The Dice Game

"Few novels can change your life." This one will.

Luke Rhinehart

Cockcroft* [writing as L. Rhinehart] describes the origin of the title idea variously in interviews, once recalling a college "quirk" he and friends used to decide "what they were going to do that night" based on a die-roll, or sometimes to decide between mildly mischievous pranks. It has content that includes the protagonist's decisions to engage in rape and murder, and is described as having been "banned in several countries". (wikipedia)

The odds of me rolling another double six were vanishingly small, 1/216, but then as everyone knows probability works in strange ways.

I have known Dave and Brian for years, we shared a house together at university and have remained friends ever since. Although we'd been on different courses we always got on. We were all still single, but living in our own flats in London. As we still lived fairly close to one another we met up regularly every week or so: London is a tough place to get to know people outside of those you work with. Although we were studying very different things at Uni we all ended up in a similar field professionally, all working in the growing tech start-up space. Dave is an engineer and seemed to be doing really well at a fintech, Brian was a product manager for a comparison site, and I was working as a visual designer for a digital media company.

While we were at uni "The Dice Man'' was one of those cult books that had a sudden moment of popularity. We'd all read the book, and for a laugh and probably like most students that read it, we used the idea of rolling a dice to choose what to do sometimes, Dice weekends, we'd called them. We'd gone to some crazy bars because of it and had both awful and wonderful unexpected weekends, from hitch-hiking to Paris to rough sleeping. Mostly it would be something we would all do together, then sometimes a dare that one of us would do with the others watching so there was no backing out. After reading the book which had led to murder we'd always set a clear rule that no choice could lead to someone else getting hurt. We had also introduced a double or quits rule if someone was really uncomfortable about one of the choices they could ask for. As our studies got more intense towards graduation, we had gradually stopped playing it, but still, often as not, would use the dice to choose which bar to go to.

A few months after we had started meeting again in London we realised we were in a bit of a rut. Every Thursday evening we'd meet at the Kings Head, have a couple of beers, and head home; we could see ourselves still doing the same when we were 40.

"Right, this is getting painful, who's up for a dice game?" asked Dave, always the most keen.

Brian and I were a little hesitant, but both agreed. We decided to throw the dice to see what we were going to do that weekend. So with going to Brighton, an all-night clubbing event and a sightseeing bus tour all on evens, that weekend saw us heading down to the coast for a weekend in Brighton. It was great, wandering around the Lanes, eating fish and chips and seeing a great band on the Saturday night, so it was no surprise that it became fairly regular again. Probably the best one was that we had to see who could get the furthest from London and back by Sunday night, without spending more than £25 and without using a plane. It was agreed that we'd meet up at the Kings Head on the Sunday night with proof. Brian had won that one hands down, by chance having hitched a lift with a guy who was delivering something to Munich.

One Thursday night we'd had one or two pints more than we should have done, I don't remember why, probably the end of one of our projects, and the conversation turned to sex. Brian started talking about a local adult cinema which allegedly had glory holes for the customers.

"Sounds like a perfect opportunity for a Dice Game!" said Dave, and before we thought it through too much, we'd laid out the game;

Total 2 - 7 we would all go to the adult cinema to check out what it was like,

8 - 11 we would all get a blowjob in a glory hole,

Double six, one of us would give a blow job in a glory hole.

And if it was a double six, whoever then rolled the highest die had the dare

I knew the odds, we all did, we'd been playing often enough that we knew what the odds of each throw was, 1/36 that we'd get a double six, hardly worth worrying about.

We normally had a Russian roulette option like this to make it more exciting when we threw the dice. We all raised our glasses, probably bravado as much as anything else, and then as Dave had proposed the game, he rolled the dice.

Double Six, Fuck, still, 1/3 it would be Dave or Brian so that would still be a laugh.

We each threw a die in turn; Dave threw a one and I could see relief flow across his face and he handed the die to Brian. He picked it up like it was a hot coal, clearly petrified of what was now effectively a 50/50 chance. I watched him closely; throwing a five made him visibly pale and he handed the die despondently to me. I was relieved, yes there was still a small chance but the odds were clearly in my favour as I watched the white cube roll from my hand, the red dots barely visible as it rolled across the table. I didn't need to look: Dave and Brian cheering in amusement and relief told me that I had rolled a six.

Fuck

Now the thing was, I wasn't that bothered about having a man's cock in my mouth, and even the thought of the taste of a man's seed. I had thought about it often enough, but I really didn't want my friends to know that. So, although it would piss off my mates, I decided to use the double or quits option. I got another round in even though by now that was a pretty bad idea. The rules we had agreed were that they got to state what was double, and I got to state what I'd be prepared to do as quits, and I had to state it first. Wanting to appear as straight as possible, I said that if I got quits I would go there and get a blow job, but I wasn't prepared to give one. Dave and Brian chatted for a while before saying,

"OK, you remember at Uni you dressed in drag for a couple of fancy dress parties?" (At uni there had been a couple of times when it had been relatively easy for me to dress in drag for a party, the freshers ball had a theme of tarts and vicars so I borrowed a dress and bra from a new friend and bought some heels from a charity shop and styled my long hair. Then there had been the rocky horror Halloween party which just cried out for me to dress. Unfortunately at that one I was the most convincing girl and it had obviously stuck in their minds.) "So, If you get another double six, you still get to give a blowjob, but you turn up dressed in drag." Dave and Brian pissed themselves laughing at this, we all knew that the odds of me rolling another double six were vanishingly small, 1/216, but they got to have a laugh anyway.

I decided I might as well get this over so I could get firmly back into my closet. I picked up the dice. As I shook them in my hand I really wasn't sure what I wanted the outcome to be. I threw them across the table, one of them ricocheting off Dave's beer glass and then both of them coming to a slow stop in the middle of the table. Double Six.

Fuck

Dave and Brian cheered, they knew they'd won. Their cheers were as much a sense of relief as anything and while I'd lost, the cheers were still those of friends. In our time we had all done some weird stuff because of the dice.

What they didn't know was that as I now lived in my own flat I spent many evenings dressed. I had on purpose found a quiet flat with its own front door and plenty of storage space. Over the couple of years I'd been there my wardrobe had grown from the small bag that was possible to easily hide, to taking up half the wardrobe space in my flat. I had many inappropriate clubbing dresses that I often as not wore while talking to admirers on video chat, as I had normal clothes that I could go out to a restaurant in should someone invite me. I had been invited, although most of the invites had been to someone's house, or more often someone inviting themselves around to my flat. I hadn't invited anyone to my flat, I was just not ready for that yet, but I had started to accept a couple of invitations out to restaurants, so I knew I passed pretty well. I had never accepted more than a goodnight kiss from a man though. I thought I looked good, but I was just too worried about being laughed at or rejected once they were in post orgasm guilt.

"Look, it's OK," Dave said, "you've got tomorrow evening and Saturday morning to get yourself a skirt."

Brian added

"Yeah, and some heels, no chickening out with jeans, trainers and a pink sweatshirt!"

Meanwhile I was just wondering what I should wear, at least I wore my hair in a style that I knew I could style in a very feminine way, very easily. I barely listened as they laid out the plan, we'd meet at the Starbucks close to New Cross tube station at around three o'clock on Saturday afternoon. We would all go to the glory hole and they would wait until they saw the room occupied beside the cubicle I'd gone into. Then they would leave me to it and we would meet up at eight o'clock that evening back at the King's Head.

I could hardly think the next day at work; as much as anything I had a rotten hangover, on top of the realisation of the dare crashing back onto me as my morning caffeine fix cleared my head. Luckily my workday was pretty busy so I had little time to dwell. Lunch was a quick trip to the local Pret a Manger for a crab salad baguette. As I walked quickly back to our office in Shoreditch I couldn't help but browse the windows of the clothes stores: that brought it back into sharp focus. Being Friday a lot of people finished up early and I took advantage to get out and home as fast as I could.

I've never been a particularly masculine looking man. I'm average height, around 5'9". I'm slim, and I've always kept my hair fairly long, even when it wasn't in fashion. I keep it in a kind of long pixie cut that with a little wax can look edgy male or distinctly feminine. It helps that as a designer I can get away with most things. I've had my ears pierced since I was eighteen and since I've been in London I've had my eyebrows regularly threaded, not too thin, but thin enough to look great with a little eyebrow pencil. Walking home I went past my normal salon so decided to get my brows cleaned up. There is something almost therapeutic about the sharp pain as the twisted thread pulls a few more hairs out, follicle and all. Probably stupidly, and without thinking it through too much, I asked her to give my brows a little more shape this time.. Looking in the mirror as she held it up to me I swallowed hard, I'd thought a little more shape would mean a very subtle difference, she had decided to thin my brows further and give them what I had to admit was quite a beautiful arch. I realised that my brows along with my hair was starting to tip me firmly into the androgynous even without makeup and styling. I paid her the £15 and gave her another £5 as a tip and then walked quickly the rest of the way home, grabbing a quick bento box for dinner on the way, slightly unnerved by the cashier saying "thank you Miss".

I opened my front door and walked through to the little kitchen, putting my bento box on the counter. I hung my coat up and poured myself a glass of chilled Chablis. I put some music on and sat at my little table to eat my sushi and savoured the crisp white wine, running through my head what I should do.

I realised I had three choices. I could go over the top, drag queen style, which I was sure would crack up Brian and Dave, but which would make getting to the Tube station tricky as well as getting home. I could dress down, making some obvious mistakes but looking like I'd just been and bought a cheap dress from Primark for the occasion. Or I could dress normally, normally for me in the evenings, that is, that way I knew I would pass well enough and I wouldn't feel uncomfortable.

I poured a second glass of Chablis and took it to my bedroom, stood it on my dressing table and opened my wardrobe. I realised pretty quickly as I scanned my clothes that most of them were better suited to going to a club than wandering around New Cross in the middle of the day. My eyes lit on a stunning pencil skirt suit I'd bought last year when I'd wondered about whether I should consider presenting as female at work. I had only worn it a few times, I knew I looked great in it, I'd used selfies wearing it for my Chix profile, but it clearly wouldn't be any good for kneeling down in a glory hole. I laughed to myself as I took a sip of Chablis and realised what I was seriously considering.

My thoughts were disturbed by a ping from my phone, it was Dave, an IM reminding me to be at Starbucks the next day at 3pm in my dress followed by a load of laughing emojis and the dice emoji. I sent back a quick dress emoji, a laughing emoji and the dice emoji. That reminded me that what I was doing was real, not just an evening edge game. I had only just gone back to my wardrobe when my phone pinged again, this time it was Brian to Dave and me. Apparently there would be a great band playing at a local pub tomorrow evening at 8pm and did we want to go after the dice game? And if so maybe we should meet at the Kings Head at 7pm. Before I had a chance to answer Dave had already agreed that it sounded like a great idea, so I just replied with a "sgtm", realizing that I was going to have to get a move on to get back here to change after the dice game.

After looking through my clothes again I settled on a few choices; a dress I'd bought from an online retailer but only worn a couple of times, I'd thought it was more of a club dress, but in reality it was a little more restrained, just above the knee and a tailored dark blue front and back, with very dark grey side panels intended to accentuate an hourglass figure. It had a highish neckline too, so would easily cover my breast forms. The second outfit was more office girl than gloryhole slut, a mid-length stretch burgundy skirt and a jersey wrap blouse which covered my breast forms well, but clearly showed my chest: that could be good. Then lastly one of my favourite outfits, a stretch olive green miniskirt and a leopard print peplum top.

Not being able to decide further than that, I hung them around my room and decided to do my nails that evening, one less thing to do in the morning. First my toes, I quickly checked that my nails and cuticles were in good shape, carefully smoothing the edges to a delicate curve and the cuticles pushed back into a clean line. I chose a beautiful dark red polish that I knew from experience would give a stunning deep colour. I relished the moment the brush stroked each nail, leaving a dark almost black trace of colour, making sure I made a clean line at the side of each nail, my toes kept apart by separators. When both feet were given their second coat, I sat back admiring how feminine my feet were, happy that they are only size 7. I then concentrated on my fingers: my nails are always slightly long, and I decided that the right thing to do was to paint my own nails rather than using acrylics. After carefully trimming my cuticles, I shaped the tips, pleased that they were long enough to give a nice oval shape. I buffed the surface to a smooth lustre before stroking the brush across each nail in turn to give the first coat, carefully ensuring the colour went from right beside the cuticle to cover the very tip, but not quite touching the sides of my nail. I admired the way the colour contrasted with the stem of the crystal glass holding my wine as I sipped it. With the first coat dry enough I carefully brushed on the second coat, my nails now deep, lustrous and, due to the buffed nail, a beautiful smooth high gloss. Letting that dry, I finished with a high gloss clear lacquer.

I checked my phone again in case anything else had changed. Luckily it hadn't, just a couple more jibes from Dave about the game. I sent him back a quick answer telling him not to worry, I wouldn't be backing out, and to watch out next time he got a solo game.

My nails were now dry and the lacquer hard and I wanted to be wide awake tomorrow, so I got ready for bed, slipping on a long black satin nightdress and relishing the feeling as I drifted off to sleep.

The radio coming on at 8 o'clock brought me out of a deep and dream filled sleep. Stretching out like a cat in the smooth satin of my nightdress, I briefly admired how perfectly I had polished my nails until I suddenly remembered why. I sat straight up in bed now wide awake. How could I have been so stupid as to agree to this today, and how the hell could I undo what i had done last night in time to go to the band? I jumped out of bed and hopped into the shower, the hot water cascading over me, washing and conditioning my hair almost on autopilot, also on autopilot lifting the pink razor from its cradle and removing the few stray hairs from my legs and body. Wrapping the thick towel around my chest I wandered back into my bedroom, surrounded by the clothes in which I knew I would now be presented to my friends.

As I blow-dried my hair, lifting it from androgynous to definitely female, I reasoned that my friends knew I never did things by half, and anyway, being a designer needed me to be a little more flamboyant: it was almost expected. By the time I slipped on my soft towel robe and wandered into the kitchen, I had convinced myself that everything was fine, that Dave and Brian would put it down to me going over the top as usual. I savoured a light late breakfast, it was already nearly ten. Orange juice and muesli served with a very frothy cappuccino from my prized bean to cup machine reaffirmed that all was right with the world.

I reasoned that it was going to take me around thirty minutes to get to New Cross station, maybe slightly longer given I'd be walking in heels, so I'd need to leave the flat at around two fifteen. That gave me just over three hours, plenty of time, plenty of time to make sure everything was right.

I had already shaved when I first got up, but I shaved again to be sure I was absolutely smooth, I was glad that I was blonde, so that I never got a five o'clock shadow, just a little stubble. Satisfied that I had shaved as close as I possibly could I sat down at my vanity table still in my robe. I looked around the room at the choices I had picked out the previous evening. I discounted my favourite outfit as looking a little too over-glam for the middle of the afternoon, and decided the burgundy outfit was probably the most flexible. I blushed as I thought the stretch skirt was easiest to kneel in. I went to my chest of drawers and looked for the burgundy lace lingerie I knew I had: this set didn't have a garter belt, but I had plenty of lace top hold-up stockings. I also took out a flesh coloured dancers' gaff which I first slipped up my legs, pulling my cock and balls tightly up and back, out of the way. Sliding the beautiful burgundy lace knickers up covering any sign I had been a man. I easily clipped the bra behind me settling the cups over my own almost flat chest.

Sitting in front of the mirror I went through my make-up routine with practiced ease. First a light covering of mousse foundation, then a primer on my eyelids and a little powder on my face. First my brows, I was shocked at just how much finer and higher they really were once accentuated with an eyebrow pencil, lovely high arches. Next some contouring powder to highlight my cheekbones. Eyeliner, a little white on the wet line to open my very blue eyes, then black around the lash line with a little flick at the end. I decided to go with a plum brown eyeshadow palette to complement my outfit. Making sure to keep the darkest shadow for close to my eye to give a smouldering effect, and a dab of the lightest highlight on the centre of my eyelids and the inner corners of my eyes, I used my lengthening mascara, the first white coat to build my lashes then the deep black to define them. A plum coloured lip liner and lipstick, with a tiny dab of silver powder on my cupid's bow completed the look.