Ever gloried in flirting so magnificent it whisks your mind, heart, soul, and nethers into gooey bliss-puddles?

Ever craved pilgrimage to an entire Empire designed around little else? Yeah?

Be careful what you wish for!

The French Empire's groovy new seismoflirt hierarchy is resculpting civilisation. Radiant rookie tongue-twirlers slurp asunder their neighbours' 'nads, who in turn become sublimed into aural oblivion by oral athletes yet mightier, up and up to lustrous Imperial infinity.

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 you woozy and discard the husk.

It's Sex Commando heaven.

Yet Charlie gr0ks he's moonwalking across France far too friskily. Attention accretes. Heat throbs. 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.

The dazzling Alsatian wonder-grrl Yasmine "Sweetling" Gautreaux trounces the lot. She and Charlie have already spent SOVIET SLUTS SUPERB becoming entirely too chummy.

For if Yasmine might somehow dissolve and subsume this gorgeous foreign volcano, then no Prussian fortress could ever withstand her, no rival she could not break asunder.

Break even her revered Imperatrix? Can't a gal dream? Yasmine thus surely tightens her webs against Charlie, mapping, caressing, cloaking her smiling jaws of silken goddamn steel.

Fate worsens further. Charlie's captured Sex Commando mates are paraded around France. Their captors invite him to torture them for intel but mainly for the lolz.

And Paris's police have FOUND HIM.

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