chipmonks²: unaugmented atrocious physiques and filth and shattered exhaustion, sure, but now enjoying tap-dancing and jump-rope and leapfrog and a few reckless renegades were even attempting tiddlywinks. I couldn’t believe it. … Say. Why aren’t you eating too? You look like you need it more than anyone.

Glare. Glare. Doc’s Eyeball act strobed its way across my vision just long enough to make a point. Glare. It seems, sir, that your wrestlemania seminars prepared you little for the realities of wartime logistics and economics. You genuinely desire to know why? He waggled a wobbly finger in the direction of a hefty billboard crowning that nearby Quisine Snazzi entrance. Read that. Inform me if you require assistance with multisyllabic words.

I peered at it. "‘Milan shall forever enflame our hearts. Sup wisely and sup well, patriots, let Milan enflame our bellies, and our deeds shall quake the world. Make Milan’s sacrifice truly count.’ What the hell does that mean?"

It means, sir, that the Imperatrix is flinging the rubble of city after conquered city into her War furnaces to fuel conquests greater still. My conscience won’t allow me to dine on my compatriots. I’d rather I died.

Eep. Heavy.

This Doc fellow then elbow-jabbed my tummy. I’m sure he intended an epic hammer blow. Mr. Burns would scoff³. The elbow proved so spindly that even through my uniform shirt, my navel anchored it. At first, neither of us noticed. "Your kind, sir, may find the brutal tradeoffs of modern soldiering second nature, but the doughty folk about us remain either ignorant, or their consciences succumb to their hunger. But even with perfect fuelling, their reconditioning would take months. This fourth vigour redoubling burdens far them too greatly, it will truly break them, Snazzi or no—free my arm at once, do you hear me? At once!"

I realised the reason his elbow had stuck fast was me sucking in my stomach as per standard superb beach-body-physique Sex Commando training: my ab-clenching was gripping his elbow. Geez. I unclenched. The elbow detached with that kerplop-sound schoolkids adore producing by flicking their finger from their mouth. At least schoolkid-me adored it. The orc squealed and rubbed its freed elbow. "What is the matter with you? he spat. Cease this mocking!"

"Mocking? I exclaimed. This dickhead was starting to get on my friggin’ nerves. I’m not! What problem?"

Doc hissed. If he’d had the strength he might have punched me. You would react to my exposing your ignorance of woeful conscript conditioning by flaunting that your own midriff is so conditioned your navel can anchor my elbow. Either you thirst for psychological cruelty, or you are the most musclebound moron I have ever met. Either will provoke our trainers into purging you before the day is out. Which zookeeper, sir, was fool enough to unbar your cage? You shan’t last an afternoon of training. You will anger every drill sergeant, they will fling your corpse into the furnaces, and you will deserve it. The Doc-orc smarmed at me, and his Glare deactivated. "You I would gladly feast on."

By now we’d just about reached our destination training grounds. It looked like twenty football fields in a four-by-five grid. The ubiquitous surrounding megaphone speaker towers screeched farewell instructions to a totally separate crowd of perhaps eighty thousand civilians. A rumbling row of big, big bulldozers encouraged the velocitous exeunt stage left of this Scum Crowd #1, make way make way for us Scum Crowd #2.

‘Bout friggin’ time. I was getting seriously bloody sick of Dr. Orc. He was yucking my yum. I got the impression most nearby civvies had originally been rooting for him too, but minutes of Doccish castigations had yucked their yums too.

Additional drill-sergeant tugboats were already screaming us twenty thousand into several adjacent fields. We could spy further hordes, Assemblages, whatever, piling onto the grounds from other corners. Bah. Time to toddle. Always nice to meet a fan, Doc, I winked at him. Save room for supper: I’ll post you a signed photograph and one of my roasted legs. Y’all take care now, y’hear? Cheerio! Before he could react I nipped away through our bystanders and away.

Finally some peace! Now. Let’s spy out some French Army training techniques. Can’t wait.

Ten minutes later, my head started spinning. Good lord.

Time for some context. Like most conventional Sexy armies, our Froggy mates across the ditch have historically fought simply by out-vimming their opponents. Out-muscling, out-handjobbing, out-orgasming. Good solid biology. In recent years they’ve augmented their tactics a tad with these new-fangled starbases, but holy crap I’ve indulged your narrative patience enough already, dear reader, so I won’t elaborate further here. In practice that means vast numbers and sparkling sexual health.

It was like nothing I’d ever trained for. Unlike the main British Army, we Sex Commandos are light raider-b0is: we don’t heft about oodles of kit like conventional soldiers. We