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I woke with the acrid stench of semen burning in my nostrils and the gleaming barrel of a gun hovering in front of my eyes. The Smith and Wesson J-Frame Model 36, the 'Chief's Special', if I wasn't very much mistaken (which I rarely am). A horrible, stunted little inbred of a revolver if ever there was one. Certainly not the weapon worthy of being the instrument of my demise.

As soon as I saw the early morning sunrise gleaming against the muzzle, my brain kicked into full alert mode. A veritable ton of adrenaline was unleashed into my system, instantly rousing my muscles and readying me for the fight. But I restrained myself from leaping at my assailant, partially because I'd be lobotomised instantly if I did, and partially because said assailant looked rather ravishing despite his cruel intentions.

My assailant, a Raccoon by the name of Goethe, stood above me on the hotel bed, feet on either side of my hips, still totally in the buff from our exertions the night before. Obviously, I hadn't known that he'd been carrying a piece then, otherwise I wouldn't have taken him back to my hotel room. No, I would have probably just bent him over some dustbin in a back alley and buggered him there. Oh well, you live you learn. At least, I hoped I'd live through this to learn my lesson.

Even though he obviously intended to kill me, I nevertheless felt my exhausted shaft stir with excitement. The gleam of gunmetal contrasting with his dyed black fur, his nude boyish frame posed in the stock ready position, the contrast between the vulnerability of the naked form and the brutality of the firearm... it was beautiful, in a dark sort of way.

‘Can I at least have a cigarette before you shoot me?' I enquired.

‘Fuck you,' he spat back.

‘I'd rather not, thanks. Despite the simple biological difficulty of fucking myself, I'm actually still a little tired from fucking you.' To emphasise my point, I yawned. ‘I guess I should commend you for your skill. It's been a while since I've fallen for a honey pot. Who are you working for? The Russians, Koreans, Iranians... the French?'

For those not familiar with the lingo, permit me a moment to explain the ‘honey pot' concept. A honey pot is a female (or considering my fluctuating taste it can as easily be a male) who seduces an agent (that would be me in this case, but more on that later) and then either blackmails, kidnaps or kills them. I assumed I was down for the last treatment.

You see, I met Goethe at my favourite haunt the night before this near-fatal morning after, the Mephisto Club, and fell for him something awful. Tight leather leggings, fishnet top, spiked dog collar and more glow-sticks than even the most consummate raver would know what to do with. I simply had to have him. Now I was staring death in the face, and he only turned out to be an average fuck as well...

‘I'm not working for anyone except myself.'

‘Vengeance killing... I see...' While my face remained poker, I groaned inwardly. At least I could have tried to negotiate or reason with a fellow agent. ‘May I ask precisely who you intend to avenge?'

‘My father, who you murdered!'

‘That hardly narrows things down, my dear. Murder is something of my profession.'

Now seems like an appropriate moment to pause in the narration of my memoirs and explain just what the Dickens I do. I am an operational officer for Military Intelligence, Section Six. In layman's terms: a spy for MI6. I travel the world, protect Queen and Country from sundry insidious plans and usually score some exotic rump into the bargain. I must tell you, for a twenty-four year old, bisexual male with a force ten libido, it's the perfect job.

When you're not being threatened with death by a naked Raccoon grunge-goth trying to avenge his father, that is...

‘So you don't deny it, then?' He pulled the hammer back on his gun and my heart sped up a fraction. A sick feeling that I hadn't felt for years began to claw at the back of my throat, an acid tingle that threatened to ruin my composure.

‘Give me a name and I'll tell you.' I had to take a deep breath before speaking to make sure my voice stayed level.

‘Herman Duessel.' He said after a pause.

‘Duessel? You're going to kill me over that slimy bratwurst?' In hindsight, that might not have been the wisest thing to say. As if by instinct, Goethe's upper lip curled into a snarl and his paw tightened around the grip. But I didn't care: my hackles, if I'd had any, were up and if I couldn't physically tear him to shreds, I'd have to employ my skilled tongue instead. And not in the same way I'd employed it on him the night before.

‘Don't you dare call him that!'

‘Why? Did daddy never tell you why he spent so much of his time away on ‘business trips'? Did he never tell you where all that mysterious money came from? He was a traitor to his country, Goethe. He was selling information to Al-Qaeda! If I hadn't put a bullet in that overweight, sausage-loving, in more ways that one I might add, Germanic Judas, then half of Berlin would be a radioactive waste.'

‘Nein...' He breathed, reverting to his native tongue, and lowered his gun slightly. My gamble had paid off: the poor, deluded fool was in momentary shock and had lowered his guard. Despite the luxuriously heavy duvet I lay under, my leg jack-knifed upwards and collided with the delicate scrotum that I'd been so gentle to during our romping. It's playing dirty, I know... but in my line of work playing dirty is a prerequisite.

Goethe's facial features seemed to double in size, with his pupils expanding to swallow up his eyes and his mouth falling open in shock-delayed agony. The pain was almost visible, rippling up his back like an orgasm gone wrong, glutting itself on all the strength in his muscles. His legs were the first to give in: his knees, as if attached to magnets, slammed together as he fell back and to the side, sending him toppling off the bed and landing on the floor like a sack of potatoes. Before I even heard the dull thump I was up. The duvet was cast aside and my bronze frame was darting across the room to where the revolver had fallen. I dipped onto one knee, scooped up the gun and with a twist as I stood I levelled it at my would-be assassin.

The sight was pitiable. Goethe had curled into a foetal position on the floor, with his knees tucked up against his chest and his head buried between his legs. From within his ball I could hear the faint, staccato sound of sobbing.

‘Your name.' My voice was flat and expressionless.

‘Wh-what?' He managed to gasp between gulps of air.

‘There's no way your real name is Goethe. Herman was nowhere near cultured enough to name his son after Germany's greatest man of letters.'

‘Heinrich.'

‘Heinrich,' I nodded slowly, enunciating both syllables over and over as if his name would reveal some secret. The secret of life and death, indeed, for in the tip of my right index finger lay the power to kill this boy. In that moment, with the warm, sweaty rubber of the grip slipping in my hand and my heart coming down from its adrenaline-induced high, I felt like God. I held the ultimate authority of judging this boy's sins and crimes and punishing them accordingly. Such a sensation, though only lasting the briefest of instants, is more powerful and more intoxicating than any narcotic we mortals could ever hope to create. And it's why I love my job so very, very much. So many opportunities for my celestial high.

Heinrich looked up at me, the first glimmers of hope for survival blossoming in his eyes, and then I shot him.

The hammer cracked against the primer like a whip against flesh, a nimbus of smoke rose from the muzzle and, as if from nowhere, a small, perfectly round hole appeared between Heinrich's eyes. They rolled up behind his lids as he fell back onto his side, arms and legs stretched to form a backwards ‘K'. There was no exit wound from the poor quality bullet and I quickly plugged the hole with a few tissues from a packet the hotel had provided gratis on the bedside table.

Now, you're probably thinking that was a pretty dirty thing to do. Shooting a naked and defenceless young man is no one's definition of honourable, but try, if you can, to put yourself in my shoes (if I wore shoes, that is). You've just woken up to a gun in the face, your one-time stand is looking like he's going to be your last-time stand and if you don't take the chance to kill him now, he could come back in two more years and try again. You wouldn't take that risk, would you? Well neither did I.

So after shooting my ex-lover, I took a nice long, hot shower to wash the smell of sex from me and get my morning back on track. I stood under the showerhead, steam twisting around me, and watched the water trickle down my body. And what a fine body it is! Humanoid and quite muscular, but not garishly so. A swimmer's body, if you will: hairless (yes, even down there, you perverts) and streamlined, compact and well-defined. My skin hovered between golden and alabaster, perhaps one might call it a perpetual tan. I had often speculated, and still do as a matter of fact, about whether my dear mother, God rest her soul, was of Mediterranean stock. My burnished bronze skin and mocha nipples suggested that I had that sort of blood in me.

I stepped from the shower, with said glorious physique glistening wet and my hooves clipping sharply against the stone of the bathroom floor. You are surprised? Maybe you are, or maybe you're not, but either way I feel it is necessary to explain my genetics. After all, they are what make me so fiendishly exotic and unique.

I call myself a Demicorn, for I am the result of a Human egg fertilised by Unicorn sperm. A hybrid, you might say. My father, Viscount Desmond Shadhavar the First, was something of a randy bastard who took every available opportunity to whip out his ‘lower horn' and enjoy himself. My mother, Sabrine Taylor, was a maid on the family estate. If my father's wife, Viscountess Isabella Shadhavar, hadn't be having as many, if not more, affairs as he was, she might have been angry when Sabrine became pregnant with yours truly. As it was however, she and my father had already sired an heir and successor (my elder half-brother, Desmond the Second) and so she allowed my father to indulge in his fancies. That's the thing about my family: we are all so hopelessly addicted to sex.

Anyway, complications arose with the birth. After all, a Human uterus is not designed to cope with a horned baby. Sabrine passed away after I was born. To be brutally honest, I've never felt particularly sad about the whole thing: I never met my birth mother and Isabella came to treat me as a son of her own.

And so that is how I came to be the curiosity I am today. From my father I inherited hooves, a silvery tail and the ubiquitous horn, while from my mother I took my hairless, sleek body and piercing features. The only point where my Unicorn and Human D.N.A. do not mix perfectly is my ears, which stretch up and back past the top of my head like elongated spear tips. That, along with my somewhat feminine features, have combined to give me a rather elfin look.

But that's enough life story and biological composition for the moment. On with my day!

I dressed in front of the bathroom mirror, as is my habit. I am the first to admit that I am an incredibly vain person and worry continuously about my appearance. My hair, which starts a snowy white at my scalp and traverses through silver to a brooding steel gray, is usually easy to manage: being straight it requires very little coaxing and falls down just past my shoulders in a sort of cascade. So after a quick comb, I scooped up my tub of wax from the bathroom counter and applied a liberal coating to my horn. When I was satisfied with its gleam and had finished my other morning hygiene rituals, I turned to my wardrobe.

Since I was going into the office, I had to dress more conservatively than usual. A simple business suit, black with white pinstripes, white shirt and black tie was the outfit I finally picked out. All designer labels, of course, but still not as fun as some of the outfits I had.

When I returned to the main room of my hotel suite, Goethe was beginning to kick up quite a stink. With a heavy sigh, I fell down into a leather armchair and produced both a cigarette and my mobile phone. Dialling from memory, I held that precious first fag of the day between my lips as I fished out a match from within the inner pocket of my jacket.

‘Cleaning Department? Yes, yes it's Aaron.' Oh yes, I forgot to mention, my name is Aaron Shadhavar. Apologies for my rudeness. ‘I need some stains expunged. Address... uh, one moment...' I checked the packet of matches as I lit my cigarette. ‘One fifty Piccadilly. Yes, the Ritz Hotel. Room seven nineteen. Okay, thank you very much.'

Yes, I had just committed sodomy and murder in one of the most extravagant hotels in London. If your wondering, the Cleaning Department... well... they clean up after an ops officer. They hide bodies, bribe or threaten witnesses, destroy evidence and whatnot. They're very handy to have around.

I got up and crossed the room, stepping carefully over the corpse, checked my appearance and picked up my suitcase before heading for the door. As an afterthought, I tucked the revolver inside as well. The corridor outside was quiet, thankfully, so I guessed no one had heard my early morning problem. At least I wasn't leaving too big a mess for the Cleaners. I did, however, receive a dirty look from an old Cat on my elevator ride down, no doubt due to the fag hanging out the end of my mouth.

As I stepped out into the cold autumnal street and the porter at the door doffed his hat to me, the familiarly nondescript black sedan that the Cleaners used pulled up next to me. Two suited individuals stepped out and nodded to me in greeting.

‘Morning gents,' I responded with unprofessional joviality. ‘Fine day, isn't it?'

‘Yes sir,' the taller said, evidently taken aback by my bright approach to the murky world of espionage.

I dipped my head in goodbye and strode off down the street. After only a few steps the buildings opened out onto one of the few natural areas in the beating heart of London. Green Park, not particularly imaginative as far as names go. Still, there's nothing nicer than an early morning walk through the park. The soft calling of birds in the trees, the distant rumbling of cars and the rolling chants of protesters.

I dropped the cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it under my hoof as I watched the Human rights protesters outside Buckingham Palace. With a United Nations General Assembly meeting due to take place in a week to decide upon finally passing a bill of rights for the world's second-class citizens, Humans across the globe were rallying for once last chance to drive their message home. A few of the protesters, who were both Humans and Anthros, caught sight of me and sent a myriad of thumbs-up and cheers my way. In their eyes I was the son of the hero of Human rights, Viscount Shadhavar, the outspoken member of the House of Lords and the British representative to the General Assembly.

I gave them all a little wave as I hailed a taxicab. As much as my ego loves a stroke (almost as much as my penis does) I had work to be getting on with. I belatedly rifled through my suitcase to make sure I had all my necessary documents. The cab driver, totally ignorant of the sensitive information and priceless artefact I had sitting in my lap, engaged me in idle conversation about the usual politics, weather and, of course, football.

While passing the Houses of Parliament, the breast pocket of my jacket began to vibrate. For a sickening moment, I feared that one of my many sex aids had once again slipped into my apparel. But no, it was my phone. I breathed a sigh of relief, glad that I wouldn't have to walk around with a Canine dildo slapping against my chest all day. I checked the caller ID and saw it was my father.

‘Speak of the Devil. I was just inspecting the troops.'

‘Ah yes, my legions of freedom.'

‘Legions of freedom? Father, I do hate to burst your bubble, but you're not Scipio Africanus.'

‘Perhaps,' my father sighed in a dramatic fashion, ‘but I can dream.'

‘You're the idol of oppressed Humans across the world, you hardly need to dream much.'

‘Good point.' There was a momentary pause as he admitted defeat.

‘So to what do I owe the pleasure of this call?'

‘Well, I just wanted to remind you of the get-together tonight. It wouldn't be the same without you, and your mother is pining so.'

‘The party,' I cried, much to the shock of the driver, and slapped my head. ‘I'm sorry, I'd totally forgotten. I've got a lot on my plate at the moment.'

‘Of course you do. Britain's top lawyer must be in high demand.'

‘Indeed he is,' I said with an awkward chuckle. My father, of course, knew nothing of my true profession. To him I was one of the country's finest criminal prosecutors. There were times when my parents looked at me with such pride as I described my fictitious cases that I felt a momentary stab of guilt. Although deception was my job, my duty even, there was something profoundly wrong about deceiving the two most loving people in my world. It was one betrayal I could never fully forgive myself for.

‘But you'll be there?'

‘Of course I will. I wouldn't miss one of your parties for the world father.'

‘I bet you wouldn't,' my father replied, his voice thick with double meaning. He knew all too well what I got up to at his functions. Debauched rendezvous on the balcony were apparently a family tradition. Father always made sure that he had one bedroom set aside for the more depraved of his two sons, bless him. ‘I'll send a car for you, say one o'clock?'

‘Perfect. Send mother my love and kisses.'

‘I shall. Take care, Aaron.'

‘You too.' I snapped the phone shut and noticed that the we were crossing Vauxhall bridge. I asked the driver to pull over and stuffed a twenty into his paw, which earned me a heart-warming ‘God bless' as I stepped out. That seemed to balance out my act of murder on the Karmic scale.

I crossed the street and entered the building opposite MI6 headquarters. It would, after all, not be particularly secret of me, one of Britain's most infamous secret agents, to enter by the front door. No, I used the workman's entrance. In the basement of the building opposite was a door with a subtly disguised fingerprint scanner (if you think I'm telling you what its disguise is then you are exceptionally foolish) and behind the door was a long, barren corridor that led into the belly of the headquarters.

At the other end was yet another fingerprint scanner, along with a voice recognition microphone and keycode pad. One cannot be too careful when it comes to the government's darkest secrets, after all. The silence of the concrete corridor was suddenly broken by an explosion of noise as the metal door slid open. A hundred or so voices all clamouring for attention rose up from beneath me as I stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the Operations Room. A television screen the size of a football pitch, currently displaying the Pyramids of Giza, dominated the far wall and lined up before it were ranks of computers. It was from the operators of these computers that the noise was coming from. I raised an eyebrow, curious as to why the nerve centre of MI6 was so raucous so early.

‘Morning Aaron.' One of my fellow Officers, an agreeable Brown Bear by the name of Charlie, raised a paw in greeting as he ascended from the riotous floor below.

‘Morning Charlie. What's with the ruckus?'

‘The Evangelicals are bashing their Bibles again. ‘Libera Nos' is threatening to turn the last wonder of the world into a historic pile of rubble.'

‘Damn,' I shook my head in grudging respect. ‘And I thought I had a sense of flair.'

‘Well, that's your problem, Aaron. You don't think on biblical proportions.' We both chuckled and I made a mental note to get him back into bed sometime soon. It had been a while since I'd had Bear. ‘Can't stay to chat though,' Charlie continued, striding past me and delivering a hearty slap to my buttocks. ‘Things and people to do.'

‘Story of our lives,' I agreed with a wink. We parted ways, with Charlie heading off to the elevator while I continued across the balcony.

‘We're tracking movement in the western cemetery.'

‘S.A.S. team Juliet two seven seven inbound. Contact in five.'

I smiled as my overly large ears picked up slices of the crisis that was playing out below my feet. The thrill, even though it was only second hand, sent a shockwave down between my legs. I dearly wished I could have stayed to watch Britain's elite make mincemeat of a few religious extremists.

But I, like the S.A.S. team, had a job to do. Through another door, simple and wooden this time rather than metal, and I was transported into the study of some school headmaster. The walls were oak panelled and lined with bookcases, the chairs green leather and the floor covered in rich carpet. Behind a dark polished mahogany desk sat a creature just as lovely as her surroundings. A midnight black Pantheress, dressed in a sensible yet simultaneously provocative red suit that, if anything, only highlighted her hourglass figure. A thick tail swirled lazily behind her, the tip circling in a halo above her head. As I closed the door behind me with a soft click, her ears perked up and she spun in her chair to face me.

‘Aaron!' Her voice was thick and warm, like hot chocolate on a cold winter morning.

‘Good morning Samantha,' I chimed as I perched myself down on the edge of her desk. ‘How're things?'

‘Ugh, the usual,' her muzzle tugged down in a grimace. ‘All Hell's breaking loose. Joseph's on the phone with some Egyptian politicians, just to make sure it's okay that we spill blood on their foremost tourist attraction.'

‘I don't know how you people manage without me. I go away for a week and everything just falls apart.'

‘Speaking of which...' she placed one paw on my leg. I twisted around and looked down into her golden eyes. ‘How was India?'

‘Hot.' My lips exaggerated the word as I moved my head closer to hers, until we were an inch apart. Her breath was warm and ragged against my cheek. ‘And ridiculously overcrowded.' I suddenly jerked my head back up, severing the connection and grinning inwardly. Samantha Winchester, my boss' secretary, and I had been enjoying that so-called ‘office chemistry' since I'd joined four years ago. I liked to see our flirting as a form of exercise to keep my charm muscles fit. And she was so very, very easy to tease.

‘So what did you bring me back?' She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest.

‘Apart from my sweet self?' The look in her eyes told me I better come up with a good gift. I lifted up my briefcase and spun the padlock until the lid opened.

‘Oh, Aaron, you shouldn't have!' Her voice was filled with acidic sarcasm when she saw my recently acquired firearm. ‘I don't know how to tell you this, but guns aren't exactly the best way to get into a girl's good books.'

‘You've obviously never been to Texas. This is for someone else. Give me a minute.' I rifled through the various files and documents I'd amassed during my sojourn in India. Eventually my fingers wrapped around a rather dog-eared, faded green cardboard box. With a triumphant cry, I slammed the box down on the table and grinned at Samantha. Her look flickered between nonplussed and downright disappointed.

‘Uh... What's this?'

‘Darjeeling.'

‘No!' Her face fell in utter shock for a moment, before exploding into a smile. Like one of her feral ancestors, she pounced on the box of tea and practically tore the top off. A shiver ran up her spine and her nostrils flared as she inhaled deeply. That was another great thing about Samantha: she was so quintessentially British. On the several occasions I'd had breakfast at her Islington apartment, her cupboards had been full of crumpets and scones, and it seemed just then that she was about to have multiple orgasms over a box of tea leaves.

‘Hand picked at the Chamong estate. Straight from the plant to the box.'

My grin only spread at Samantha's reaction. Her hands balled into fists, claws out and digging into the wood. The swift rising and falling of her most delicious bosom as her breath tickled over my neck made me think that I'd either need to resuscitate her, or fetch her a change of underwear post haste.

And then the head of MI6 opened the door and walked in on me teasing his secretary to explosive climax. The bulky Wolf raised a grizzled eyebrow as Samantha let out a long, deep and very satisfied groan, sounding as if she'd just feasted on a particularly tasty Gazelle or some other unfortunate prey species.

‘Morning Joe,' I saluted nonchalantly, not even bother to get off the edge of the desk to properly greet ‘C'. Joseph Amaranth, Chief Executive of MI6, was one Hell of a Wolf: about as broad as he was tall (all muscle, I'll have you know), a dashing salt-and-pepper colour and with a muzzle I couldn't help but find oddly attractive. It was long and vaguely rectangular, pretty average to be honest. I think it was the pride it conveyed, and that hint of danger that the fangs behind it signified.

I know what you're thinking. I think it sometimes too. Why am I attracted to everyone within a twenty foot radius of me?

‘Good morning, Aaron.' His eyes hovered on me, balancing that mixture of exasperation and humour he always regarded me with. That was the long and short of my relationship with Joseph: he never approved of my shenanigans, but let them slide with a knowing grin. I think he'd once been like me, back in his heyday, and maybe I was staring into a mirror that showed my future. And I fancied the fuck out of him, in case you didn't realise already. Goes to show that you always want what you can't have. ‘Samantha, hold my calls.'

‘Yes, Mr. Amaranth,' Sam nodded and I gulped. If Joseph was going to have an ‘unplugged' conversation with me, it meant I was in for a tongue lashing of the very worst sort.

Joseph led me into his office and sat me down in front of his desk. As is my general custom when things are looking decidedly tits-up, I lit up the moment my rump hit the fine upholstery. ‘I really wish you wouldn't do that.' Joseph shook his head as he took his position on the other side of the table and tapped a few keys on his computer.

‘Well, I wish Hollywood would stop making films based on Marvel comics. Just goes to show you can't always get what you want.'

My boss groaned and turned back to look at the screen of his computer. ‘The Cleaning Department tells me you requested their services this morning.'

‘Yes, my toy-boy turned out to have a few features the packaging neglected to mention.'

‘Russian?'

‘That was my first guess. The Kremlin still aren't overly happy with the way I dealt with that wayward submarine a year ago, but little Goth boys aren't really their modus operandi... they prefer radioactive sushi.' Joseph shook his head.

‘And people think the Cold War is over.'

‘You didn't serve in the Cold War, sir. You're far too young.'

‘And you're far too kind, Aaron,' he replied with a hint of warning. Maybe I was at risk of stepping over the one line I could never cross without endangering my life and, worse still, my job. ‘So who was his puppet master?'

‘He was working for himself, no government ties whatsoever. Duessel's son, would you believe?'

‘No!'

‘If history has taught us one thing about the Germans, it's that they're nothing but determined to exact vengeance on perceived wrongs.'

‘Well, in future, could you please try and be a little more careful when it comes to your selection of one night stands? I'd hate to lose one of my best agents and have to tell your father.' Joseph pulled a face. He and dear papa Shadhavar were old Cambridge friends, you see. Obviously my father was as aware of Joseph's true profession as he was of mine and if anything were to happen to me it would fall to him to tell my father that I'd been murdered in cold blood on the orders of some crime boss I'd sent to prison. A simple reason: sterile, no questions needed.

‘I can't make any promises, boss, but I'll give it a shot.'

‘I guess that will have to do. Now, to business: I believe you have something for me.'

‘Indeed I do.' I picked up my briefcase from the floor and flipped the lid open. With a flourish, I dropped a nondescript brown manila envelope onto Joseph's desk and sat back, waiting for his reaction. Totally pokerfaced, he picked it up and tore the top off before tipping it to the side. A slight scraping noise followed something as it slid out into Joseph's awaiting palm, a very bright, very clear and very, very precious something: a diamond, perhaps the most valuable diamond in the world. The Koh-I-Noor, the crowning jewel in the... well... Crown Jewels.

‘It's beautiful, isn't it?' He breathed.

‘A bit too bling for my tastes, but I can see what the monarchy like about it. It's quite pretentious.'

‘Funny, I thought pretentiousness was right up your street.'

‘Many things go up my street, Joseph. Pretentiousness is not one of those things.'

‘Huh...' He made a neutral sort of noise in the back of his throat, eyes still fixed on the priceless diamond which he now held between his thumb and second finger. ‘Well, needless to say that you have her Majesty's boundless gratitude.'

‘Even though her Majesty will never have realised it was missing.' I reached across to Joseph's side of the desk and stubbed out my cigarette with as much ill-will and displeasure as it is possible to stub a cigarette out with. ‘My services are as trivial to her as the poor bastard who cleans her shitter. Can't blame her though, I suppose.' I sighed as I sensed myself slipping into one of my philosophical reveries. ‘We mortals are but shadows and dust, after all, but that thing,' I gestured to the diamond, ‘is immortal. That thing will outlast you, me, mountains, even this country. People will kill, have killed, for it. I should know, I'm now one of them.'

‘Provided this is the real thing, I'm inclined to agree with you. Get this down to Vanadium in the labs and have it checked out.'

‘Will do boss.' I took the diamond from him, rose and flipped him another salute before leaving. As I walked through the reception, I noticed with a grin that Samantha had already poured herself a cup of her new beloved tea and was kissing the rim with more passion than she'd ever kissed me. I've never felt so envious of a cup of tea before.

‘Thank you, Aaron,' she sang as I reached the other door.

‘My pleasure, but you owe me a drink when we have a chance.'

‘It's a date.'

As soon as the door was closed between us I leaned my back against it and sighed happily. With father's party that evening, the promise of another wild liaison with the ever irresistible Samantha and a priceless jewel in my breast pocket, things were looking up for me. A visit to my favourite scientist was the icing on the cake.

The Operations Room was considerably more peaceful now. The Pyramids were gone from the screen, which was now divided between various other emergencies that Britain felt she just had to involve herself in. The computer wizards downstairs had calmed down a few decibels too, which was nice for those of us with overly large ears. I could actually hear the sound of my hooves on the gantry as I headed for the elevator.

You'd think that in MI6's secret base the elevator would have something a little more sophisticated that easy listening music. Wagner, perhaps, or at least some power metal. But no, we get the exact same form of smooth jazz as any faceless skyscraper. Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.

When the elevator opened and I was released from its smooth world music clutches I found a deputation waiting for me. Vanadium and his other ‘elements' (in case you haven't guessed, all MI6 scientists are named from the periodic table) were gathered together in an expectant, almost reverent hush. No doubt Joseph had called ahead and warned them about my precious cargo.

Vanadium, a medium sized brown Rabbit with an overgrown tousle of thick, chestnut headfur, took a hesitant step forward and one of his large ears twitched in excitement.

‘Do you have it? Do you have it?'

‘Not only do I have it, Van,' I replied coolly, stepping past the excited scientist and patting him on the shoulder, ‘but I flaunt it at every available opportunity.' The crowd of other scientists parted for me like the Red Sea for Moses and I started down the long, narrow corridor that held some of the most outlandish, glorious methods of murder and deception on the face of the earth.

‘Aaron, Aaron!' Van hurried to catch up with me, his large feet smacking against the sterile floor and his white lab coat billowing behind him. ‘What about the diamond?'

‘Oh, that tawdry little thing? Here,' I dug one hand into my pocket and flipped it over to Van with all the carelessness I would have flipped a fifty pence piece. Probably not a wise thing to do when you're standing in the middle of the chemical weaponry section, but you've got to keep up that element of risk, right? Always be on your toes, et cetera.

‘Not funny,' Van panted, fumbling the catch before shoving it into the paws of another tech and rushing after me. ‘Get that checked out,' he called behind him, before drawing alongside me once again. ‘Do you ever stop?'

‘You stop, you die, Van. Rule one of espionage.'

‘I thought rule one was never get caught.'

‘No, that's a mistaken form of rule two, which is always get caught. Gives your enemies a false sense of security, you see. Now,' I came to a sudden halt and Van had to swerve to avoid me as I started to rummage around on one steel desk, ‘how's the cloaking device coming along, Otacon?'

‘Ota-who?'

‘Otacon. You know, Metal Gear Solid?' I looked up at the Rabbit, but he seemed not to know. ‘You really need to get out of your lab and play more video games, hunny bunny.'

‘Actually, speaking of my lab, I've got something to show you.'

‘Really?' My eyes brightened and I broke into a glimmering smile. Van's personal projects were always a treat for all the senses. He was, without a doubt, one of the most brilliant, and one of the most twisted, geniuses I'd ever come across. And to think he'd been raised as a Baptist! I met him on my first ‘mission' in Florida working as a technician for a large church and took him under my wing, so to speak. Turned him from a tight belted, narrow minded conservative to a creature almost as sex-mad and liberal as I was. You could say he was my project, and so he was constantly repaying me by letting me test drive his own gadgets and gizmos.

Van's office was not nearly as glorious as Joseph's, what with it being locked in a perpetual blizzard of paperwork and bought on the lowest of budgets. As soon as he'd shut, and locked, the door behind him and closed the curtains that looked out onto the R&D facility, he winked at me and moved behind his desk to fumble at a drawer. After a few moments and a strained grunt, Van hefted a large silver briefcase onto his desk and tapped at the keypad lock. With a click and a hiss, steam rose from the locks as the briefcase opened automatically.

‘Nice entrance at least.' I murmured, crossing my hands over my chest.

‘I knew you'd like that. Actually, you were my inspiration for this little beauty.'

‘I was?'

‘Indeed. This thing was designed for you especially, although it's not complete yet.' He dipped his hands into the briefcase and produced what was, by far and away, the largest revolver I have ever seen in my life. The barrel was at least as long as my arm, nearly as thick, with a black gel handle and a gleaming silver finish.

‘Wow. I'm actually lost for words.'

‘Well, ain't that a first? This, my dear Aaron, is the Hand Howitzer.'

‘Hand Howitzer? I'm a little rusty on my artillery, Van, but I thought a howitzer was mounted on a tank chassis.'

‘It is. Hand Howitzer is just a codename. Besides, the Israelis and Americans are developing Hand Cannons, and you know I hate to be outdone.'

‘So I see,' I breathed, reaching out and taking the obscene weapon, my fingers curling around the handle as the gel shaped to fit my grip. ‘Now, as my trusted technician, tell me this. Won't the recoil from this beauty break my shoulder? I hate to rain on your parade, but I do quite like my shoulders. They're the only part of my body that's even vaguely masculine.'

‘I factored that small problem in. There are shock absorbers placed in key points around the weapon. They also act as a counterbalance so you can actually shoot the thing straight.'

‘And the ordnance?'

‘That's classified even to you, I'm afraid. Let's just say that it's explosive and can pierce even the armour of a battleship.'

‘When am I ever going to shoot at a battleship?'

‘A simple thanks is okay, you know. And maybe you'll be needing to shoot your way out. At least it's a boasting point.'

‘True, and the entire thing does allow for humorous phallic jokes as well.'

‘Well, I know how much you like big guns,' Van replied with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows and a sly cock of the head.

‘Dear Van, something about me enjoying a decent bang would have been far more fitting,' I shot back before moving forward, raising my free hand to grip his lower jaw and dragging his face forward into a lip-crushing kiss. There wasn't even a shocked jolt from my companion, instead he melted into my arms and with the merest shrug of his shoulders let his lab coat fall to the ground in a flurry of snowy white.

The hand on his jaw moved around to hold tight to the back of his neck while the other hand, still gripping the Howitzer, raised it up before jamming the long barrel down into the Rabbit's trousers. Now he jolted as he felt the cold metal burning between his cheeks and unprotected tailhole. With a firm tug forwards I dragged his hips against mine and ground them together, letting the poor fellow know, as if he'd been in any doubt, just what I had planned for him. My lower horn was already broom handling quite nicely in my trousers, snuggling warmly against my crotch and pulsing with the beat of my heart. Morse code was a little past my time, but I was sure it was tapping out ‘get on with it'.

Most women accuse us men of only thinking with our penises. Or is that peni? Ah... the eternal question... And I'm digressing, sorry. The fact of the matter is that promiscuity is a totally natural thing. Without it, the species would just stutter to a halt, right? Not that I'm trying to justify myself or anything, but I just thought you might want to know my position, so to speak.

I removed the heavy weaponry from Van's trousers and slid it away across the desk. With both hands free, I took two fistfuls of his shirt, pushed him back against the desk and pulled outwards, grinning to myself at the cheap quality of his top. Not even a single button was torn off! How unromantic...

But, being a resourceful creature, I simply decided to make my own romance. My lips moved from Van's own to his neck, grazing their way down his sensitive flesh with smooth, blunt teeth. The Rabbit mewed softly when I reached his collarbone and bit down hard, sending a mixed message of pleasure tinged with pain to the poor boy's brain and making his chest heave all the harder. I nudged his shirt down until it hung to his body just around his wrists, then moved back for a moment to admire my handiwork.

If I were an artist, I would have called it ‘Study in Dishevelled Lust'. With his shirt all but gone and lying crumpled on his desk, headfur in disarray, cheeks burning furiously and chest heaving, he looked like he was suffering from a fever. Maybe I was becoming infectious.

Our eyes met and I could see the lightening in mine reflected in his hazel orbs. An electric spark jumped between us and seemingly instantaneously I was pressed against him once more, chewing on his lower face in a moan filled, enraged passion fuelled duel of tongues. I fumbled with his belt (the male equivalent of the bra strap, in my opinion) and left gravity to do its job. His tacky beige slacks spilled around his ankles and large, bare footpaws.

‘Aaron... I-'

‘Quiet,' I hushed him with a third kiss. ‘We don't want anyone interrupting us. Again.'

‘No,' he shook his head in a tousle of auburn headfur and grimaced. ‘We do not.' His grimace suddenly turned into an impish smirk and a moment later I felt a pressure against my loins. Van's paws, so deft at the intricacies of mechanics and chemistry, were equally dextrous at the nuances of undressing. There was the familiar, wasp-like droning of my fly being undone, a rustling as he shifted my underwear aside and then my shaft was breathing the cool, conditioned air of Van's office. His digits tickled their way around my bell-end as he lapped his way up one of my elongated ears. ‘Wouldn't want to ruin your outfit, would I?'

‘How well you know me.' I beamed, but it quickly faltered as Van hitched his legs up and pulled me cock-first towards his tailhole. ‘I haven't gotten any smaller,' I warned, worried that my length would be a little too much for the unlubed Rabbit. That, for once, is not arrogance talking. Remember, my DNA is pseudo-equinous.

‘I'm a big boy, I can handle it,' he smiled bravely and I felt my black heart melt just a little bit. I eased my hips forward, resting the broad head against his entrance and steadily pushing harder and harder. He tried to keep said brave face, but I noticed the telltale signs that he was in growing discomfort: narrowed pupils, bottom lip trapped between his teeth and that straining sound in the back of his throat.

With one last shove, the ring of muscles gave and opened wide to receive me. As the first few inches popped in and his soft walls gripped every square millimetre, I swept down and stifled Van's cry, actually feeling it reverberate through my jaw. With a slow certainty, like the tide rolling through the rocky maze of a pebbled shore, the rest of my member ground into his depths. Although his tunnel accepted me as a lover, there was a definite friction which, while most enjoyable to me, looked to be less enjoyable to Van. When my bald crotch was being tickled by his furred rump, he twitched with jolts of mixed ecstasy and agony, each jolt rippling through his tailhole and squeezing me tighter than most would think possible.

I held myself there for uncounted minutes, letting my lover get adjusted once again while I cradled his back in my forearms. His head lolled back in a cascade of chocolate and, what with the heaving chest, he looked like a siren out of the old black and white silent movies. Despite his obvious pain and discomfort, I couldn't help but smile fondly as I watched his nipples, little pink islands in a sea of fur, harden to the firmness of small rocks. I leaned down and grazed the very edge of my front teeth over one before taking it in my jaw and chewing like one of my Equine ancestors. If there's one thing Horses, and thus us Unicorns, are good at, it's chewing. And shagging, of course.

‘Pervert,' he chuckled between breaths.

‘They're irresistible... and just asking for it.' I smirked around the nub and gave it a parting kiss. ‘And besides, it took your mind off down there.'

‘It's gonna take a little more than chewing to take my mind off that brute you call a cock.' Oh, in case you're wondering, I hover between eleven or so inches by two and a bit. Told you I wasn't being arrogant. And you ought to see my half brother!

‘I'll take that as a compliment.' I slowly started to pull my hips back and down until only the very tip remained inside, just keeping his sphincter stretched. I could see the feeling of emptiness on his face, that longing vacuum inside his rear that was now begging him to get it filled. ‘How d'you like that brute now?'

‘You teasing bastard.'

‘Oh, come on, you know you love it.'

‘You've got me there.' He clasped his hands behind my neck and pulled me down so our foreheads touched. ‘Hell, you've got me, simple as that. Wherever.' He kissed me. ‘Whenever.' Another kiss. ‘However.' And another.

‘Van,' I murmured, pecking him on his nosepad. Then I heaved myself forward and watched as his face erupted in raw, unbridled pleasure. I'd seen that expression once already today when I kicked Goethe in the nadgers. Same large eyes, same agape mouth... the only real difference this was in mind-blowing pleasure, not in gut-wrenching suffering. See, I don't go in for the choice between being a lover or a fighter. Actually, I quite enjoy being both. ‘I may have destroyed your faith in God, but I can still make you cry out to him.'

‘Uuh...' Van's head was tossed back and his limbs loose, making him look like a puppet with its strings cut. I dragged myself out again, relishing his undulating inner walls as they lapped against my shaft. I could only bear to pull halfway out before I thrust forward, nestling my groin in the cradle formed by his rump and spread legs.

You cannot feel time pass underground. Everything is held in a most unpleasant sort of stasis that leaves you jet lagged when you re-emerge into the outside world. I didn't know how long I pounded away as I only had two equally unreliable ways to measure the passage of time: the ache in my back and the pressure at the base of my cock. While the latter was, I doubt I need to say, most enjoyable, it was marred by the former. I have always been a member of the ‘sex isn't supposed to be comfortable' school of thought, but there's a point where even I know I'm just being a obstinate bugger. Literally.

I pulled myself out for the briefest moment, crossing my arms and gripping Van's legs so that when I uncrossed them he spun onto his stomach. Being one of my regulars, Van realised what was coming, gave a shuddering gasp and reached forward to grip the far end of the table as I quickly positioned him so that he was bent over the near end. I'm not sure whether it's fair to say I have mild schizophrenia or not, but I've found during sex that I do have a tendency to go somewhat off the rails. Perhaps it's the Equine side of me, but just then, as I looked down at Van's rump arched slightly up into the air, I felt the bestial side of me take over. I snatched him up by the hips and thrust myself forward, driving in with the sort of force a boxer couldn't get from his fists. If you've ever seen footage of a stallion going at his mare, it's exactly like that. Only much, much faster.

I ravished him. It's the only suitable word I can think of. With my strong hands gripping his sides with bruising force, I worked his ass over mercilessly. My groin slapped against his ass, sending ripples across its cute, bubbly form. My sac swung forward at the apex of each thrust and collided with his, causing him to let out a soft cry every time it happened. My shaft spurted pre on an almost obscene scale, filling his rump with the slick fluid and helping me drive in deeper, harder and faster.

But it wasn't enough. The raging sex monster inside me demanded more and I, its loyal vessel, was happy to obliged. Bending forward, matching the curve of my body with his, I ran my tongue up his spine, feeling him shiver as I did so, and up the back of his head and ear until I bit down firmly on the tip. Like the earlobes of Humans, this sent ripples through Van's body that caused his tailhole to suckle around my shaft. In this new position I was already as deep as I could get, so all my considerable power was forced on speed and strength. My hips, I would imagine, were a blur as I did my pneumatic drill impersonation (always a popular one at the parties). Vanadium had abandoned all pretences of subtlety and was groaning his lungs out as my rapidly swelling cocktip kneaded over his sweet spot. He could tell I was close: like a Horse's flare, my cocktip grew when I was about to empty, thickening from its already generous proportions to about the width and length of four fingers. It is, I've been told, remarkably like having a Canine knot you. I take it as a compliment.

While I stretch the poor bunny's depths to their physical limits, I felt my sac hitching up between my legs and that gloriously familiar force building in the underside of my member. It is, I imagine, the same feeling a fully loaded pump-action shotgun feels. And it leads to equally messy results.

My hands, so well trained to crush the life out of a man, were currently trying to do the same to Van's hips. Amidst the cacophony of the slapping and moaning, there was a low, baritone underscore which, I realised, came from somewhere at the bottom of my throat. Rumbling, like a deeper sort of whinny crossed with your common or garden groan. Van's moaning picked up a couple of decibels: he knew that my special groan is to sex what the seven trumpeting angels are to Revelations. Bad news.

The staccato groan smeared together into a brutal grunt as, with one final thrust, I released myself into Van. Beneath me, my darling bun's spine arched in a most delicious way, no doubt from the unbridled pleasure of feeling yours truly's thick, white hot seed being pumped into his depths. I practically crushed the boy beneath me, my shaft pulsing and jerking in his rippling tunnel.

As if it hadn't just banged a bunny legless, my shaft quickly deflated, sliding out of Van's well-used rump on a trickle of cum. I staggered back, leaning against one of the scientist's many stacks of paper as I stuffed my satisfied shaft back into my trousers and zipped them up. Van too struggled his boxers up his legs and clamped his tailhole tight shut to minimise leakage, then he turned and perched himself on the edge of his desk to survey me.

‘Well?' He asked, raising his eyebrow. I raised my in response.

‘Well what?'

‘Isn't this where you say some witticism and disappear out the window?'

‘Do you have a window down here?' He shook his head. ‘Eh... Guess I'll have to settle with the door then. How conservative...' I clicked my neck, circled my shoulders and then headed for the door. Van was turning to bend down and clean his own cum off the desk, so I took the opportunity to give his arse a farewell spank.

‘Aaron.'

‘Yeah, hunny bunny?'

‘Your fly's down.'

I checked and it was. With my mouth open and a half formed ‘thank you' sitting on my tongue, I looked back up at Vanadium. His floppy hair was in disarray and his cute little face was squished into an expression of serious concentration as he tried to remove a particularly large globule of semen before it stained his desk. My stillborn thanks turned into a fond smile. There was no need for after-sex pillow talk or murmured sweet nothings; that would have just ruined the perfectness of the moment. Some say that a relationship based almost entirely on the sex is hollow and false. I say those people are idiots. A relationship based almost entirely on the sex is one of complete trust and understand. There's no need for all that romantic nonsense, like dinner and dating, to shore up the relationship.

But I digress once again.

So after a fairly average morning of murder and sodomy, I headed back to the hotel for a spot of afternoon tea before father's driver turned up. As I walked back to my permanent temporary accommodation, I couldn't help thinking that this was, as they say, the life.

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I promise there will be more sex in the next instalment! Please rate and review, favourite or flame.