The Sexyverse Series

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)

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)