Okay so I updated not six hours ago, but I'm just updating as The World Is Not Enough comes on ITV4. So I'm there watching James Bond, and I think, ichigo as a secret agent. Then I'm like, babe, you didn't become a ridiculously fucking extra feminist for that kinda gender conformity like kubo tite. And ya know, I was right. Good going, me.


"You're a secret agent?!"

"Would you keep it down, for god's sake," she hissed back at me.

This was not how I saw my weekend panning out.

So I'd finally broken up with my fiancée. She was beautiful, but had no personality and, frankly, what personality she had had become centred solely around me. There was a distinct sense of bunny boiler around her. But I did it. I knocked back two giant glasses of scotch, broke up with her, went into work the next day, and then went out to drink some more to forget about Orihime.

And there I was, a bit tipsy, stood by the bar in some club, watching Chad kiss some girl in the corner, watching Grimmjow grind against some girl on the dance floor, and watching Renji try to chat up four girls in a group at once, when she came up to me, took the grey goose on ice out of my hand, and downed it.

She was the hottest girl I'd ever seen in my life. The first popstar I got a hard on over, the first pornstar I got myself off to, the first girlfriend two years older than me who took my virginity, pretty much any woman I'd ever seen, she made all of them look inferior.

She had these purple eyes, and these big waves in her long, black hair, and this dark violet sequinned dress with a deep v and skinny straps that came to right below her ass. Her legs were curvaceous but petite, her waist was tiny with flared hips, her breasts were small but perfectly perky, and her neck slender. She looked like a barbie. Seriously. Nobody looks like that in real life.

I want to see her black stilettos wrapped around my neck while I had my tongue in her pussy, but I knew, even as she took my drink out my hand, there was no way she would go for me.

She had other plans.

She had smiled at me, this cheeky smile that was the kind a girl usually gave you right before she put your dick in her mouth because she knew you were at her mercy. Then she'd ordered another drink without taking her eyes off me, and leaned over the bar, letting me take in her backless dress, so low that if I leaned just a little I could see the top of the crack of her ass.

I didn't realise at the time that I was bait, or whatever. That I was being used to throw people off her scent. That to her, I was just a dick she could use for the evening. I just thought she was ridiculously hot and I wanted to get as far into her pants as I could.

I now know that, as I was wondering whether she was the type to let me put it in her ass (because she really was just that hot), she was actually more focused on the members of an oil tycoon's terrorist cell who were positioned by the door, looking for a woman in a white suit and tight bun they were following, and that she'd stolen the dress from a drunk girl getting it given to her doggie style in the alley outside by her boyfriend, and had just shaken her hair out of the bun in the toilets.

Anyway, what this all accumulated in was me taking her back to my apartment and fucking her for a solid five hours (and yes, she was the type to let a stranger put it in her ass), and her being going by 6am when I woke up dehydrated and a vibrating bed - her iPhone was under my pillow.

Apparently this isn't a regular thing. Secret agents don't usually forget phones with world-saving information saved on them. When I eventually handed it back to her, she went incredibly red and stuttering, so I gathered she was as into me as I was into her.

But anyway, her phone was ringing, and I answered it, and it was her secret agent boss, but I didn't know it was her secret agent boss, and there was an incredibly awkward pause before he put me on hold for a few minutes, and then asked me to go to some docks on the edge of the city.

So I'm at these docks, right, and then I hear a gun shot, and then the Super Hot Chick With The Purple Eyes And Tight Pussy Who Let Me Fuck Her In The Ass (the name Renji gave her when he called to ask where the hell I'd gone last night while I drove to the docks), wearing an all black catsuit and holding some handgun that looks like it's on steroids yells my name, and drags me behind some metal containers by the scruff of the neck of my sweatshirt.

It's like, 6:30am at this point and I haven't had any coffee. The plan had been to find Super Hot Chick, take her to breakfast, and then convince her to let me fuck her again, and then make her hold off on cumming until she agreed to marry me.

Instead I'm in the middle of a fucking shoot out. Instead of having my brains screwed out, they're going to be blown out.

A gunshot ricochets off the top of the metal container above us.

"Who the fuck are you?!" I ask, and she replies that she's a secret agent.

It's not what I'd have guessed she did. Maybe a yoga instructor. Maybe a sex instructor. Maybe a super high class prostitute. Maybe one of those incredibly high-brow office jobs where she dresses in sharp suits and orders people around and makes million dollar deals by letting men blow their loads on her incredibly perfect ass.

Nope. She makes men her bitches.

That's what they should call female secret agents. Male-bitch-makers. I watched her run out from behind our cover and wrestle a man twice my weight to the ground and shoot him dead through the chest before scrounging back next to me.

"Do you know how to fire a gun?" She asks, cocking a perfect eyebrow at me.

"No," my voice cracks, "I'm a real estate agent."

I'm a good real estate agent, by the way, mansions and million dollar sea-front flats. But she frowns at me and parts her plump lips in confusion and I recognise now isn't the time to rattle off my portfolio.

A guy yells in Russian in the distance, and she shakes it off.

"Would you like to learn, or would you like to die?"

To be perfectly honest, I am not pro-guns. I think guns are bad. It goes against my moral compass.

But you have to understand how hot she was.

So I take the gun she hands me, and she quickly teaches me how to shoot, but I'm thinking more about how her hands had looked wrapped around my dick last night, so I'm not sure how much I took in. I was so completely useless that it was comical.

Anyway, she explains her strategy, and I end up running across these deserted, disgusting docks while there's a gun fight going on between her and about fifteen other guys, and she's about to catch up to me on my left when I see a guy with a shot gun about to actually fucking kill her.

Nobody's gonna kill Super Hot Chick on my watch. I've fucking claimed her. There's a bit of my cum stuck in the side of her hair she hadn't noticed in the must-have-been ten minutes she had get dressed and leave my place this morning.

So I kill a guy. With my gun. Straight through his head.

She stops, stock still, in the middle of the boardwalk, and turns to me slowly.

"... you just killed a billionaire oil tycoon."

"... sorry?"

Her face is blank and her lips have parted again which makes me think of when she was sucking on my dick. She's looking at me like I'm certifiably insane. I figure I should roll with it.

So I blurt out, "do you wanna go for coffee with me?"

There's literally a dead guy in an incredibly expensive looking navy suit with his brains splattered across the wooden planks between us and I've asked her for coffee. It's not an appropriate reaction.

Neither is her's.

"Okay," she says, shrugging. She steps up to the dead guy, riffles through his pockets until she produces a USB stick, which she pockets. I walk her back to my car, give her a spare gym hoodie on the backseat, and she stashes her gun in my glove compartment.

We go to Starbucks. I give her her phone, and she quietly explains that it's not good form for secret agents to leave their phones in the beds of their one night stands. I try to come out with a suave line about how it's a good thing I'm not a one night stand, but I'm so nervous because she's really fucking hot that I call it a 'one stand night' and she bursts out laughing in my face.

I ask her if she wants to go back to my apartment, and she smiles and says no.

"I don't sleep with a guy after a first coffee date."

"You slept with me after I met you in a bar."

"That was for work. You have to try to get to know me without imagining me doing something depraved to your genitalia before I actually make an effort when I'm fucking you."

My jaw drops a little, but I recover. "You weren't making an effort?"

She smirks, "not at all."

I take a deep swig of my black coffee before looking up at her. And then I ask her about herself. She went to university, she's an artist, she can sing and play eight instruments, she knows fourteen languages, she dances, she has an incredible shot, she's a black belt, she can quote Nietzsche. When she smiles, a true, true smile when I (only half jokingly) tell her I might be in love with her, she is far more beautiful than she is hot, and is better than me in every single way, but she's still sat with me. Her phone has been ringing silently nonstop, but she turned it face down and she's still talking to me.

A little later, she's riding me like a horse, putting in effort that makes me want to cum five seconds in, when I realise the most important thing I didn't ask the secret agent who put her rabbit-emblazoned gun under my pillow.

She flicks her sex-hair over her shoulder like a popstar, and winks and smiles at me from where I'm gasping for breath and control beneath her.

"Kuchiki. Rukia Kuchiki."