In the evening, after he finished raking and tilling the new beds, he began setting up his grow lights in the attic. He brought in pots filled with jasmine bushes and clumps of valerian, lavender seedlings and tiny passion flower sprouts just barely sticking their heads up from the soil. He took gardenias and roses and a few hybrid plants he'd never even bothered to name, placing them all in neat and serried rows like the ranks of a vegetable army, and he watered them and spoke softly to them as he pruned away dead leaves and sprayed for aphids. It was too early to plant most of them outside yet, but he knew the importance of readiness.
And finally, at the end of his first day, he unpacked a single plate, a single bowl, one each of a knife, fork and spoon, and a lone pot and pan. He made a quick and simple dinner while his air mattress was inflating, and showered off the stink of his exertions with his only towel. Then, bone tired from his hard day's work, he fell asleep. There would be more to do tomorrow.
February came and went with the speed of a thief, taking with it the time he badly needed to get the soil ready for his seedlings. He became a regular at the local garden center, making polite and unmemorable conversation while he picked up mulch and fertilizer and insecticide and replaced a shovel that he broke finding an unexpected and very large rock in his yard. He never got upset, but he always worked with urgency; the valerian could have already been in the ground by now in a climate this mild, and he didn't like being this far behind. The daylight didn't stretch nearly enough to serve his purposes, and he couldn't risk working at night. Even at the very end of a long, quiet street, people noticed eccentricity. He didn't like being noticed.
By the ides of March, he was beginning to relax a little, although he still got up with the sun every morning to till and turn the soil in another part of the large yard. The valerian was in and growing well, and the mild weather meant that he could begin planting his lavender bushes. He covered the beds at night, just in case of an unexpected frost-he hadn't trusted the weather reports in three years now, not since a cold snap nearly ruined one of his harvests-but he could already see the first buds beginning to appear on the plants. It was enough to make him smile at night, after he washed his clothes in the sink and lay down on his mattress to sleep. He wouldn't be alone for much longer.
By late April, everything but the jasmine was set out in the flowerbeds, filling the air with a heady floral scent that drew everything from bees and butterflies to his yard. But not sluts. Not yet. The jasmine was still patiently waiting under the steady warmth of the grow lights, creating a stultifying, sleepy aroma that suffused the attic with a lazy silence broken only by the automatic sprinklers. Without it, the smells of spring that he carefully cultivated weren't quite complete. Oh, he noticed a few more women than usual jogging in his neighborhood or driving down his dead-end street before turning around as though they'd gotten lost and arrived in front of his house purely at random. But they didn't stay. Not yet.
He kept himself occupied, though. A stop at the lumberyard gave him the materials to build a little extension on his privacy fence, a curving wall just wide enough to allow the gate to open and close without revealing anything of the yard to passers by. Someone walking in through the unlocked gate would have little more to do than turn right and let their feet carry them helplessly toward the rows of blossoms and blooms that exuded their tranquil scents almost halfway down the block now, attracting a little friendly attention from his new neighbors. He had plenty of practice with small talk, though, and they left thinking nothing of the retired gardener who lived at the end of the street. And he had very little time to think about them, either.
June was coming. So were his girls.
He didn't wait for the calendar to inform him of the change of seasons; the jasmine was in the ground on May 27th, adding its soporific aroma to the haze that permeated the air. The wind carried it in all directions over the next few days, sometimes catching a woman just down the block with the lightest whiff of perfume, sometimes filling a room three miles away with an open window. Most people, if they noticed it at all, simply recognized it as the fresh smell of a late spring day, smiling as they went about their business and adding a tiny spring to their step.
Kayla was different. She was the first slut to wind up in the garden. Not that she intended to come to him, any more than any of the others; she was simply out for a walk on the afternoon of the 29th, her mind on nothing more particular than getting a little exercise... when she noticed that warm, cheerful scent wafting on the breeze. Catching her at just the right time of the month, when her hormones were in exactly the right state of flux and her sweat contained exactly the right blend of pheromones to mingle with the floral odors that drifted past her skin. And suddenly, Kayla found that she couldn't get enough of it.
Her feet carried her forward, almost without conscious thought or effort on her part. Her pace quickened, her cheeks reddening with exertion as she sniffed her way toward the slutgarden like a hound following a trail. The more she ran, the more her shirt dampened in the early summer heat, filling the air in her vicinity with more of her unique body chemistry. And as she got closer and closer to the yard where the flowers awaited, the scent suffused her every breath with sweet, hazy bliss.
By the time she found the gate, she had slowed to a loose, lazy stumble. She wasn't even tired from the long walk; Kayla just couldn't summon up the urgency to move her limbs in anything more than a slow, languorous trudge through air that seemed thick with perfume. She no longer noticed her surroundings; if she could have snapped out of her daze, she wouldn't even have known what neighborhood she was in. But she couldn't wake herself. She could only follow the delicious, heady scent back to its source. She pushed open the gate and wandered into the garden, her body slowly coming to a stop among the row upon row of beautiful, mesmerizing blooms.
He was waiting for her, of course. He helped her take her clothes off, maneuvered her hand between her thighs to help her slowly add the potent musk of her arousal to the aroma of her sweat. Within moments, Kayla's jaw hung slack and her eyes were glassy and vacant as she helplessly masturbated herself to one sleepy, drifting climax after another. Every shuddering breath in gasped another lungful of the soporific miasma, sending a cocktail of psychoactive hormones directly into her blank, drowsy brain and prompting them to produce more of the pheromones that enslaved her. It was its own feedback loop, arousal drugging her into obedience and obedience stimulating her arousal, and she fell into a waking sleep within moments of her first orgasm.
He smiled and sprayed some water into her open mouth, and went back to tending his garden for a while. Until the second slut showed up. Then he repeated the process all over again. He didn't expect to get more than one or two, not in the first few days. But he knew that he had to be prepared for more. He went out to the grocery store and bought some supplies that evening. By the time he came back, a third slut had joined the masturbating women, her gaze helpless and dazed as she struggled to remove her clothing. It was going to be a very good year, he decided.
He took the newest girl into the bedroom with him and bent her over his window sill, pushing her head out into the garden so that she could continue to breathe in the drugged, hypnotic scent of the blooming flowers. He stripped off his own clothes, finally letting the months of pent-up lust have its head, and shoved his cock urgently and without resistance into her slick, dripping cunt. He wasn't as vulnerable as the women were to the potent cocktail of sexual pheromones that drifted into the room on every little breeze, but neither was he entirely immune to its influence, either. He was going to need to drain his balls early and often to keep his wits about him.
Luckily for him, there were no shortage of dazed, horny women whose only response to the sight and scent and taste of his cock was a mewling whimper of mindless, helpless arousal. The woman at the window pushed her wide brown ass back into every single one of his thrusts, not knowing who she was fucking and not caring. A few hours ago, she was a paralegal commuting back from her job in the city, planning her dinner and wondering if the man she met a few nights ago would be interested in a second date. Now, she was nothing but need and desire, and her pussy clenched around him three times before he emptied his load into her soaking cunt.
Before he went to bed, he took her back out to the garden. The semen dripping down her thighs would only add to the mix of scents.
The next few weeks fell into an easy routine for him, one he was well-accustomed to. He woke up early and hosed down the women, helping any overnight arrivals out of their clothing and guiding them as they shed the last of their fading inhibitions and began to masturbate for him. Then he cooked breakfast for them, usually a mush of oatmeal and bananas with a little protein powder mixed in to help them keep their muscle tone through the constant exertion of tensing their whole bodies in repeated climax. He didn't make anything they would have to chew. They could just about manage swallowing, but anything else was a little too complicated for his happy little sluts now.
After he fed and watered them, he usually picked one or two to help him milk some of the stiffness out of his cock, either with their hands or their mouths or their wet and hungry cunts. He wandered naked through the growing collection of dazed, blank-eyed women, letting his erection tug him along to whatever beautiful body caught his fancy; one day it would be a pretty red-head with a pubic mound as smooth and bare as her pale belly, another he would find a gorgeously lush brunette with terra cotta skin and breasts that swayed like udders when he bent her over. Taking his choice of the fruits of the slutgarden was his privilege, after all, and he was determined to make the most of it.
Then it was time to do his gardening. He started with the plants, pruning and watering and spraying for bugs, and then moved on to make sure the women were properly shaded and given a generous coating of sunscreen. He usually had to do another round of fucking after that particular task; smearing the thick white cream onto so many beautiful breasts and bellies and asses and shaven vulvas always left him hard as a rock all over again. The sunscreen was scentless; he didn't want to deal with anything messing up the delicate equilibrium of the blossoming flowers.
By July, the garden was growing almost faster than he could keep up with; as each woman joined the collection, she added her own blend of thick, potent musk to the wafting mix of odors that floated up and out of the private yard. This scent was complete in and of itself, needing no additions to ensnare the attention of any passing woman who happened to breathe it in; one second, a middle-aged housewife was throwing open the windows to enjoy a little fresh air, and the next, she was wandering down the street in a daze with her pussy slowly beginning to leak as the cocktail of hormones worked its insidious magic on her drowsy brain. If it wasn't for air conditioning, he would probably have run out of room by now.
But success had its dangers, and by August he was paying as much attention to the police radio and the local news as he was to his girls. There were forty of them now, with more arriving every day, and the newspapers were beginning to rumble ominously with warnings of mysterious disappearances and concerned husbands. He noticed the odd little stares he got when he bought more food at the local warehouse store than one man could possibly need, and the squad cars that circled ever closer to his own neighborhood and the quiet little dead-end street he lived on. Perhaps it was harvest time.
He waited until nightfall to perform the harvest, leading the girls one by one from the back yard through the garage and into the moving truck he'd never gotten rid of. It was crowded for them, but that was no bad thing as far as he was concerned; they'd absorbed so much of the drug through the air now that it practically saturated their bodies, and squeezed in hip to hip and breast to breast like this, the mere inhalation of each other's scent kept them drugged into soft, lazy compliance. Many of them groped in confusion at one another's bodies, so accustomed now to rubbing slick, dripping cunts that they didn't even notice it wasn't their own pussy they were playing with. He knew they'd be fine for the trip.
Then he gathered a few things-mostly some of the hybrid plants that he couldn't do without, and his gardening tools for next spring-and put them in the cab of the truck. He took one last look around. A policewoman was approaching, a lazy half-smile on her face, and he helped her into the passenger seat and guided her hand down the front of her trousers before buckling her in. He smiled at his luck. People never looked twice at someone traveling with a cop.
And at last, he went into the back yard and soaked down the plants in kerosene. It had been a good harvest this year, but the essence of farming was always knowing when to sow and when to reap. He said a last silent farewell to his slutgarden for the year, and walked out to the waiting truck. He pulled all the way out into the street before he took out the road flare, lit it, and threw it with practiced ease into the midst of the flowers, and drove away at exactly the speed limit without looking back.