THE MAN FROM SANTIAGO
From Santiago he comes, sultry as the night-time Andes, starlit. O Lord, his bag is beautiful. It comes down the belt, bearing all the rugged trampscars of adventure. As does his face, muy apasionado, a vision of dark jungle.
Distracted, I—Lupa Proseda, fount of myth—suddenly notice my own case is heavy; too heavy. Frownaching, I feel the error-terror; not my case, not my case! My clothes, my precious manuscripts of erogenital mental control, my joy-things, my secret womanhood, all gone! My cradle-of-sweetness no more!
Frantic I search, but the belt is empty now. I whirl and spin in the baggage hall, screaming to high Pachamama of the mountains. Echoshrieks from the walls.
Santiago-man looks at me with a stare of lustfusion; transfixed under his gaze, my breasts swell for him, heaving, responding with life and eyes of their own. My heart squeals like a cornered capybara. In that instant I know he is one of them. Even here, the mind-masters have come for me.
“Miss?” says Santiago-man. He approaches pad-soft, jaguar-like. I dare not breathe. “Is something wrong?”
“My case,” I whisper through irrepressible instinct-heat. “Gone. Always the companion of thieves! I have no clothes, now.” I raise my chin proudly, and undo the top buttons of my blouse, exposing lacysoft bosoms. I cannot help it. He has me.
Eyebrow-raise, then grin. He hefts another case. “This one must be yours, then.”
I sigh and almost swoon at his feet with gratitude. My life’s work is not lost, after all.
But now he is smiling at me, the Santiago serpent, this servant of Sinaa. “Overrated, clothes, aren’t they, miss?”
Shiverthrills flutter and my breath catches.
“Overrated, you say? Clothes? You are predating me,” I manage to pant. So fast! 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…?”
“Proseda. Call me Lupa, fierce jungle wolf!” I gaze at him with furious defiant passion. “Yes, you are predating me, like a predator. I sense this. I smell this.” I tear my blouse open, as I am sure he has commanded my womanweak 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 if you will, and throw me down there, a plaything for you; subdue me as you wish, and cockulate me to the very edge of the sky, O madman from Santiago!”
He backs away slightly from my joyous lavatorrent of acquiescence. He glances nervously at his watch. Yes! That must be his artefact, I think, his ancient artefact of influence. He must be checking it is working. I feel its rays warm my very heart.
“What are you waiting for, mind-master?” I shout. I throw my arms wide, as he must have commanded without me noticing. “I am helpless to escape your power! Mentipulate me to heavenly orglivion!”
For no reason at all, the man from Santiago turns away and starts running.
I sigh. It’s bafflestrange; this always seems to happen recently. I’m beginning to think that for all their powers, the mind-masters must all be mad; irrationally, palparevocably mad.
Still, the night ahead is long and steamy with unknown temptations. And at least I have my joy-things back.