PALPABLE FERVOR: THE PLIABLE GAMBOLS OF VICTORIA GRIMM AND HER SERGEANT
By Quillon42
Despite the fact that she had been close to the end of her arduous and quite artificial outing, ever so sprightly had remained the pace for the soldieress who was synthetic in the skin yet all natural in terms of her own endemic endowments. For her own ever so ardent singular campaign of ever so cherished amorousness, Victoria Grimm could endure an endless amount of the variegated (if generic) world interpolations into which she had been placed by her azure arch nemesis by the name of Brigitte Bleu. Another arrow in the quiver and the emerald efrit wondered if she would have the opportunity to aim the same at that sapphire siren who sent her all along these wayward human-designed dimensions for the sake of assuming so much dominance over lands that toys could only cherish as trophy triumphs.
Striving tirelessly after the stalwart swain so tagged as Sergeant Hawk, the archer of artichoke tresses followed with energy in her steps and the most jiving of jouissance in her jumps. To be certain, Vikki's burly beau was really the greenest hunk upon any military mooring since the incredibly hoary Hulk himself, and more than aught this daughter of a colonel so sage in skin and brain was resolved to exhibit her progenitor's courage and canniness in proving herself worthy of the Sarge. Yea, since this avocado adventuress's mother had inserted a toy trooper into her most intimate of orifices and this heroine of harlequin hairs and fallow flesh emerged in turn, Vikki became ever so determined.
Matching this kind of drive had been the blizzard-breasted bombshell Brigitte Bleu. Whereas Victoria would become vaunted in covering stories about varied sorties, the indigo interloper expended her own energies to engineer eugenics such that more homo-sapien-seeming soldiers could be generated courtesy of chromosomes such as her own. She never viewed this as racially incorrect, given that for instance she had known of and befriended tons of tan-toned sistas within the platoon of Plastro.
Moreover, in a public health sort of sense for these animated amusements which were actually living breathing dogs of war, Bleu's chemistry-catalyzing crusade in creating a serum against the petrifying fate known as plastrification, in which an invented infantryman too long exposed to the atmosphere of the "real world" would go from active to inanimate, rightly warranted the receipt of an effing Nobel Prize for she who was otherwise a vicious villainess (or at the very least made this brazen lady of the bluest bobs more deserving of the same than Barack Obama, who automatically "earned" the Peace flavor of the honor for the act of basically fucking taking office).
Regardless, despite her scientific advances for the sake of army-man-ity, this lamia of lazuli locks was nonetheless branded a "Fleshcist," veritably a fascist of the flesh as against allegedly tougher stuff of which so many of these contumacious commandos were composed (although a magnifying glass in the presence of sunlight would make all play rangers so reconsider their rationale). Mentalities such as these had kept the shrewd sister in the camp of the tan for all time.
Eventually, though, the lime maiden who was advancing in opposition would overtake the bawdy badass Brigitte, and the latter would share a bunk not with that Sarge for whom she salivated, but rather the beige brigadier whom she so despised. One could almost pity the pouty cobalt countess upon her dismal realization that she would spend the ostensible remainder of her days with such a seedy and feculent sort of cellmate.
Turning back to the victory enjoyed by the doughty and dowdy diversions so decked in viridian, it became incumbent upon the Sergeant to celebrate with his viviacious V. Grimm once she had seen off the other two men in her life. These of course had included her leonine compatriot of the stimulating name Leo (with whom Vikki had developed a bond that seemed almost to border on bestiality), as well as her Colonel of a father whom the wily waif had pledged allegiance for all time, thus solidifying her relation with family and setting back the rally of feminism for another decade or so to come (at least until the completely empowering and female-redeeming film Cuties would be so released in 2020).
Though she had been clad in her sheeny space-age spandex and bedecked in her bedeviling bubonic-bane medieval tunic, it was the ivory threads of her prehistoric panties waving in the wind that had commanded the attention of the Sarge this moment, while the two would now skirmish so passionately in their cozy counterfeit barracks. Forsooth, the doll of dollar-colored follicles now so flew those same slinky undies as a flag of surrender to the reign of the manmade militant ready to take up arms to so embrace her figure of most evocative action. Ready and aiming at present was the girlish Grimm to become fired upon by the explosive shaft now shivering so solidly within the querulous quiver of her most assertive adjutant.
Suchly did the steadfast Sergeant take that tumulus of torridity, did he conquer that casern of calidity that was Victoria Grimm's virtue in fact. For sure the Sarge did strike upon an area most vulnerable upon the verdant vixen's Venus mound in a way that the same celery-coiffed cadet never had unto any man, nay not even unto the tan sentry who hounded her for intelligence during the initial assignment of her lover's Heroes in the fifth gaming generation regarding the first Playstation. (This author canonically, emphatically wishes to clear up that the jade lady, during the cutscene in question, had booted the tawny enemy troop in the shins and nowhere north of same.)
Presently the patron of prowess most martial (if adolescently ersatz) would batten down upon his broccoli-bobbed babe with the Basic Arrows of his arduous digits, this Sarge of strength and stealth stealing across the ecru expanse of his parsley-pelted paramour's back with intensity in each index and tenacity in each thumb. He then unleashed the Piercing Bolts of his teeth unto the magnificence of his mantis-maned mistress's evocatively manufactured ass, said pearly choppers coming into purchase onto such a fabulous if factitious surface. Eventually after much now in the way of exhibitionistic preparation, the courageous Hawk would home in on his beautiful femme's bunker with his most devastating of Explosive Projectiles for the jauntiest of justice and jouissance.
Deploying all the manly munitions he maintained in his erotic arsenal indeed, the huffy Hawk would render this Runner of Portals radiantly retired and portly with progeny in no time. (And this author does posit, by the way, that the title of said odyssey was in fact rather uninspired, and that perhaps the triple entendre of Point Woman would have made more sense (given that points do not just keep score in the game but also substantiate later life-ups, and operatives who go out first into the bush are considered to be "taking point," and also arrows have points and nevermind).
Sincerely, though, did the Sarge invest in the vision of a gainful future with Victoria Grimm, especially considering that he had a feeling his Toy-Story-takeoff franchise would not last much longer than the errant administration of dumbo Dubya Bush. Resting his rugged, forest-hued features against the spurious smoothness of his kale-craniumed lover's beryl-tinged belly, the commanding officer contemplated his partner's lovely navel as well as what the years to come of happily-ever-after and playtime obsolescence would bring.