Bonding, James Bonding.

Bond slipped the key into his trouser pocket, fiddling with a cufflink as he pushed the door inward with his elbow. Off to the right there was the slightest movement, perhaps a shadow that didn't seem right. As he pitched forward, the deafening report discharged behind his right ear and a silver flash illuminated the room. Three new blasts shot kapok fountains from the white leather sofa as Bond rolled over it and onto the floor.

The Brazilian agent Deray leapfrogged the moroccan footstool and put a knee down for balance. As he raised his arms to take a bead, a star-shaped glass ashtray the size of a hubcap hit him across the chin and ricocheted onto a wall. The shot went wild, ending up somewhere in the kitchen wall. In an instant Bond was upon him, disarming the counter-agent and snapping the bones in his right wrist in a single movement.

Deray pivoted, trapping Bond's head between his knees and flipping him onto his back against the parquet. The automatic skidded over an oriental rug and came to rest under a cabinet.

As Bond scrambled to his feet he found the Brazilian standing before him holding a switchblade in his left hand, his damaged right dangling uselessly at his side. The knife flipped into the air. Deray caught it by it's point and send it hurtling towards 007's solar plexus.

There was no time to dodge. Bond whipped his hands together in front of him, catching the steely projectile between his palms mere centimeters from his heart.

Deray charged, slamming the hulking British spymaster against the rattan wall covering and pinning him there. A knee delivered to Bond's groin made him crumple slightly, giving the Brazilian the advantage he needed to bring the double-0 down and wedge him into a corner. Twisting Bond's left arm backwards and using it as an anchor, Deray began carefully breaking Her Majesty's agent's ribs one by one with his knee.

Bond flailed with his right hand, found purchase on a toaster that had tumbled from the kitchen counter, and swung it at his attacker. The Brazilian ducked. The appliance rebounded harmlessly off the wall behind him as its ragged-ended power cord arced and buzzed on the floor next to Bond's face, filling the air with an exotic mixture of ozone and after-shave.

Bond contorted in pain as his adversary continued his bone-crunching count. Tearing the toaster's cord from its socket he whirled it towards the Brazilian's head, where the massive mains plug wound itself around his tanned, delicate neck like a diabaolo around a leaping gazelle. Yanking his prey down to his own level, Bond twisted the wire into a garotte and drew Deray's face into his own.

As they lay trapped in their embrace, Bond inched Deray closer, placed his lips over the agent's, and kissed him. The Brazilian balked, nipping Bond's lower lip with an incisor and drawing blood. Bond twisted the snare and brought their lips together once again, this time snaking his tongue into Deray's mouth and holding it firmly against the roof of his mouth.

His face livid, Deray tried to withdraw, thrashing about with his good hand and somehow discovering the switchblade beneath his hip. Applying it to Bond's midsection, he transformed an elegant Italian leather ceinture into a useless strip of cowhide with a single flick of his hand. Shifting his entire weight behind Bond's shoulder, Deray flipped him onto his stomach as he used his knife hand and heels to force the Englishman's gabardines and blue silk briefs down to his ankles.

Suddenly Bond whipped Deray's head against the floor by its wiry noose. Clambering atop him, he pinned the stunned Brazilian in place and lashed his hands behind his back with the loose end of the cable. Yanking down Deray's pants with his left hand, he grabbed a pot of apricot jam from atop the counter the other, smacked the lid off against an exposed corner of the wall, and deposited its contents onto the agent's fragile derrière. Deray sucked his breath in suddenly and held it as Bond penetrated him.

As 007 rolled the two men onto their sides, he grasped the Brazilian's olive-hued member in his hand and nestled the filligreed edge of his insignia ring against the underside of his glans.