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It was the opening day of Sunset City’s newest housing project for at-risk women, and Mayor Jasmine Branch couldn’t be happier. Technically, women had been living here for several months already, but today was the media-friendly celebration of the project’s launch.

The sign above the gated entryway to the complex said it all – “Cunt Gardens”.

It had taken a lot of work to turn this project into a degrading nightmare for women, but Jasmine had never been afraid of hard work, and the results made it all worthwhile. She was firmly convinced that all women deserved to live in a constant state of humiliation, insecurity and sexual availability – or at least that idea was what made her cunt dripping wet whenever she thought of it – and as Mayor, she continued her slow progress to making that idea a reality in her home town.

The project had originally been the brainchild of Sylvia West, the head of Sunset City’s housing security taskforce. West had caught Jasmine’s eye because she was an attractive, buxom blonde in her mid 30s, and Jasmine had immediately developed fantasies of forcing the bitch to lick her pussy. She had employed detectives to follow West, searching for any blackmail material, initially just for the purpose of making Sylvia her cunt-slave. But when she had learned about the housing project, she had developed a new idea.

Sylvia was tackling the same project that Jasmine was, from a different angle. Sunset City had a lot of young women at risk of sexual assault, homeless, and jail – and more since Jasmine had passed the “anti-pornography” laws that criminalised women for photographing their own naked bodies. Those women often couldn’t afford private housing, and needed somewhere secure to live to keep them off the street. Sylvia had proposed a government-subsidised housing development, available exclusively to at-risk young women, in a quiet suburb of the city.

To Jasmine’s frustration, the private investigators had revealed that Sylvia West was spotless. She was genuinely committed to helping vulnerable women in her community. There was no sign of fraud, corruption or embezzlement, no dark past, and the woman appeared to be committed to her husband and free from any particular kinks or fetishes. 

The weakness turned out to be in Sylvia’s 18-year-old daughter, Caity. One fateful night, police encountered Caity in a routine traffic stop, and a search revealed a small supply of party drugs in her purse, and several images of self-generated pornography on her phone. She was swiftly arrested, tried, and sentenced to jail.

Jasmine approached the distraught Sylvia and laid out the facts to her, bluntly and without mercy. If Jasmine arranged it, Caity could be placed in a relatively comfortable part of the jail, and kept safe and happy. Or, alternatively, Caity could be raped several times each day by the guards and her fellow prisoners, until she was impregnated with a rape-baby. The course of the future was entirely up to whether Sylvia was willing to do what Jasmine said.

It turned out that Sylvia was willing to do just about anything to protect her daughter. She licked Jasmine’s pussy willingly enough – foolishly thinking at that point that this was all that Jasmine wanted her to do. Then she also obediently fucked the police officer who had arrested Caity, thanking him for strip-searching her daughter, and allowed herself to be filmed riding his cock to orgasm.

But Jasmine was only just getting started with Sylvia. She sent the video of Sylvia’s sexual encounter with the police officer to Sylvia’s husband, and forbade her from explaining why she had cheated on him. Sylvia’s husband filed for divorce, and Jasmine made sure that Sylvia agreed to let her husband take literally everything she owned, leaving her penniless and homeless. 

Jasmine wasn’t prepared to let Sylvia sleep on the street, though. She made an arrangement with Sylvia’s male executive assistant at the housing security taskforce. The EA, fifteen years Sylvia’s junior, would allow Sylvia to sleep naked in the dog kennel in his backyard. She would travel into work with her EA naked, give him a blowjob in the parking lot, dress in whatever clothes he picked out for her, and she would call him “sir” throughout the working day.

Throughout this, Jasmine arranged for Sylvia to embezzle several small sums from the taskforce, to deepen her control over the woman and ensure any thoughts of rebelling against her humiliating new circumstances were quashed.

Then she gave Sylvia the worst news yet – she was to legally change her surname to “Cunt”.

“This housing project is a wonderful idea,” Jasmine had told Sylvia as Sylvia knelt between Jasmine’s legs, licked her shaved snatch. “But I think it needs an appropriate name. I could never get away with just calling the place ‘Bitch Towers’ or ‘Fucktoy Kennels’, but if I were to name it after a real person, no one could complain, even if that person had an unusual name. 

Sylvia hadn’t wanted to change her name – had almost rebelled – and so Jasmine had been forced to create a little motivational video. It showed Sylvia’s daughter Caity, asleep in her cell in the jail. As Sylvia watched, two correctional officers came in and carefully removed Sylvia’s clothes, without waking the girl. It was clear Sylvia had been drugged, as she barely even reacted to having her shirt pulled off.

Then one of the guards pulled Caity to the edge of her cot, so that her pussy was lined up with the edge of the bed. He spread her legs, took his cock out of his pants, and slowly slid it into Caity’s unprotected twat.

Then he looked at the camera, smiled, and winked. He stayed there for nearly a minute, his cock in Caity’s cunt, neither thrusting nor withdrawing – and then, finally pulled out, without further violating her. Both guards took some pictures of Caity’s naked body, and then left the cell, locking in behind them.

The message was clear. Any further resistance from Sylvia, and Caity would be repeatedly raped and impregnated.

Sobbing, Sylvia went obediently to the registry, and changed her surname to “Cunt”.

Thus the project became “Cunt Gardens” – named after Sylvia Cunt.

The next item on Jasmine’s agenda was the public art program. She contacted a range of women artists throughout Sunset City, and explained what she wanted. Some were happy to cooperate because they agreed with Jasmine’s aims. Others would create anything if they were paid enough. Still others – including some of the prestigious feminist artists Jasmine wanted to co-op – needed to be threatened and blackmailed, but they eventually fell in line.

The wonderful thing about art was that if it was commissioned from women, to support women’s art, nobody could criticise it. No one would dare say that art – including art from prominent feminists – was inappropriate to decorate Cunt Gardens.

And so that was how the front courtyard of Cunt Gardens ended up with a massive bronze statue titled “Apollo and Aphrodite”. It depicted two nude figures. One, a woman, was kneeling, legs spread, cupping and offering up her tits as she gazed up adoringly at her partner, her mouth open like a hungry puppy.

The other was a muscular man, standing upright, holding his cock in one hand and pointing it at the woman’s mouth. He looked like he might be about to masturbate into her open mouth, or possibly piss into it.

Other statuary around the project was equally explicit. One statue depicted a naked woman on all fours being mounted from behind by a dog. A fountain was shaped like two naked women 69-ing, lewdly licking each other’s cunts, with a man standing over them and pissing on them – his cock being the centrepiece of the fountain. Another statue showed a nude woman with her hands cuffed behind her back, being led by a business suited man via a leash attached to clamps on her nipples.

There was art within the buildings themselves, too. Murals on the interior walls depicted women being raped, tortured and enslaved in graphic detail. And within each apartment, a wall was given over to a piece of art by feminist artist Joan Keener (who Jasmine had had to blackmail into betraying her gender this way), which depicted a naked big titted woman, with the words, “YOU’RE A CUNT” and “NOTHING BUT A SET OF HOLES” above and below it. Each of these pieces of art would be customised with the hair colour of the woman who eventually occupied the apartment, and the woman’s name would be painted alongside the artwork.

The final touches were the “security features” of the housing complex. The apartments were long, narrow buildings. Each apartment consisted of only three rooms – bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen – and all three rooms had an entire wall of glass with no curtains, facing onto the street. The apartments afforded absolutely zero privacy to their residents.

The justification for this was “passive surveillance”. The more people who could see into the woman’s apartment, the safer she was from burglary, crime and rape. Yes, it could be confronting for women to shower or use the toilet while looking down a streetful of passers-by, but their safety was ultimately paramount. 

The few angles inside the apartments that could not be seen from the street were covered by interior surveillance cameras, that broadcast to a public website, so anyone in the city could contribute their time to checking up on the women and ensuring they were safe.

All this “passive surveillance” meant that the apartments didn’t even need locks. Anyone could open the doors of a woman’s apartment and just walk in. Jasmine branch made Sylvia Cunt explain how this was a convenience for the women. (In fact, Sylvia’s name was all over the design of these gardens. In theory, it was her decision to build the apartments this way, and it was Sylvia who had commissioned every piece of art.)

The women’s safety was further augmented by regular “wellbeing checks” by the local police. Police officers could enter any woman’s apartment at any time of day or night to check up on her and ensure she was safe. They also had certain authority to help steer women away from high-risk behaviour. For instance, they could search the woman’s apartment for drugs, and confiscate any liquor or pharmaceuticals they found. (This would usually include a strip-search and cavity-search of the woman herself.) 

If they thought she was at risk of gambling, they could confiscate her cash and credit cards. If they thought her clothing was holding her back from being “sociable” or getting a job, they could confiscate or destroy her clothes. The police generally thought that women were more likely to get a job if they looked sexy, so it was common for them to simply destroy any clothes that didn’t make the woman look highly fuckable. 

Because the residents were at-risk women, it was inevitable that prostitution might occur on-site. Nearby neighbours had already reported instances of men entering the apartments of women residents, ripping off their clothes, and roughly fucking them up against the glass walls for the whole street to see. Sometimes the women seemed to be crying. Other times they were orgasming. Sometimes they did both. 

Police responded to these reports by informing residents that whores often did “non-consent” roleplay scenes with clients to bring in more money, and that these encounters were regrettable but to some extent unavoidable. They would then visit the women who had been complained about, take the women down to the police station, and force them to re-enact their “prostitution” with officers. Depending on how convincingly they managed this, they would either be released with a warning, or arrested and charged.

Women who dared to mention the word “rape” would have to re-enact their “rape” with six or seven officers, before either being taken home with no charges pressed, or facing charges themselves for making a false report.

Some women didn’t want to live in Cunt Gardens, once they learned about its unique features. They tried to abandon the tenancy they had been generously given by the government. However, if they weren’t living in the apartment, they were obliged to pay rent on it, to make up for wasting the space, and if they couldn’t pay the (very high) rent, then it inevitably meant a visit from the police, and likely a trip to court and to jail.

And so the project had been a complete success. There were now 30 young, beautiful women living in Cunt Gardens, and Jasmine had arranged all 30 to be present in front of the media for this celebration of the project’s opening. They didn’t want to be here – especially dressed as they were – but what women wanted didn’t really matter much when it came to Cunt Gardens.

There were a dozen media outlets lined up at the gate to Cunt Gardens, all with traditional still cameras or video cameras. And all those cameras were trained on the girls who lived in the project.

It was to be a ribbon-cutting ceremony – but the ribbon wasn’t blocking the entrance to the project. Instead, the ribbons were on the girls. In fact, the ribbon was all each girl was wearing – a thick strip of red ribbon wound across the girl’s tits and between her legs, with a bow at the front, turning her into a human birthday-present.

“Now, I know this is unconventional,” laughed Mayor Branch, as she held up the oversized ceremonial scissors, “but Cunt Gardens is built with a deep underpinning of supporting women’s empowerment and artistic expression, and this is what the girls here wanted. It’s a kind of art piece, generated spontaneously within the community.” 

She looked at the half-naked women, who were blushing, completely humiliated by their predicament.

“What is it you want to say, ladies?” she asked.

The girls blushed even brighter red, as they spoke together as one, reciting the lines that Sylvia Cunt had forced them to say – with further threats and blackmail.

“We love being Cunts!” recited the girls. “And Cunt Gardens is the perfect housing for Cunts like us! We hope one day all women will have the chance to be Cunts like us!”

And then Jasmine went to each girl, one by one, and used the scissors to cut off her ribbon – leaving her completely naked in front of the cameras and reporters.

The reporters swarmed forward to ask questions, and the girls did their best to answer.

Each girl had been warned that if she didn’t want a visit from the police that night, she would have to do her best to explain why she was excited about living at Cunt Gardens, and benefited from its unique features. And they had been warned that every reporter was to leave here happy, and willing to write the positive story that Jasmine wanted.

Jasmine knew that that meant many of the girls would suggest that the reporters could fuck them, and the thought made her happy as she watched the naked, embarrassed girls explain why they didn’t need privacy, and why they loved the degrading art throughout the complex.

But the thought that was really pleasing Jasmine was the instruction she had given Sylvia Cunt that morning. From now on, once a week, Sylvia was to visit one of these girls and rape her – entirely because it pleased Jasmine to know that Sylvia would be raping the very girls she had spent her whole life trying to protect. She had told Sylvia it was all right to do it at night, and do it with the lights off, so no one would see her, and so that she wouldn’t have to look at the face of the girl she was raping. She could do it after the girl was asleep, so that she could gag the girl before she started licking the girl’s cunt, and not have to listen to the girl’s protests.

Jasmine loved that idea. 

But mostly she loved the knowledge that in a month’s time, Sylvia’s daughter Caity was going to get out of jail, and be given a room here at Cunt Gardens, and after doing all this to stop her daughter being raped, it would be Sylvia who would finally rape her own daughter, without knowing who she was raping until after it was all over…


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