Chapter 2: Unlikely Friendship

The sun was just starting to rise when I opened my eyes.

Zoe was still asleep beside me, her body pressed against mine, her breath warm on my neck. Her skin was soft. Her hair was tangled. Her cunt face was relaxed in sleep, peaceful in a way that made my heart ache.

I watched her for a long time, reader. I watched the rise and fall of her chest. I watched the flutter of her eyelids. I watched the small smile that played at the corners of her mouth.

And I thought: this is what I’ve been missing my whole life.

I slipped out of bed. I didn’t want to wake her. I needed to think. I needed to process everything that had happened.

I stood at the window and looked out at the campus. The adobe buildings were gold in the early light. The desert stretched beyond them, endless and unforgiving.

I was a long way from Colorado, reader. A long way from home. And I didn’t miss it. Not at all.

“Darcy?”

I turned. Zoe was sitting up in bed, her green eyes still heavy with sleep. She was naked—she was always naked—and she was beautiful.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi.” She smiled. “You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Thinking about Elena?”

I flinched. “How did you—”

“Because that’s what I’d be thinking about.” She patted the bed beside her. “Come here.”

I went to her. I sat down on the bed. She took my hand.

“Elena was a volunteer,” she said. “She knew the risks. She signed the waivers. She chose this life.”

“I know.”

“But you still feel guilty.”

I nodded, reader. I couldn’t deny it.

“Good,” Zoe said.

“Good?”

“You should feel guilty. Guilt is what makes us human. Guilt is what reminds us that we’re still people.” She squeezed my hand. “Don’t ever lose that, Darcy. Don’t ever stop feeling.”

I didn’t understand then, reader. But I would. I would understand everything.

After breakfast, Zoe took me on a tour of the Resident Wing.

I’d seen it before, of course. The long white corridor. The sterile doors. The rooms that held the cunt faces.

But this time, it was different. This time, I was seeing it through Zoe’s eyes.

“The non-students are on the first floor,” she said. “They’re the ones who are required to be sealed in the boxes no less than twenty hours a week. They’re always naked. Always count faces in those boxes.”

“The first floor?”

“Ground floor. No windows. No escape.” She shrugged. “They chose this, Darcy. Don’t pity them.”

I tried not to, reader. I really did.

We walked past the doors. Some were open. Inside, I could see the boxes—the wooden frames, the cushions, the cunt faces protruding through the seats.

“These are the novices,” Zoe said. “New to the program. They’re still learning.”

“Learning what?”

“Learning to surrender. Learning to accept. Learning to be nothing but a cunt face.”

The words should have horrified me, reader. They should have sent me running. But instead, they fascinated me.

“What about the lifers?” I asked.

“The lifers are on the second floor.” She led me up the stairs. “They’ve been here for years. They’ve given everything. They’re the best.”

She stopped at a door. “This is Marcus Webb’s room. He’s a lifer. He’s been here for six years.”

The door was open. I looked inside.

Marcus was sitting on his bed. He was naked, like everyone else in this place. His body was covered in scars—branding marks, strap marks, marks that told the story of his surrender.

“You must be Darcy,” he said. His voice was calm. Stoic. “Zoe’s told me about you.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“All good things.” He smiled. “She said you were different. She said you felt guilty.”

I felt my face flush, reader. I didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

“Guilt is a luxury,” Marcus said. “The cunt faces don’t have that luxury. They’ve already accepted who they are.”

“And you?”

“I’ve accepted who I am.” He spread his hands. “I’m a cunt face. I’m a Resident. I’m nothing and everything at the same time.”

I didn’t understand then, reader. But I would. I would understand everything.

Marcus gestured to the wall. There was a schedule pinned to it, covered in names and times and box numbers.

“The non-students,” he said, “have to log at least twenty hours a week in the boxes. Minimum. Some do more. The lifers, they’re in there for thirty, thirty-five hours. It’s the only way to stay.”

“Twenty hours,” I repeated. “That’s almost three hours a day.”

“Every day. No exceptions. No excuses.” He shrugged. “It’s in the contract. The ones who don’t have class—the ones who dropped out or never enrolled—they’re required. Sealed and waiting. Always naked. Always ready. Cunt faces in those boxes, Darcy. That’s what they are. That’s what they chose.”

I looked at the schedule, reader. I looked at the names—names I didn’t know, names that would become familiar, names that would one day be crossed out.

“And the students?” I asked. “The ones who still attend classes?”

“They can choose their hours. Zoe’s a student. She’s in the boxes maybe fifteen hours a week. Sometimes more, if she wants.”

“What do you want?”

Zoe smiled. “I want to be the best cunt face in the program. I want to be the one everyone asks for.”

And she was, reader. She really was.

Marcus led us to the common room. It was small but comfortable, with couches and chairs and a television that was always on.

“Sit,” he said. “We need to talk.”

I sat down. Zoe sat beside me. Marcus sat across from us.

“Zoe’s reputation,” he said. “You need to understand it.”

“I’m listening.”

“She’s the most popular female cunt face in the program. Three years in the Resident Wing. She’s never complained. Not once.”

I looked at Zoe, reader. Her face was serene. Unbothered.

“She’s been ridden by hundreds of people,” Marcus continued. “Some of them were gentle. Some of them were rough. Some of them nearly killed her.”

“She nearly died?”

“Three times. Two times from suffocation. Once from a broken jaw.” He shrugged. “It’s part of the job.”

I felt my stomach clench, reader. I thought about Zoe’s cunt face—the face I’d ridden just yesterday—and I imagined it being crushed. I imagined her gasping for air.

“Why does she stay?” I asked.

Marcus smiled. “Because she’s good at it. Because she’s the best. And because she’s never felt more alive than when she’s in a box.”

Marcus showed me his scars that night.

He pulled me aside after dinner, his expression serious. He led me to his room, closed the door, and pulled off his shirt.

“I wear these like medals,” he said. “They’re proof that I’ve given everything.”

The scars crisscrossed his chest and back. Some were pale and faded—old wounds, long since healed. Others were still pink and raised—fresh reminders of his submission.

“This one,” he said, pointing to a long scar on his shoulder, “is from when my strap broke. I fell out of the box during a session. Broke my collarbone.”

“And this one?” I pointed to a burn on his ribs.

“Branding. It’s part of the initiation. We have to prove that we’re committed.”

I touched the scar, reader. I ran my fingers over it. Marcus didn’t flinch.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“Not anymore. It just reminds me of who I am.”

“Who are you?”