The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: Readers may be familiar with Lupa Proseda’s long-awaited new novel Puppeteer, part of an often-overlooked but increasingly relevant genre, that of so-called mind-control erotica. The themes will be familiar to those who know Proseda’s writing: notions of identity, both physical and mental; the fluid sexual archetypes of the feminine; free will and determinism. My own appraisal of this seminal work may be found here: Puppeteer (by Lupa Proseda): a Critical Evaluation.

Lupa Proseda’s diaries run to many volumes. Here, I focus on a brief but highly formative period in Proseda’s life, in the hope of providing some illumination into the motivations of this most complex of writers. During February of 1998, aged 26, six months before the publication of her first novel, Proseda was living in Buenos Aires, waitressing, dreaming, studying English, and all the while writing feverishly. Significant foreshadowing echoes of her later works can be found in these diary extracts.

The translation itself has proved rather more difficult than I envisaged. It has long been assumed that in writing in English, her second language, Proseda turned her poor grasp of syntax into an asset, mangling words into new and expressive forms such as ‘mentipulation’, some of which have now entered accepted idiom. However, the original Spanish is just as creative and original in its construction, and in some cases is completely indecipherable, especially when she is excited.

This presents a significant challenge to the translator.

Take the word ‘cocular’. No such Spanish verb exists, and clearly Proseda is conflating ‘copular’ (to copulate) and the idiomatic Anglo-Saxon ‘cock’ (the male sex organ), in a kind of Spanglish. Similarly the portmanteau word ‘orgasmolvido’—compounding ‘orgasmo’ and ‘olvido’ (oblivion, forgetfulness).

How then do we translate an evocative phrase such as ‘me coculara a orgasmolvido’? Options could include: take me to the ecstatic void; use your big thing on me until I pass out in the throes of climax; quite literally, fuck me senseless. But however tempting, all of these lose something of the distinctive voice of Proseda. In the specific case of the above example, I have translated it as ‘cockulate me to heavenly orglivion’, retaining the playful spirit of her original text. A brief glossary appears at the end of this translation.

Of course, there is a danger that too much of this sort of wordplay renders the text impenetrable to the casual reader. Therefore, I have taken the view that we must balance accessibility with the need to reflect Proseda’s original voice. In many cases I have simply opted to decode Proseda into something resembling normal English. All this may create a certain unevenness of tone in places, but trust me, the alternative would be far, far worse.

In cases less head-scratchingly obscure, I have gone with Lupa Proseda’s own clear intentions, and just hoped for the best.

FRIDAY 30 JANUARY

Today I spotted him in the street, the powerful one, the mind-master, right here in Buenos Aires, on my way to work! Never-seen before, when I saw him there on the wide boulevard I knew him at once.

He was so close, all my senses burst alive! Eyes to drink him in, ears to hear his voice of command, the madeleine sweet-taste of man on my tongue. The imagined tingle-touch of flesh; so real…

My heart squealed like a cornered capybara. I couldn’t help standing there looking at him, open-mouthed, such was his power. I know at once that he knows me. I know he controls me. I am his slave. I can feel it.

But why does he never notice nor acknowledge me?

SATURDAY 31 JANUARY

I have long decided I will write. It is in my blood. I must write. I must express the fiery erogenital tumult in my animal soul. Waitressing fills me with ennui most profound; the world needs to know the extent of my true imagination. Also, I am learning English from an American. These two things are connected.

The American teacher-man is the same age as me, tall, dark-haired and undoubtedly attractive. As he speaks exotic new words, I idly ponder exotic options for his body and mine. He is married, and I know I should not. He has green eyes. He reminds me of my old art teacher from Melipilla.

The Friday evening restaurant shift is busy. I lose myself in orders and counter-orders, and drinks flow unquenchingly. I watch for the mind-master, just in case, but the crowd is ordinary. The men watch my breasts avidly, and I am pleased to see them watching. Nevertheless, I look on them with proud disdain. They are only men, and I am Lupa Proseda.

While I work, I imagine their stories, and maybe one day I will tell them.

But lately I’ve been besieged by thoughts, dreams, visions, false-memories of faceless men. I wake up wet as the rainforest at dawn. Strange ideas have plunged alien roots into my head, into my body, growing inside me. There is only one place they can have come from, and some days I cannot think for dreaming of the mind-master. He wants to make me his sluttypus. I have tried to resist him but the force of his distant will is implacable.

Best-friend Chica Iglesias laughed when I told of one dream of mine. She said I just needed to get out more, get a nice man like Miguel who works at the university. She says I haven’t been the same since Jorge left.

I cannot tell her of the truth, of him, of the mind-master. Chica Iglesias is just too ordinary.

MONDAY 2 FEBRUARY

This morning I hunker at a corner table, the better to observe him. At his customary time, he enters the coffee shop. He seems taller from my low angle of sight.

With just a few muttered words and hieratic gestures, witless Sophia behind-the-counter is instantly under his control. I am awed by the suddenness of it. Sophia moves like an automatoy now, wordless, her eyes glazed, to make his coffee. Mutely, eyes respectfully downcast, she takes his payment, and he leaves. I try to watch him through the milling crowds, but he shapeshifts into anonymity.

As the work-morning queue quietens I sidle up to slatternly Sophia. Still she seems in the vestige of a blank-eyed trance.

“Did you notice that customer?” I ask her. “The striking tall man with dark hair, green-eyed, neat-bearded. What did you make of him, the mind-master?”

She looks around, comically bemused. “Customer? Tall? Man? Green? Mind-master?” She seems tired and even more witless than usual after her ordeal at his hands.

I sigh. “Never mind, Sophia.” He must have wiped her memory. Of course; he will not want to be noticed by the likes of Sophia.

I think of the old myths. Perhaps he is a Duende, I think; but no, I saw his thumbs while he mentipulated Sophia. The trickster, Caipora, perhaps?

Speaking of bastard tricksters, it has been exactly four months today since my great love Jorge disappeared in his whirlwind of lies, supposedly ‘needing some peace’. Yes, I may have accidentally slept with others too, but that was not my fault! And maybe it did all get a bit out of control. But that doesn’t self-justify what he did.

I do not miss the preening mendacious bastard, his sleek-black hair, his flashing eyes that make me melt. I do not miss his boundless energy and bed-passion one tiny little bit.

TUESDAY 3 FEBRUARY

I think I am putting on a little weight, but it is all good; all men like a voluptuary. This morning I examine myself in the mirror and I see curved perfection. I am woman, I am Freya, I am all the archetypes: virgin, goddess, whore!

(No, not virgin. Not since 1988, when my girl-like innocence was impenetrated by the art teacher in Melipilla, who admired my drawings and then put his arm around my shoulder, and suggested we might spend time together discussing them in detail, that very evening in his apartment.)

(And certainly not whore! Although swart Jorge, the green-eyed monster, liked to call me that, and I admit I loved him even more when he did, the eternity-damned dupliciter.)

Goddess, then.

But goddess or no, I am being mentally controlled in my secret unconscious. There is no other explanation; I am certain of it, now. There have been more and more true examples lately, of the erosion of freewill, of the hidden mind-master’s playful influence.

Example. Last midnight I was sat in my special chair, reading. I was determined as a rock to finish this chapter of Moby-Dick, the endless bloated whale, which the handsome American has told me to read. Suddenly I felt a wave of mentipulation wash over me; my own eyelids fluttered, began to droop, driven by another’s control. Sleepiness unwound around me. I fought it; but how can I fight the mind-master and his action-at-a-distance? I entered some kind of dark fugue at his hands; long-lost hours passed unperceived, and I woke back in my chair as the sun peeped orange above the rooftops.

Where did I go? What did I do? What adventures did I have, last night? What deeds did I undertake at the puppet behest of the mind-master? I have no memory of them. My mind is blank. What did he make me do, last night, as he revelled in his power…?

I can only guess that once entranced, he must have sent me out, naked save for the flimsiest joy-things, perhaps to the little-bar of illicit romance in Palermo Soho, there to dance like a wanton slave-girl for him. Then he must have taken me to his place, to his secret-lair, and ravished my helpless body into ecstasy as is his right. Then—cunning mind-master!—he must have wiped all memory of this, and compelled me to return home.

Another example. At the coffee shop this morning I had already consciously decided not to be cake-buying. My body must stay luscious for my future husband (not Jorge-filth; definitely not him). But there at the counter I felt the unfightable pull of another’s urge, his unheard orders; my hand rose, unbidden, pointing at the very cakes I did not want!

I left (with several cakes) conflicted with the fearful shiver-thrills of longing and disquiet. The mind-master has me trapped in his silken web of desire, and I know I am trapped, I shall never escape.

WEDNESDAY 4 FEBRUARY

Another stupid conversation today with now-ex-best-friend Chica Iglesias with her stupid red hair. Chica wants to write too, but she’s just a know-shit-all-crap-talking-dumb-slut with no poetry in her tiny lizard-heart. I record our idiot conversation verbal below for the historians of the future. We were talking about names, they signify all!

ME:

You know Sophia, in the coffee shop? As stupid as a slow-worm?

CHICA:

Sure. But you know she’s got a masters in engineering?

ME:

Whatever. She’s a dimwit and she doesn’t notice anything important. Like, the other day, this guy walked in, and… anyway, never mind, Sophia’s name means ‘wisdom’. Ironic, is it not!

CHICA:

Ha! I’ll give you irony! You know my name means ‘churches’. Yes! People come to me to worship at my altar, Lupa! Like that guy last night, mmm, how he worshipped me…

ME:

Fine, Chica, but Chica just means girl, so what are you, a girly-church?

CHICA:

Girly-church! Good, good, I love the crazy way you use words, Lupa. Maybe I’ll even let his big congregation inside my girly-church tonight, my sacred cathedral of womanhood, my secret chapel-garden of feminine mystique...

ME:

Well, you listen. My name has origins ancient and powerful.

CHICA:

It does?

ME:

Listen, Chica. Mama told me of the Prose-Edda, the origin of all the legends of the Viking gods, written by Snorri Sturluson himself.

CHICA:

You’re making it up… ‘Snory’ who?

ME:

Stur-lu-son. He was an Icelandman. It is all there! Odin’s ravens, Idun’s apples, Thor’s mighty throbhammer! Imagine dark Loki, twitching and scheming in his trickster lair like bastard Jorge. Chica, many hundreds of years ago infinity-great-grandpapa took this name, this gift, fitting for us always, for we are a proud fiery family of storytellers, magicians, mystics, scratchers-of-surfaces, optical illusionists, legerdemainists, artists, poets…

CHICA:

‘Throbhammer’…? Now there’s a word! Um, yes… but Lupa… you know in Latin ‘proseda’ just means ‘prostitute’, right?

ME:

Chica, spite your filthy bitch-tongue, you cannot say such things! I am the living Prose Edda, the Norse palimpsest, the fount of myth!

Yes, fuck you, Chicaho. I bet Iglesias means plenty other things too. Like ‘ig—’ means ‘not’ sometimes, like ig-noble—see how I know the English words already!—and ‘lesias’ means something like ‘lens’ in Lithuanian, according to the internet, or maybe ‘lentil’. Not-lens. Not-lentil. Anti-lentil. I will call Chica-filth the Anti-Lentil from now on, and ignore the ignorant little iguana.

At least she never slept with fucking rat Jorge. The only damn woman in Buenos Aires who didn’t.

THURSDAY 5 FEBRUARY

TRANSLATORS NOTE: The entry for this day consists entirely of drawings of a female figure who we must assume is Chica Iglesias, in various states of undress. The words ‘Anti-Lentil’ and ‘sluttress’ recur, capitalised and underlined, along with many and various profanities.

One is struck by Proseda’s skill at life drawing, and notwithstanding the extreme nature of some of the imagery, the lithe beauty of Iglesias herself—as seen through the eyes of Proseda—comes through clearly.

There is also a single tear-stained image of a handsome bearded man with long black hair, impaled with numerous weapons and bleeding profusely. The letter ‘J’ is carved into his chest. I speculate this strange figure must represent the Christ.

FRIDAY 6 FEBRUARY

My loins are liquid honey, I am drenched in creative dew. I have a new brainspiration for a storybook, parboiled from my righteous anger at the Anti-Lentil’s slurs on the Prose-Edda. More than a storybook, much more; I will create a new genre, entirely new! I will call it erogenous mental control. Let me write it down before I forget, before it ebbs like cloudy dreams, like all the other forgotten loves of the future.

Chica knows she should be struggling, shouting. Kidnapped! But they must know they’ve got the wrong person… Too late, too late: everything is thought-swimming around her. Now there’s something on her head—inside her head—and she can’t move, speak, remember… what can’t she remember...?

Never mind. Chica tonguelicks her lips now, panticipating. Suddenly all her clever thoughts have left her, all washed away. But she has better things to think about than all that, like her new life as a mindless slut playtoy.

I will write in English language too, which I am now advanced in word-learning. ‘Mistaken Identity’ I will call it, because it a ‘miss’ that is ‘taken’ by ‘mis-take’! But who cares, the Anti-Lentil deserves it. Who has taken her? We shall see—perhaps my mind-master himself, come to avenge me! Yes, she will be changed, sexified, embreasted fit to bust until she accepts her fate. Miss-Taken Iden-TITTY. Sweet sainted serendipity, luck of the Loa, this works too. It is fate, O muse!

I shall always write my ideas down now before I forget. Else posterity be impoverished.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: ‘Miss-Taken Iden-Titty’ is the first recorded example of Lupeda beginning to apply her punning dexterity in the English language.

And… I glance at him in the coffee shop this morning. Again he does not look at me; so proud, so cunning! Very well, it will be our secret. His images rise in my mind. He makes me straddle him, I ride him, his pleasure-horse galloping deep inside me. Is this what I do by night, in his trance?

Another image, of the clothes he will make me wear, the spike-heeled black whore-shoes that signify my status. An odd coincidence; the beast Jorge always used to like me to dress that way for him. Today, it is an urge I cannot resist.

Very well, I buy them today, and although I can barely stay upright in their vertical height, I shall add them to my collection of joy-things, and tonight I shall party like it is 1999.

SATURDAY 7 FEBRUARY

O my aching head!

Again the mind-master compelled me to take a new man to my bed, to subsume myself in the flesh once more. It is the only explanation. Else why would I drink so much wine, beyond all rational tolerances; why would I throw myself at the feet of this dark stranger, whose name and face I have forgotten completely; why would I let him take me so willingly, and all while still wearing my whore-shoes?

Last night, in the hotfucky darkness of the stranger’s bedroom, the mind-master instructed me with detailed desirograms, and I filled my mouth with the stranger. The rhythm of my lips around him put me in mind of music, as he, the stranger, moaned to me of his pleasure while I played him like an oboe. Then, without will, I became his bowed instrument in return.

Everything is inspiration, is it not? Yes, sometimes when I make love it is to the swift melody of Eros. What if all human pleasure was such sweet music? Perhaps the mind-master could create such an orchestra of such automatoys to play? What would it sound like? Would it sound like this…?

Throbbing bass notes, low moans of arousal, are overlaid by harmonic murmurs of ecstasy. The instruments writhe helpless on their stands as the chorus swells like a breast. I, Lupa Proseda, watch his hands as they conduct, moaning my deepening melody. He smiles, encouraging.

Yes, it is beautiful. I can see them now, all lined up. What then, though?

Suddenly, a scream rings out, discordant. The mind-master angrily stops the orchestra, searching the pit for guilty eyes.

The Anti-Lentil will be amongst them, for sure. But there is no music in her lizard-heart, she cannot please him the way I can.

Chica again, shrieking out of tune! “It’s supposed to be a symphony of pleasure,” barks the mind-master at the Chica-player. “Pick up that whip and play properly.”

Haha. I love that idea.

Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with Tomás, or Ignacio. Or Lucas, or Martín, or that other guy. But was it such a big deal, compared to what bastard Jorge got up to, out there in the screamy Argentina nights?

I remember Jorge used to talk about the music of our eternal love as he lay in my arms, the deceitful scumsucker. I even wrote a beautiful song for him.

SUNDAY 8 FEBRUARY

I cannot write today. No words come.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: This is not strictly true. Several long pages are covered with ‘words’ under this entry, but they do not appear to be in any recognisable language. There then follows a strangely ethereal poem, in paradoxically perfect English. It is possible this is simply copied from another writer.

THE OWL

The charge: unfaithfulness.

But by what law?

She’d never asked to be made, but made she was;

oak blossom, meadowsweet and broomflower;

she never asked to be his.

And sometimes when she chose,

she chose another,

just like him.

Who can help who they love?

Flowers become feathers, and she hunts by night;

her cry is loneliness.

MONDAY 9 FEBRUARY

This morning the mind-master looked at me in the coffee shop and I think he almost smiled. He knew, of course, what he had ordered me to do last night, and the night before, and that I had helpless complied. I flushed, knowing he knew he has made me his perma-whore.

My eye met his, crystalline green, strangely like Jorge-bastard’s. There, deep within the green, something unclear. I looked closer. There at the centre of the green, a tiny web of gold, and within that, a hint of blue… Blue on gold on green on brown, exuberating.

There was no coffee shop, there were no people around us, there was no Lupa Proseda; I saw all the intricate patterns of life there. Beyond the gold, within the blue, an unstarred continent, complex, depths within depths. Deeper still, clouded with green and brown, almost exactly like the Caipora lurking in the trees…

I could not speak. What would he do to me? Would he impenetrate me right here, in public? Well, if so, let him. I was ready!

He looked away, took his coffee and, with a brief nod, left me standing there, my loins agush with unconsummated womanliness.

Who is he, this mystery mind-master? What does he want with me?

Secretly, I follow him. But is he making me follow him, or is this my idea? It is head-swimming.

A few yards up the road, I see the mind-master enter an anonymous office building. I wait, then saunter slowly past the door, eye-scanning the signifiers. It looks like a bank, the lobby marble-swish with money.

But this is an illusion, of course, a sight-disguise. This must be the hidden portal to the mind-master’s lair, cloaked against prying eyes.

I am none the wiser, but I expect nothing more. He is too powerful for me to challenge. I steel myself for the identistruggle that must lie ahead.

TUESDAY 10 FEBRUARY

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: Again, an entry mainly in pictorial form. Proseda gifts us a series of self-portraits in exquisitely explicit sexual variety. There are pages and pages of these pictures. In some, a handsome shadowy figure, dark-haired and bearded (no doubt a symbolic representation of the mind-master) engages in coitus with Proseda; in others she kneels, looking out from the page, wide-eyed and startlingly lifelike. One picture stands out for its suggestive and sinuous beauty; Proseda lies back on a bed, splayed, inviting us all to her. The caption reads ‘You will always have me’.

WEDNESDAY 11 FEBRUARY

Yes, he is the most powerful man in the world, and I need to write more of him, the mind-master. Shadowed in darkness, he mentipulates me from afar. But first, I must record success.

My words flow in a torrent. I have finished Miss-Taken Iden-Titty already; breathless, today I send it to some story printers I have found on the internet, each envelope sealed with the kiss of Lupa Proseda.

My first tale, the Prose-Edda flowering at last! I lie awake, flushed with excitement, imagining the crazy-praise and fame that will surely be mine.

The mind-master demands me to use a joy-thing on myself, my due reward. I cannot resist, and I select the largest of them all, proud and rigid, to impenetrate myself as he commands. Soon I am climaxing again in hotwaves as his unseen hand guides mine.

For some reason I think again of the beautiful lost bastard, and a tear swells. I hear on the grapevine he is working in fucking Rio now, of all places, no doubt swathed in bikini-bitches as usual. What if I never see him again? I dismiss such sentimental thoughts with contempt. I never want to see his brooding face again; he is not worthy of my attention now.

THURSDAY 12 FEBRUARY

I have idea-storms daily, now. Words welling up, swelling, weltering, sweltering… I am learning my English so fast! So many words! Here are some.

Allude, arouse, bedevil, bother, charm, chase. Disturb, dodge, elicit, enliven, ferment, goad, handcuff, harry, hector, incense, incite, inflame, jab. Knot, lead, mentipulate, mislead, nudge. Outdo, outrage; provoke, push, quiver, ride. Spark, stimulise, stir, stroke... Tauntalise, tease; thrill, torment, twist, unveil, violate, waken, whet, whip, wonderwork.

X, x, x…

Zookeeper.

I should put the slutbitch Anti-Lentil in a zoo-cage. Naked. With long-forgotten irrelevant Jorge! And—yes!—they will be stuck there forever in their punishment, and people will pay to come and look at them. Here is another storybook idea.

But what begins with X? It is an unknown! Unknowable! I must know! The only thing I can think of with an X in it is sex. Sex, sexysex. How I need it. I soul-crave it!

(Xylophone—that’s the word. Xylomoan. Maybe I can work that into the sex-music story.)

Last night was vexed, perplexed. My teacher-of-English; last night I rubbed against him, twined myself around him, and told him I wanted him in bed that evening.

I know I am beautiful, they say I am beautiful, even the Anti-Lentil has said so; but what if I am now even too beautiful? Sexy-scary? How beautiful is that?

This is what happened with him, and because he is not returning my calls today I have to imagine, deep in my warm heart of empathy, what he must have felt faced with such overweening terrorbeauty as me, too beautiful to see.

As I undressed, his anticipation became apprehension. I could sense shyness. I showed him my joy-things, waiting to be used, encouraging. Look! See! Imagine!

Was this just cold feet? No: I smelled another anxiety, nameless; the uneasy flight of disquietude.

My sunshine-smile, warm and inviting. I jingled one of my joy-things teasingly. I felt the beginnings of true man-fear, then: some pure-rising dread in his face. Dismay, alarm, panic. The jitters, I’ve heard it called, in English. Cold sweat, the blue funk shakes, the heeble-jellies; the screaming abdabs...

(NOTE TO SELF: need to flesh out his character, else he may seem too coward. He must be in fear, awe, but still manly enough to be chosen by me, by beautiful modest Lupa. This is a narrative fine-balance.)

Without daring to look at me, shading his eyes as if sun-blinded, he just turned and walked out.

He was not the mind-master; he could not cope. I understand this, of course, and now it must become a true story. But I must have him yet, my teacher; even if he is not a mind-master he is still a man, and tonight the mind-master tells me I will go to him again, and then I will suckulate him until he cries to his mother.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: Autobiographical themes resurface in Proseda’s short story ‘Terrorbeauty’ (2004), in which the unnamed protagonist is so awe-inspiringly gorgeous that men literally lose all control of their bodies in her presence, ironically limiting her opportunities to actually make love.

FRIDAY 13 FEBRUARY

Lucky day, or unlucky? I am not sure. I bravely waited for the mind-master at the coffee shop this morning, palpitating, acting casual while I sipped my coffee. When he entered, I confronted him at once, before my courage fled like a newborn mouse.

“I know you are my mind-master, dark one,” I whispered. “Why do you not speak to me? Why do you not take me? Why do you enslave me and puppeteer me from afar? I must know!”

He reared back and looked at me out of the tail of his eye. “Miss,” he dissembled, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“Talking about? Ha! Your game is subtle,” I said, my flesh trembling before him, trying not to give way. “For weeks now you have played on the strings of my desire. The trances, the strangers, the urges I am powerless to fight! The mad sex, the unwanted sugar-cakes themselves!”

He frowns, pretending to be puzzled. He does not speak. I feel the tentacles of his mind place their suckers on mine. Suddenly I am awash again with the primal woman-instinct, unstoppable floods of it. Transfixed under his gaze, my breasts swell for him, heaving, responding with life and eyes of their own.

“And what of the married man, the American teacher?” I pant. “Tonight you will compel me to go to him again, and he will fondlefuck me while I cravenly open my legs like a common slut. This is your doing, mind-master. I will not share your secret, I cannot, but please, just tell me: what do you want from me, your slave? What must I do to prove myself?”

His mouth opens and closes, goldfish-like, and I want to kiss it, to wrap my tongue around his. But today I must be strong, for I have writing to do. “Soon, mind-master, I will improve myself worthy of your attention,” I whisper.

I turn before he can ensnare me deeper, but I know his reach is far and forever.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: Note the early use of the word ‘puppeteer’, albeit in a curious verb form, foreshadowing the major themes of Proseda’s 2015 novel of the same name.

SATURDAY 14 FEBRUARY

This morning my mouth muscles ached and I am filled with lustfusion.

At first the American teacher was wary. He said he shouldn’t get involved, that it had been a mistake to go with me to my secret place. I asked him if it was because I was too beautiful, and he just stared at me. Then I told him the truth; that I am the sex-puppet of another, that I could not help but serve, and also that it was okay, his wife would never find out.

The mind-master was relentless with me, controlling me from afar, perhaps punishing me for my confrontational indiscretion of yestermorning, or perhaps this is a form of practice he makes me do. He had me on my knees before the American for over an hour. I could not help it.

But another story blooms in my fiery bosom. After he has gone I write in a fever, the story of the sex-puppet, the story of me, Lupa Proseda, although I will give myself a different name for modesty and my mother’s sake. It will take a long while to finish, and who knows where it will take me, for stories have a life of their own, do they not?

Tomorrow I will sleep all day, I think.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: ‘Stories have a life of their own:’ a theme that re-emerges in Mister Master and the Mad Meme (2010), in which a story does indeed acquire emergent sentience and a life of its own.

MONDAY 16 FEBRUARY

Today is the day. Surely I have practiced enough, served him enough in my night-trances. I put on my whore-shoes, some other joy-things, my light spring coat, and I wait for him to exit his stronghold. I am ready for him in every way.

The illusion of bank-ness is convincing. A stream of suit-ciphers leave through the swirlyglass doors, a mob of disguised creations to mask his own egress. And there, just as I fear I have missed him through his own cunning, I see the mind-master himself.

Quickly I approach, heel-clacking. Impossible arousal heats me. In the street I stand before him, and open my spring coat, letting him see the fulsome naked truth of Lupa Proseda beneath. He stares, feigning gogglement, as if this was not his idea in the first place, although I very clearly know he must have implanted this. “I am yours, as instructed,” I say, although it is hard to speak. “I have no choice; I am the whorequin of my mind-master. Will you now come to my apartment? Will you now let me show you I am worthy?”

All will leaves me as he finally grins and nods. I feel the tidal swell of his love. At his unheard command, I take his hand and click-clack the few short blocks to my pleasure-berth.

Afterwards he needs to go quickly; he says he has a flight to catch later; he will be overseas for a while. I do not believe he needs machines to fly, but I keep my counsel. I lie there in the dream-heat of fulfilment.

“How much?” says the mind-master, as he dresses.

I am bemused, speechless. What mystic question is this? How much what? How much animal heat has bonded us together for all time? How much do I belong to him, irrevocable? How much am I now in his total control, his for ever? How much did I enjoy it?

“Very much,” I say. It is the only answer.

I sigh in bed-jellied contentment; I know he will come for me again, when he returns.

He shakes his head, and leaves two hundred dollars on the table as he leaves. What is the significance of this ritual, this sacrificial offering of moneynotes to the goddess?

TUESDAY 17 FEBRUARY

The Anti-Lentil has been pestersome today. She wants to make up, she doesn’t even understand why we may have fallen out. An idea emerges, that perhaps I should not reject her totally. If that is the mind-master’s will, I cannot say no. We arrange to meet at the little-bar of illicit romance, tomorrow.

But all this pales to unimportance. Today, a shock realisation that only I know: there is not only one mind-master. No, there are many.

Today I am click-clacking proudly in my tall shoes, imagining his loving hands on me again, when I spot a man on the corner, dark haired and neatly bearded, by the little-bar of illicit romance. He is alone. I feel his mental pull; aghast, I can hardly stop myself; like an automatoy I put one foot in front of the other, and walk towards him. I am panting with the effort of resistance, to no avail! I am closer now. I suddenly know he will have me tonight, in his bed, he will thrust himself into my pliant wetbody until I scream. I palpitate, helpless to escape his magnetism. O pleasure intolerable! I am lost! I feel my woman-weak mind moaning to obey, obey, obey him!

But as I approach him, in lust-heaving shock, another woman is suddenly there, dark-eyed, her sinuous arms around him, obeying his unspoken commands, kissing him. I observe, surreptitious, perplexed. It looks to my trained expert eyes as if this strangely familiar stranger has been reprogrammed to think she is his wife and/or girlfriend. Such power unconstrained! A narrow escape—consider; if I had reached him first, it would surely have been me.

A resonant stutter of insight breaks my reverie; not only are the mind-masters pluralled, multifarious, they are each grown strong enough to control at least two women at once.

Later a mind-master (was it him? Or was it the other? Or a third? The imagination spins!) compelled me to return to the little-bar of illicit romance. The mind-master was not there, but I felt his will guiding me like a distant star. I was forced by remote-control to pick up a good-looking dark-haired man who would do just enough to still the tumult in the cleft of my moist-belly, and I was helpless to resist.

Wherever I go I feel their wills on me like hands on the succulence of a compliant virgin, pushing me this way or that towards unknown destinations.

I am their plaything now, a leaf in the wind, the plaything of all of them!

WEDNESDAY 18 FEBRUARY

Back in the haven of my own bed, I had a dream last night, one that has recurred for some time, but surely in retrospect implanted by the mind-masters. I’m walking through the hills near Melipilla again, child-eyed in my body. I have been this way before. Ahead lies yet another fork in the path-maze, and beside it stands another stonepost, and there sits yet another woman, identical, as always, to the last.

As always, I imagine her naked, and—as always—she is. She has fire-red hair, like the Anti-Lentil.

Roads stretch into infinite horizons. Butterflies flitter at her feet.

She smiles, beckons; in the dream I walk on, somehow knowing I will see her again tomorrow.

I thought nothing of this. Until tonight, in the little-bar of illicit romance, when the Anti-Lentil leaned close to me, whispering of forbidden fruits, and I knew at once of the subtle mentipulation they must have wrought while I slept.

I have never had woman-sex before, I tell her. She—tequila-drunk Chica Iglesias, the Anti-Lentil, la gran ho de Babilonia!—gigglecourages me; she smiles and licks my earlobe. Then she softly kisses me on the lips. I want to say no, it is unnatural. But the mind-masters have other ideas, and my body responds with a life of its own. The mind-masters must want me, their sex-puppet, to do this, I realise, therefore I am helpless as Chica-slut undresses me in her bedroom, licking me all over, nipplestiffening me with her nibbles. The world is red with woman-heat. The mind-masters must be observing from somewhere, or perhaps they can see it all through my eyes for their own unfathomable entertainment. I cannot help putting my hands on her breasts, my lips to her sweetness, and we entwine and wriggle together, soft flesh on flesh.

Afterwards she says to me: ‘Lupa, I don’t know what came over us, but it was good.’ I do not tell her of the mind-masters. Perhaps they are controlling her too, although surely the Anti-Lentil is not a worthy subject for ones so powerful. Anyway, we are slightly-more-friends again now.

And now I have another blessed ideation! A new story grows in me, like a bursting seed: Las Lesbianas Gauchos. I see it all; the steamy adventures of two pampas cowgirls as they ride through Patagonia. One has the fire-red hair and wanton ways of the Anti-Lentil. The other, a more complex and sympathetic character, is dark-sultry like me, her breastswells like the Atlantic spring tides.

The evil one, dark insatiable Jorge, always used to love talking about lesbians and how he’d like to watch.

However, I am definitely not a lesbian.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: Any manuscript that may have existed of Las Lesbianas Gauchos is sadly lost. It is not entirely certain that Lupeda ever completed it. It is to be hoped she returns to the idea in the future; one can only imagine the uproarious tumult of girl-on-girl action that would ensue.

THURSDAY 19 FEBRUARY

Now brutal fate conspires against me. Today the American teacher’s wife confronts me in the street, fist-bunched and purple-faced. She is tall, also American, blonde and athletic, glossily good-looking—beautiful even—embreasted like an ex-cheerleader, though not as sultrily lubricious as me.

She bluntly accuses me of sleeping with her husband. No, I say, not sleeping, why would I waste time on that? This enrages her further. She stands up on her arrogant high horse, calling me a spousefucker.

I try to mitigate as she shrieks, turning heads. I tell her that I am blameless, that a mind-master has me in his iron grasp; I raise my hands, pacifying; she must understand that I am in thrall, compelled, will-less, and therefore it’s absolutely not my fault.

She slaps my face, calls me terrible names, tells me I am slut-trash, and tells me to stay away from him.

The world is suddenly full of stress. And now I need to find another teacher, else how will I reach my rightful audience of the future?

I turn again in grief to seek the soft arms of Chica, but she says last night was a one-off, that she was drunk, that she just wants to be friends, that she only really likes men. Even the little-bar of illicit romance is empty of love tonight. Luckily I do not miss foul Jorge at all.

I shall write for a while, and then cry myself to sleep.

FRIDAY 20 FEBRUARY

TRANSLATORS NOTE: The first page entry for this day consists of a single word, drawn in huge black capital letters: SEXPUPPET.

Beneath are a series of sketchy drawings depicting a naked female figure. Although the face is blank, it is clearly Proseda herself, dancing. There are strings attached to her arms and legs, and above her a puppeteer’s cross-frame held by a disembodied hand. On the back of the sketched hand, again the bold letter ‘J’: in this instance, its meaning is unclear. I hypothesise ‘Juicio’, a word with multiple meanings in Spanish: depending on context it can mean trial, judgement, senses, sanity, or wisdom.

FRIDAY 20 FEBRUARY (CONT’D)

Another black day! How much more can I take?

A letter of rejection, three of them in fact, faceslaps of nothingness from the aching void. I had strong and secret hopes for Miss-Taken Iden-Titty. But they—these so-called ‘publishers’—do not understand it. They say it is too weird, too explicitly sexual, too difficult to read, not commercially viable.

Damn these cursed philisticians! Are my words not beautiful as the sun-warmed flesh? Does my earthiness not take flight from the page? Do they not hear the crackling of the fire in my loins?

And my love-texts, my ardent words of joy, will the world never understand you, will they ever feel the shiver-thrills too...?

Never mind. I am ahead of my time. I know my words will be heard one day. I will write of something simple, then, of the mass market, for the Americans. And from nowhere an idea comes to my brow fully formed! Cheerleaders—that’s it, my characters will be wholesome cheerleaders, like the arrogant blonde-bitch wife of my teacher. A love-tripod, why not; involving two of them, or maybe more. The other one may be a redhead, like the Anti-Lentil, or perhaps darkling like me… we shall see.

At first they will both be arrogant and proud, unattainable, untouchable, entitled; but they will be brought low to their inner slut-knees by a mind-master. The hyper-arrogant blonde one will end up a sex-slave, the more sympathetic one will win his heart.

And one day I may even bring myself to write of Jorge himself, his surreal brilliance, his dark hieratic presence, his irresistible animal sexuality, his transgressive gift of dominance, and his rage-spitting casual unfaithfulness. He will be sorry then.

But for now, I am tired, confused, even a little upset, and the distant star-blessed mind-masters somehow recognise this. They are so good to me, their simplehoney servant! Spontaneously they decide me to go to Rio for two weeks, implanting a vision of the sun-kissed playas for reward and recreation, and they make me book a plane-ticket on the internet.

I have never been to Rio. Although my credit card squirms at the thought, I obey. The city carnival’s big finish is on Tuesday. I will treat myself and stay at the Copacabana. Yes, I will put on my joy-things and go to the Mardi-Gras, and dance until dawn, an unquenchable succubus, a wild-eyed she-devil, a sensual goddess of the night!

No, I do not miss Jorge at all, now, not even the submissive thrill of his commanding presence in my bedroom, my weak-kneed inability to resist him. I am Lupa Proseda, fount of myth; I do not miss him one tiny little bit, and I never will.

SATURDAY 21 FEBRUARY

These are strange days, and the mind-masters are everywhere now, swarming. Today I must write of the man from Santiago. It happens, unexpected, at the busy airport, in Rio.

Yes, from Santiago he’s flown, sultry as the night-time Andes, starlit. Even his bag is beautiful. It comes down the belt, bearing all the rugged scars of adventure. As does his passionate face, a vision of dark jungle and green flashing eyes. He must be here for the carnival, the Mardi-Gras, too. Everybody is.

Distracted, I suddenly notice my own case is heavy; too heavy. Frowning, I realise this is not my case, not my case! Always the companion of thieves. My clothes, my manuscripts, my joy-things, my secret womanhood, all gone…

Frantically I search, but the belt is empty now. I whirl and spin in the baggage hall, screaming to high Pachamama of the mountains. My shrieks echo from the walls.

Santiago-man pins me with an emerald stare. In that instant I know he is one of them, the ever-multiplying mind-masters, the most powerful I have yet met.

“Miss?” says Santiago-man. He approaches, padding jaguar-like. I dare not breathe. “Is something wrong?”

“My case,” I whisper through irrepressible instinct-heat. “Gone. My cradle-of-sweetness is lost. I have no clothes.”

I raise my chin proudly, and undo the top buttons of my blouse, exposing lacysoft bosoms. I cannot help it. Perhaps I am tired from flying, but all my resistance is down. He has me.

He raises an eyebrow-raise, then grins masterfully. He hefts another case. “This one must be yours, then.”

I sigh and almost swoon at his feet with subservitude. My preciousness is not lost, after all. But am I…?

Now he is smiling at me, this serpent, this servant of Sinaa. “Overrated, clothes, aren’t they, miss?”

Shiver flutter and my breath catches.

“You are predating me,” I manage to say. So fast! So strong! Already he has me in the power of the mind. I can feel it!

His brown face crinkles with laughter. “Predating…? I’m not that old, miss…?”

“Lupa. Call me Lupa, fierce wolf!” I gaze at him with furious defiant passion. “Yes, you are predating me, you predator. I sense this. I smell this.”

I tear my blouse open, as I know he has commanded my woman-weak mind to do. “Predate me, then, if you dare; chase me if you must; hunt me down, take me if you can; take me to your bed, and make me your plaything; mentipulate me to the edge of the sky, mind-master from Santiago!”

He backs away slightly from my joyous lava torrent of lust. He glances nervously at his watch. Yes! That must be his artefact, I think, his artefact-of-influence. He must be checking it is working, mind-masters must always check such things; attention to detail is important to them. I feel its command-rays warm my very heart.

“What are you waiting for, mind-master?” I shout in resignation. I throw my arms wide, as he must have commanded without me noticing. “I am helpless, I am yours to ride! Cockulate me to heavenly orglivion!”

For no reason at all, the man from Santiago turns away and starts running.

It’s bafflestrange. Why do they not simply take me? Why do the mind-masters pretend confusion, denial, even to me, Lupa Proseda, their most worthy servant? What game are they playing with me, their chess pawn?

A dark inkling tickles and chills, tauntalising; it has brewing for a while.

I’m beginning to wonder if for all their powers, these ever-multiplying mind-masters may all perhaps be brain-mad; irrationally, palparevocably mad. Can it be? If so, I fear for myself; I fear for the future of the women of the world, all helpless in their hands.

Yet, and yet; still the evening sun shines, the Copacabana beckons; today is happy Carnival Saturday, and I do not miss fucking Jorge one tiny centimetre. No, I certainly won’t go looking for him here. Who even cares where he is? The night ahead is long and steamy with the unknown temptations of a new city, and I have my joy-things with me.

But if by some wild coincidence I should see the one love of my life, the unforgiving dark bastard himself, sauntering on the playa with some huge-assed carioca sluttress on his arm, I swear I shall run to him, my arms thrown wide in joy, and I’ll spit in his beautiful lying face.

TRANSLATOR’S NOTE: Proseda kept no diary during the period of her stay in Rio, although several events made the local news, including her sudden and unexpected marriage to first husband Jorge, aforementioned in these diaries. The ceremony took place on Ipanema beach on Sunday 1 March, and was a fittingly passionate and wild affair by all accounts.

An interview with the (now retired) hotel manager at that time offers a small insight:

“…I have seen many things, but I have never seen anything like Lupa Proseda in all my years of Mardi-Gras. The room was trashed daily; there were men, men and women everywhere, their sweat-drenched bodies always akimbo across the bed. Chambermaids would enter each morning to clean, and only emerge hours later, dishevelled from coitus. Room service waiters would simply vanish into the melting-pot.

“Through all this Ms. Proseda and her new husband seemed very happy together. They were also completely calm and unapologetic, as if such debauched goings-on were completely natural and everyday occurrences. If this is how they do things in Buenos Aires, then I for one am never going there.”

ABOUT LUPA PROSEDA

Lupa Proseda was born in 1972 in Melipilla, a small town between Santiago and San Antonio, Chile. Her father was a well-known local stage hypnotist and illusionist; her mother a writer of doggerel for travelling musicians. Proseda travelled to study comparative psychology at the University of Buenos Aires, a time she freely admits were her true formative years. The melange of cultural influences in the Argentine capital had a deep influence on Proseda, and it was there she began writing; in her own words to express the fiery erogenital tumult in my animal soul. Her early, now sadly lost, works are known to include Las Lesbianas Gauchos, a short story detailing the steamy adventures of a gang of pampas cowgirls as they ride through Patagonia, La Gran Ho de Babilonia, about a woman of extraordinarily loose morals, and El Hombre Muy Potente, which constitutes her first recorded foray into the erotic mind-control genre, and a possible precursor of Puppeteer, her most recent novel.

After graduating, Proseda began writing in English to reach a wider audience. She is known for her creative and expressive use of language. Her early works were well received amongst a small but steadily growing audience. Her breakthough novel, A Tale of Two Cheerleaders was the launchpad for a stellar career.

Her subsequent books include: Hypnogeddon! (1999), a complex allegory of the shifting late twentieth-century geo-political landscape, SlutBoss (2002), in which she skewers Western corporate culture and workplace politics, and Dollifiers of Deneb (2006) a daring wide-canvas sci-fi extravaganza, with actual aliens. She is also well-known as the author of the popular Mister Master (the Millionaire Megalomaniac from Maastricht) series, and the ground-breaking graphic novel SuperPuta (2010). She is currently working on the planned sequel to her latest novel Puppeteer, (2015) along with a collection of erotic poetry, Per Verse.

Typically described as ‘ravishingly, almost supernaturally beautiful,’ Ms Proseda lives in a very large apartment in Miami with her fourth husband, ninety-three-year-old billionaire property tycoon Alvin Schneibel. Her private life remains fiercely guarded.

However, it is well known that her first husband, Jorge, who she married after a whirlwind romance in Rio de Janiero in 1998, disappeared six years later in mysterious circumstances. Proseda famously described him in a recent interview as ‘...the love of my life, who all others, whether fictional or factional, must vainly aspire to match—the faithless slithering bastard’.

GLOSSARY

A full glossary of Proseda-isms would exceed the length of any book. However, the following words are of particular interest because they recur in later works by Proseda.

The above story has attracted considerable academic debate. In this popular tale, Mister Master becomes increasingly disheartened with the tone-deaf caterwauling of one particular ‘instrument’, named the Chica-Horn. But she is one of the few instruments who can hold his attention in the bedroom, even if she cannot hold a tune. Love blossoms.

However, in a typical Prosedan irony, Chica-Horn cannot help screeching out her ‘singing’ at the moment of orgasm, and Mister Master is forced to silence her during intercourse for the sake of his own sanity, to wit: ...swiftly, firmly, he engaggled her. Chica-Horn strained against her bonds, her tendermelt throbbing for attention. Such sweetly silent succulence as she’d never known nor dreamed of! But would he one day let her sing again, and hoot her happy harmonies of desire…?

During one particularly energetic session she breaks free of the gag, and shatters all the windows in Mister Master’s apartment as she climaxes.

Some commentators see all this as an arch reference by Proseda to her early ‘gagging’ by short-sighted unreceptive publishers, and the raging torrent of creativity that was finally unleashed with her first book deal.

Others do not.