The Knights Of Raw Phwoar E-Book

Mikey Clarke

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Sexyverse
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 129

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

"Witty, inventive and imaginative writing. Also incredibly funny!" https://sarahjanebarnett.net/, editor and author

IN A WORLD where wars are fought with romance and flirting and delicious erotic TENSION, the enmities throbbing between History's Great Powers have become a BUTTLOAD more bubbly, with fewer hideous massacres of musket and cannon, and oodles more frisky cunnilingus contests.

The fourth French Empire threatens anew to blush the globe’s cheeks and quiver its hips and kersplode its gonads. France's funky new Imperatrix Brigitte Bardot, some kind of retired actress apparently, has somehow sculpted France into a terrifying tornado of wanton 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 crap lying down. A snazzy strike force stealths into Paris disguised as a particularly frumpy French nun convent, the notorious KNIGHTS OF RAW PHWOAR.

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

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

How?

Find out!

In Part Two!

The SOVIET SLUTS SUPERB: mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/2-soviet-sluts-superb

(But read this Part One first)

Leseprobe

Contents

All Books By This Author, Moi

Part One: The Knights of Raw Phwoar

Chapter One: The Funquisition

Chapter Two: The Stroppiest Frogs In Christendom

Chapter Three: Bends All Penis To Her Will

Chapter Four: Drill, Baby, Drill

Chapter Five: A Pantheon Of Popsy

Chapter Six: The Imperial Guard

Chapter Seven: The Indomitable, The Irresistible, The Inevitable

Outro

A final word

Notes

Guide

Contents

Start of Content

All Books By This Author, Moi

Might Earth’s free nations drown beneath terrifying tornadoes of French femme-foam? Like hell, shout Britain’s Royal Marines Sex Commandos. Let’s assassinate France’s Imperatrix Brigitte Bardot! Come on. What’s the worst that could happen?

Get it at mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/1-raw-phwoar!

Turns out out-flirting Imperatrix Bardot is like trying to wank off Mt. Blanc when it’s wanking you back. Plan B: skedaddle, regroup, out-flirt the entirety of France and get loads more practice, then it’s stealthy-sneaky Round Two or bust.

Get it at mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/2-soviet-sluts-superb!

Turns out flirting with every ladybro Rambo in France produces Rivals and Frenemies and Jilted Waifus galore. Smashing fun, but utter Kryptonite for Imperial kill-plans. Like, ever tried noshing off a world leader whilst a billion fanb0is fondle your buttocks? Desire to? Read on!

Get it at mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/3-cervical-supremacy!

The game’s up! The irresistible force of fanb0i-fondlemania has head butted the immovable object of a gazillion furious Paris cops. They too thirst for Sex Commando patoot. Crunch time. Either launch one ultimate rocket-strike against Bardot and France, or Earth’s free nations forever perish.

Get it at mikeyclarke.co.nz/apocalypse/4-praetorian-prostitutes!

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 ‘fourthprenup’?” 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 added. “What’s with you making yet another million edits to your letter?”

“Well no Brit strike force in the last decade had ever infiltrated and then escaped French soil,” I replied. “In the last week, we’ve witnessed a million wonders. I’d not even known where to start.”

On cue, much cheering and applause ebbed from the boulevard outside. Savage splats of rainbowed gunk spattered our ride’s windows, accompanied by flurries of flower petals and clatterings of coins. I think some might have been aimed at our tour bus in particular, but likely was intended for the vastly wider city-wide military parade brouhaha-ing around us. The more vibrant-shaded gunk started chemo-gnawing into the glass with much bubbling and smoking. Seemly fragrances of hyacinth and turps and bubblegum wafted forth. The ladies womanning Requisition back home had assured the rest of us that this bus model was designed to withstand precisely that, nice thick windows, since apparently urban faithful spaffing over their clerics’ ride is a Froggy tradition since time immemorial, so these pelvic alkaline airstrikes didn’t rattle us much. At least the old hands surrounding me weren’t rattled. I sure as hell wasn’t going to kick off rattling under their eye. “The Bible Belter Papacies are opening back up to the world,” I remarked, “and they’re as thirsty for European news as us.”

“Speak for yourself.” My colleague glanced through the luvverly wholesome acid clouds into the bright Parisian sun and thence yonder. “Oh good god. Please don’t tell me you’re describing to your hometown’s zombies those duelling hundred-male anal chains bracketing that Arc de Triomphe?” He brightened and cackled. “When you read your letter to ‘em, can I watch?”

“They’ve got to learn about anal chains eventually, right?” I retorted.

“L—learn? Mate. My ears still ache from the sounds you’d produced on your first proper morning with us.”

“Er. Those experiences all kind of blurred together, could you be more specific?”

“You know. Bridget showed you rookies how to fold a bowling ball in half using only the left side of her left areola.”

“That was months ago!” I exclaimed. “Learned tons since. Eternal student mode, that’s what Sergeant Stefan says.”

Mike shrugged, then nodded. “Yeah, wise,” he agreed. He stared up and down the bus. Seventy further Sex Commandos thronged it. The starboard half observed the exterior Froggy chaining with immense interest. Most too jotted notes. He nodded again. “Yeah. Wise indeed. All of it. I don’t mind telling you.” He craned his head this way and that to absorb more fully the city views. “Drink it in while we can.”

I couldn’t agree more. I gave up on my report and happily surrendered to the vistas. Holy shit. Was there nothing these mad Parisians didn’t do ginormous? They made Texians5 look like bonsai protons.

Turns out Paris has boulevards a hundred freakin’ metres wide. A hundred! Room aplenty for parades. Columns of stout soldiery could and did march fifty abreast with ease, crowds heaving each side, with room for four lanes of traffic each way. I leaned out the tour bus window far as I could, get maximum viewing from maximum angles, and immediately regretted it. Man. The crowds! The noise! My ears started ringing. Another genetic bio-upgrade autoinitialised and sealed my eardrums shut. The din diminished. Aahhh. That’s better. I returned my attentions to Parisian civics.

Geez. I’d originally attributed the boulevards’ constructions to their Imperatrix’s literally monumental ambitions, but no: colleagues soon bawled at me from deeper within the communal vehicle, between superb sweat-soaked salvos of chin-ups, dips, tactical flirting, thumbing through copious notes and intel, squats, deadlifts, edgings, the warming-up of jaws, forearms, tongues, hearts and throats for the desperate brawl ahead, that these thoroughfares predated her by over a century.

A century! Actually you know what, it really showed. Our intel notes denoted these bloody huge streets as ‘Haussmann Boulevards’, designed by a Froggy fella of that name. Gawrsh. Immense trees lined their centres: kauri and larch, sycamore and macrocarpa, pōhutukawa and eucalyptus, fertile prizes from the Metropole’s Empire beyond the seas.

What a sight! The parade and our tour bus were both a fair ways from Paris’s centralmost bits. Serious skyscraperings loomed heavenward. Most sported the slender steel-glass vibe of your classic soulless corporationny redoubts. A surprising chunk didn’t: morbid brutalist concrete. You could just tell their landladies had no intention of allowing either exterior observers intruding or interior denizens extruding. Man. Secrecy supreme. Their vibe wasn’t much like your standard prisons though. You site prisons in your realm’s out-of-the-way armpits, don’t you, you sure as hell wouldn’t pick your Empire’s shiniest flashiest downtown-iest bits. Didn’t add up. The morbid structures didn’t seem abandoned neither, instead throbbed with activity. Crowds and vehicles boiled in and out, same as the residential boulevard facades towering around us.

I shoved my head further from the tour bus window and drank in the views, attempting to and succeeding in flolloping my tongue like a spaniel, earning guffaws from neighbours.

And, shit, from quite a few paradegoers outside too. Best maintain my disguise, right?

“Shag, shag you heathens,” I therefore roared in my atrocious Louisiana French (long story) at the parade crowds. I brandished my disguise’s turgid crucifix. “Perform your oral duties! France commands you!”

The bayings deafened me anew.

“Thro’le u’ buck, ye’ bumpo’!” another colleague said, reclining on the bus seat opposite mine. The hell? I’m sure my brow went all squirly. Was that even English? The female Sex Commando emitted a boisterous laugh. “Ye’ll gi’ oos awaee!” Her neighbours joined in, Mike included. I pulled my head back in and latched the bus window firmly shut. “Er, sorry, Bridget,” I replied, wincing, “still having trouble with your accent, could you …?”

Another round of laughs. Bridget cackled. “My accent?” she countered. “Says the bloke gargling Dixie treacle 24/7!” With this riposte, though, she now enunciated each word more slowly and clearly. Her eye-twinkles redoubled. Half Bridget’s neighbours cracked up a third time; half semi-smirked yet applied unto her significant stink-eye. The latter seemed more foreign and presumably accent-y.

My jaw flopped open. “Oh come on! My accent isn’t that bad!”

“Only after weeks of nagging! You can take the good ole boy out of the Belt, but …”

I gave up and joined in the laughs. “Okay fair. But what did you actually say just now?”

“I said of your priestly Raw Phwoar routine: throttle it back, you bampot, you’ll give us away!”

I applied serious strokey-chin-scratchies to assist in pondering this, then nodded. “Gotta keep up appearances tho, eh?” I replied. “We’re a French Catholic convent, here to cheer on France’s finest!” I chuckled, stood, re-opened the window, screamed Frenchly “Last to spunk is a Brit,” latched it shut again, muffling not only marathon paradegoer shagging kicking off outside, but more importantly muffling me from them, allowing me to then safely declare, “We couldn’t possibly be Brit operatives.”

“Next you’ll be spouting ‘ooh la la