'Pants! Get the buggers off!' she roars. He stands slowly, a little stiffly, and pauses, hands on hips. At last. Hooking his thumbs over the elastic, he starts to push them over his thighs... lower... lower... watching, smiling, as her eyes grow wider... and wider. His erection springs into view and she gasps. It bounces up and down and then settles. Now free of restriction it swells a little more. Curving slightly to his left and very fat, it protrudes about seven inches from his groin, pulsing slightly and pointing to the top corner of the room. He holds out his hands as if to say, 'This is yours. This is all I am.'

'Fucking hell,' she whispers, eyes blazing. 'Fucking hell fire...'

She sinks to her knees, looking all the while into his eyes. 'And now the kiss...'

It's more than a kiss, but it starts with a kiss. He has never felt so much love given to him by such an overtly sexual act. She is loving him by holding his member in her lips, kissing her love into the one part of him that usually only gives, and it is too much for him to bear. In that moment he wants her. Really wants her. She starts to draw his tip further into his mouth but he pulls away, reeling, suddenly feeling he is no longer in control. He falls to his knees too.

'Oh, Em,' he sobs, head in hands, 'Oh Em...'

'Roll the dice big boy. Nearly there, my love.’ She gently strokes his hair. ‘I want you inside me. Every night for the rest of my life.'

They stay there for another few long seconds, his shoulders heaving occasionally. This isn't how he intended it to be. Confusion dulls and blinkers his brain while his crying makes her love him even more.

He throws four-and-two, barely able to count the spots through his tears; she rolls six-and-one. Again she triumphs.

This seven is different: a truly magical number, where maximum and minimum combine to create something special. He thinks of himself as the number one: lowly loser for lying to everyone around him. She is the six: perfect, beautiful, true and dependable. Maybe together they could make something magical, something that would certainly make his life a little more difficult to start with, but in the long term more honest and worthwhile than anything he's ever done. He knows he doesn't have the guts to make the choice to leave his wife and kids to live with Em. He can't live without Emily either, yet can't spin out this lie forever. He makes a sudden final, obvious decision: the dice will decide. After this round there will be one final throw. He makes a new rule silently in his head, a rule that will split the path of his life irreparably into two. If he wins, he wins her. He really doesn't want to think about losing and he doesn’t know how he will cope with the winning, but for now the game must go on.

He sniffs then smiles. Recovering his composure, he recalls the number's significance, then strikes a dramatic pose.

'You threw the dice and 'magic seven' is the result. The Gods of chance decree that when such a seven is elicited, these are the rules:

You are the perfect six. You are my master.

I am the pathetic, worthless one. I am your slave.

You must bind me, own me, then do with me what you will.'

He turns his back to her and crosses his wrists just above his tight rounded bum. She motions to pat him there but remembers the rules. He'd said online that he'd never been up to much, physically, but he looked wonderful to her. He was solid, muscular, good looking in a quirky way - more than she could ever have hoped for. And he'd hinted at this sequence of events, several times, both in emails and in their chats. He once said:

'It's about control... something... about... I don't know! Being tied up makes me fucking hard! What else is there to know?'

And they'd both done those smiley faces, one winking, one not, like this:

:-)

;-)

She could use his tie, but he's still wearing it. Then she remembers she won the round, so she roughly takes it from him like she imagines a 'master' would, holding her mouth very close to his, her beautiful belly only millimetres from his stiff cock, never touching, teasing.

''What with? This?' she asks, holding out the tie. Bondage is a thing unknown to her and she is unsure of how to proceed. She hopes she doesn't really have to hurt him. The tie is too obvious for him. He peers round the room, considers the cable to the lamp or the TV, but then discards the idea. As he turns, his foot touches something and he looks down. The thong. The cut-in-half thong. How apposite that the garment he destroyed - and one so intimate and personal to her - should be the means by which she now subdues him. He motions with his foot and she stoops to pick it up, turning it over, examining the damage.

'I wore my best pair, just for you,' she complains, with a little whine in her voice, then binds him as he suggests, stretching the elastic to its limit as she winds it round him.

'Pull it tight... tighter... ok...' The pain of the material digging into his wrists is so sweet to him, especially because he knows its provenance. And she ties it in her best double reef knot.

'Em... ' he motions with his eyes, 'please... pass me the dice.' He shrugs his shoulders to remind her his hands are tied, then opens his mouth, sticks out his tongue. She feeds him the dice carefully, one by one.

Maybe some truth will at last emanate from this orifice, he thinks, and not before time. He breathes in through his nose then blows them out gently across the polished surface. The saliva on them makes them slow down and stop much earlier than he thought they would... and they come to rest, stuck together by the surface tension of his spit in the centre of the glass.

'One... and ... one. Snake eyes!' She laughs, clapping and jumping up and down, her long straight hair and her breasts following in unison a split second behind the rest of her, like a one-woman Mexican wave.

His head falls to his chest. He can't believe it. It is over. More silent tears, but he turns away from her, resigned to a future without her. His joy was so short-lived. He invoked the Gods and they have spoken. It is probably the best for her. No, definitely the best. He is pathetic and worthless... but Emily made him feel he could be so much better than he is. Now it is over.

She doesn't see his tears but senses something is wrong.

'Come on, it's only a game! My throw,' she says to his back, trying to coax him out of the inexplicably dark mood he is slipping into.

'What's the point?' He sounds totally broken.

'I had to throw when you shook twelve... now wait.'

The platonic solids spin across the table one last time... over and over they tumble, like lovers…

'One!'

On and on goes the other... it's energy not yet spent... it slows near the edge, glides right to the edge... sliding, tilting, turning... over it goes, into the silent oblivion of the beige carpet.

'One! I shook a bloody one! How did I do that? Christ! You are the luckiest bugger alive!'

He looks down over his shoulder at the table. Yes he is! She will never know it, but that unbelievable throw has just changed their whole lives. When he closed the front door on his house this morning, he was never going to leave his wife for her, never - but this wonderful woman, his Emily, is even more beautiful in the flesh and more special too. And never had he thought seriously about anything else but the sex, the excitement, and then the slipping away, not till he got here, not till he met her - and then the game, his game, their game. He had no idea how he’d pull it off before the dice went his way, or even if he truly could pull it off, but suddenly he can see a way that it could work, and is amazed he didn't see it before. It will involve some cunning, some duplicity and will take time and patience, but he is sure he can do it. He is here today, isn’t he? He can do it again. And again. Her last throw convinced him – one day he will be with her. Not straight away of course, that’s not practical, but one day. It was meant to be.

She's oblivious to the turmoil and resolution in his head.

'Off come the jeans then... seeing as you trashed my thong, they're all I've got on! Da-Daaah! Anyway,' a thought igniting in her brain, 'what if I'd won? What would you have done - you had nothing else to lose?’ She folds them once and places them over the back of a chair.

How could she know the significance of that throw?

'More bondage, I suppose.' He smiles, thinking how his future life would always have echoed his present fetish if the last die hadn't succumbed to gravity.

He turns back to her now, a fresh optimism blossoming in his gut, and he sees her standing naked before him. All the waiting was worthwhile; the months of emails and chat and now the sweet frustrations of his game. She is slight but curvy, athletic, sexy, beautiful. Her dark Mediterranean features are stunningly symmetrical - a gorgeous woman in every way. He longs to be inside her, wants to be with her. His cock, shriveled by his tears and fears, starts to fill again while a last tear leaves his eye.

'I love you, Emily.'

'I love you, Alex. Today has been fantastic. I'm so lucky I found you. Now I am ready for you. So ready. Make love to me...'

Again watching herself in the wall mirror behind him, she puts her right foot on the coffee table. Her sole gives up its heat to the glass, which, under the load, makes the slightest creak from an almost invisible hairline flaw. Her right arm reaches out and her index finger tickles the underside of his swollen glans. Closing her fingers around him she pulls him to her, guiding him into her. She stands on tiptoe and he penetrates her where they stand. Her arm snakes around his neck and their lips meet. She opens herself up wider to him and his cock forces her apart. She sees her face reflected, looking over his shoulder - full of optimism, happiness and desire.

'Oh God, I love you. Fuck me, Alex; fuck me.'

They kiss passionately, both her arms are around his neck now and he is deeper inside her; she pushes down onto him hard and he groans. This is where the restraining thong really works for him - he feels helpless, feels she is abusing him, using him, and he is in her power. She hesitantly puts more weight on the table, tightens her grip on his neck and gingerly lifts her other foot up, placing it besides the first. She squats slightly, pushing her pelvis into him, wrapping her knees around him. A memory grows, then flowers and dies quickly: Joe fucking her on a glass dining table in a Spanish holiday apartment. It had been such a turn-on: the cold, smooth glass on her back and bum. Sex and glass, not a natural combination or connection, but in her mind there is a link. But she is completely back in the present now, and in love again. A new start. Goodbye Joseph; sad, selfish Joe. Goodbye.

This is so wonderfully frustrating...  but now he needs release and motions to the virginal whiteness of the untouched bed.

'The bed can wait... we have all day... oh, Alex, fuck me here... cum for me, like you did online all those times, but do it here where I can see us...reflected… I want to feel you cum... inside me. Fuck me, my love.'

In reality she is doing the fucking, bending her legs, lowering and then pulling up with her arms. He stands upright, hands squirming behind his back. He longs to touch those gorgeous breasts, to grab her arse and plunge his cock into the depths of her and pleasure surges though him. And she is gasping, clinging to him, trying everything she can think of to feel the full length of him. He's never quite fully inside her and it drives her mad. She can hear his breathing getting heavier, can feel the urgency in his body and knows he is near. She tries to get him further inside her, but fails again. It is so painfully frustrating. Another failed attempt. Oh God! He is cumming now, his cock tightening inside her... quickly...

'I want you deeper,' she growls in his ear as her orgasm starts to build, and throws herself onto him, wrapping her legs around him, clinging onto his neck, kissing his face. His legs go weak as his own orgasm peaks and he stumbles forwards under the sudden unexpected weight. He steps on something hard and painful - the fallen die - instinctively lifts his foot, then kicks the coffee table's chrome tubular frame as his shins collide with its hard, curved edge. He starts to stumble, to tumble over it, and tugs at the thong that binds his hands, but she tied it well and however much he strains it will never break. And now he panics. With one last effort to right himself he tightens his back and buttocks and heaves upwards, now penetrating her fully, but with his feet unable to move forwards this only adds power to the leverage his legs have already given him. She feels his full length inside her, cries out, and is cumming too, now totally unaware of her surroundings. Their bodies rise slowly into space... then fall and slam into the table with terrific force. There is a sickening shattering and clanging of glass and steel and a cry of 'No!' as their weights combine and carry them down... down. He hears the breath being forced from her and her face is contorted in horror and pain.

He is lying on top of her. In slow motion, he watches splinters fall like tiny icicles next to her head, dusting the carpet's pile, and soon the room is silent. Devastation surrounds them, makes a bed of nails for them. His face is pushed against hers. A stream of blood rises from a cut near his eye and drips onto her cheek. Her breath is painful, rasping, shallow. Alex tries to rise but he can't. With an effort he rolls over onto his bound hands. His penis slips out of her as he turns onto his back and a last drop of semen is cast onto her belly.

She too lies on her back, blinking in horror and disbelief. He groans again, this time not with pleasure but with shock.

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Alex?’

‘Emily? Are you OK?’

‘I think so… you?’ She turns her head to look at him, sees the cut on his cheek and raises an arm to tend to him. Glass grinds on glass beneath them as she adjusts her position.

‘I can’t move.’

‘What? Why…’ She gingerly sits up, checking the carpet beneath her for blood and glass, taking her weight on her heels and fingertips.

‘My hands are tied behind me. Remember?’

‘Oh… yes,’ and she starts to laugh nervously and with unbelievable relief. ‘Wait a sec!’ She stands, walks to the door and steps into her shoes.

He checks her out as she moves away and sees only a couple of dots of red on her otherwise uniformly golden body. Then she vanishes into the bathroom and returns with a bath towel that she spreads on the floor beside him. She rolls him over onto it and gently helps him to his feet, trying to protect him from the glass that seems to be everywhere. She quickly retrieves his scissors and the thong is snipped through one last time. Stepping away onto a clear piece of carpet they check each other for splinters; he carefully lifts several small ones from her bum and shoulders and dusts others from her hair. She throws an off-hand remark over her shoulder:

‘That wasn’t bad for our first time,’ then her serious face cracks into explosive laughter. He is laughing too. Incredibly, she finds no glass on him. Apart from the superficial scratch next to his eye he is untouched.

‘What a fucking mess… my God, why aren’t we both cut to ribbons?’ He counts the murderous-looking shards of glass that litter the floor. They have only pinpricks to show for the devastation they have created - how did a fragment not sever an artery or pierce an organ? He spots two splashes of red on the carpet among the wreckage of the table and retrieves his beloved dice, remembering how they took her from him and then miraculously gave her back. As the shock recedes and pain returns to the ball of his foot and to his shin, he recalls how one of them nearly snatched her away again and he holds her to him, squeezing her, protecting her. Repeating her name over and over he finds he is unable to imagine a world without her, yet he is terrifyingly aware of how fleeting and tenuous a human life can be.

The world is suddenly a dangerous, threatening place; his awareness is heightened because he has something new and precious to lose. He pictures himself and Emily walking through a cityscape. Aircraft fall from the sky, buildings topple, cars swerve across their paths, lorries overturn. Terrorists run amok with poison and dirty bombs, whilst muggers and murderers wield knives and guns. Freak storms and desiccating droughts ravage the land; the invisible threats of sickness and disease whirl around them too. Faced with this onslaught, fear of losing her overpowers him and crushes his heart with its iron fist… yet he watches them both promenade, virtually unharmed and seemingly oblivious; taking a turn here that thwarts danger, pausing long enough there to avoid disaster. It strikes him that they have diced with death practically every hour of every day of their lives and yet here they are - admittedly a little shaken, but still perfectly safe. He pulls her closer still. As he unfolds his fingers behind her head, he sees luck recede into a golden dot on a red cube on the palm of his hand, and perspective returns.

Chance will play no part in this: all that remains is for him to tell her the truth. It will not be palatable to her, will not be the great feast she’d expected they would start with, but he suddenly finds it is all the fare he has. He steps away from her and tosses the dice into the little metal bin by the TV, thus relinquishing any control they might have on their futures. They rattle and settle, cry out to be read, but their decision will never be heeded. She kicks off her shoes as he leads her to the bed. They both sit on the edge, their nakedness suddenly incongruous to him. She senses this too and folds her arms across her breasts, crosses her legs.

The bed. The bloody bed. Now they get to it. Regret starts to rain on him. If only he’d simply carried her here straight away, like everyone else would have done, and forgotten his silly game - he’d be well into his ‘second cumming’ by now… Then afterwards: a shared shower: the search for randomly discarded socks and pants; the obligatory gulped-down cup of tea; quick goodbyes and he’s home free. But the puddles of negative thoughts evaporate as soon as they are formed: despite the shattered table and near-tragedy, the day has been virtually perfect and he wouldn’t change a thing. After a brief pause to gather his thoughts, he gently places his life in the cup of her hands and starts to speak:

‘Emily, I love you. I really love you... everything about you. I didn’t realise before today… just how much… now I can’t imagine another day without you.’ Her dark eyes are wide, loving and reassuring, but he knows they will soon change. He continues: ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you, starting today… but… but first…’

‘Alex… I …’ Goose pimples rise on her naked flesh and she shakes a little, suddenly afraid of his serious eyes, afraid of what he has to say.

‘No, Emily. Let me speak. I have to tell you something and I have to say it now. Then you decide what happens next.’ He looks down at his tense, interlocked fingers, then back into her steady eyes and hesitantly begins his confession:

‘Please… please forgive me…’

Inside the bin the two pairs of eyes stare blankly up at the ceiling.