Sandra looked in awe at the paper tower proudly erected upon her desk and gave Brian the most intoxicating of smiles in return. When he had told her of the things he had written thinking about her, she expected a couple of light verses and may be a short story or two, certainly not enough material to fill an encyclopaedia or two.
"Wow!" she exclaimed as her fingers played along the printed letters. "I can't believe you did all of this for me!"
"Yeah, I..." standing a couple of feet away from her, Brian was trying his best not to blush yet failing miserably, a habit he insisted on repeating at the most inappropriate of occasions. He composed himself though not for long.
"You're a real sweetheart," she concluded, turning on her heels to brush her lips against his. It was more of a tease than a kiss, though it was still enough to drive him crazy with desire. He tried to hold her, prolong the moment, but she quietly slipped away from his grasp, leaving him only with a burning sensation and a barely audible response:
"Thank you."
"I don't think I've ever been anyone's Muse before," she admitted, playing with a curl of ash brown hair.
"Oh, you're so much more than that," were the words he wanted to say out loud. Instead, he remained in silence, goofy-eyed, and head hanging low while fiddling his thumbs.
"So how long did it take you to write all this?" she asked, holding one of the pages close to her heart.
"A little over three weeks," he responded after a brief mental calculus. "Sorry it took so long."
Sandra's jaw dropped momentarily once again.
"Did you just say...? You've got to be kidding! How did you find the time for all of this? Are you even sleeping properly?"
"I never sleep much," he shrugged. "Besides, I've always been a fast typer although..."
"Go on," she insisted, prodding him with an inquisitive finger. "What are you not telling me?"
"Nothing. You'll probably think it's stupid, anyway, so I better..."
"Nonsense!" She exclaimed, assuming the most dominant of postures he had ever seen. "Brian Sanders, I demand you tell me what's on your mind right now!"
"Well, I... you see..." he mumbled, struggling to find a sliver of coherence amidst the sudden emotional chaos. "I'm not sure I've actually written everything you see there."
She raised an intrigued eyebrow as she sauntered to close the office door. This was something she wanted to hear in utmost privacy.
"Okay, but you're going to have to be a little more specific than that. Take a seat, will you?"
He pulled up a black leather swivel chair and sank his one hundred and seventy pounds into it, nervous hands on his lap. Sandra slid behind him, leaned her head to meet the base of his neck and whispered:
"You were saying?"
"Hmmm," Brian gulped, pulling his legs slightly apart only to do the exact opposite shortly after. His voice faltered. "Have you ever heard of a phenomenon called psychography?"
"Can't say that I have," she confessed. "No, wait, I think I remember something about that... You're talking about automatic writing, aren't you?"
"That's right."
"A psychic ability? Is that even a real thing?" She asked, slowly massaging his shoulders. He had dreamed of doing that to her on that very same office a million times already but to be on the receiving end was even better.
"It doesn't have to be necessarily a psychic thing. Those that have studied it and believe in its veracity also mention other possible causes such as..." he hesitated.
"Go on. Don't you dare to leave me hanging."
"Sorry, but it's really dumb and..." he tried to get up, but she had other plans. A gentle push forced him back to the original position and her assertive tone did the rest.
"Stay there! Just relax, Brian, and finish what you were going to say. Other possible causes such as...?"
"Subconscious or supernatural sources," he concluded.
"Ah... Like possession and such?"
"Something like that. One moment, you're in charge of your actions and the next your fingers are moving as if being pulled by invisible strings..."
"Just like a puppet then," she said, amused.
"Yes, I... I think that sums it up quite nicely."
"Did I ever tell you I love puppets?" she cooed.
"I don't think so."
"Well, I did now."
"I'm sure you're a wonderful puppeteer."
"Thank you. Brian..."
"Yes?"
"I would like you to do something for me right now. Can you do that?"
He felt the muscles on his shoulders becoming soft and malleable. "It depends on what that something is, I guess."
"Just answer 'yes' or 'no', please."
"Yes, Sandra."
"Good," she moved away from him, grabbed a white sheet of paper and a pen, placed them both on his lap. "Give me a demonstration."
He turned his head to look at her. "Demonstration of what?"
"Automatic writing, of course," she giggled.
"It doesn't work like that. I... I'm not even sure if it works at all."
"And yet you were so convinced it did just now. Write something for me, anything. Don't think about it, just write."
"With you standing next to me?"
"Could there be anything better for a writer than having his Muse close by giving him the inspiration he needs? Unless you think I'm a distraction or something..."
Yes, he did, though saying it out loud felt like an insult. Sandra had been a distraction ever since the day they had met. A beautiful, six-feet two tall distraction in heels, with short hair, hazelnut eyes, plump cherry lips, and just the right amount of cleavage showing at every possible occasion to keep a man dreaming of the soft delicacies underneath. She looked particularly ravishing that day in a burgundy two-piece business suit and matching boots.
"I think you're just wonderful," he replied, hands trembling.
"Then how can you possibly say no to my request?"
He couldn't so he picked up the pen, glanced at the blank paper and took a deep breath. Sandra took a few steps to the side, away from his angle of vision but still close enough he could hear her gentle breathing and an occasional click of the heels on the back of the chair.
What would he write about? Starting was always the hardest part when all possible ideas competed against one another for a piece of the pie. When he was alone, and lost in fantastic daydreams, Brian liked to imagine a wrestling ring where the rules of engagement were the fact there were no rules at all. He tried going there, to that well-lit ring in the deepest recess of his imagination, where the audience comprised of mirror images of himself, each one rooting for a different contender. The usual suspects included eyes, the ephemeral nature of love, and fantasies of hypnotic seduction. Often, these three ideas survived the longest, dispatching all others with relative ease until they had no choice but to annihilate one another. However, the pen thought differently this time. Privileging a route he hardly used, the cylindrical instrument moved independently from his conscious thoughts to write down the word...
Strap-on
