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 encyclopedia or two.

"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.

"Thank you."

"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.

"A little over three weeks," he responded after a brief mental calculus. "Sorry it took so long."

"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?"

"Go on," she insisted, prodding him with an inquisitive finger. "What are you not telling me?"

"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!"

She raised an intrigued eyebrow as she sauntered to close the office door. This was something she wanted to hear in utmost privacy.

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:

"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?"

"That's right."

"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.

"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.

"Subconscious or supernatural sources," he concluded.

"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..."

"Yes, I... I think that sums it up quite nicely."

"I don't think so."

"I'm sure you're a wonderful puppeteer."

"Yes?"

He felt the muscles on his shoulders becoming soft and malleable. "It depends on what that something is, I guess."

"Yes, Sandra."

He turned his head to look at her. "Demonstration of what?"

"It doesn't work like that. I... I'm not even sure if it works at all."

"With you standing next to me?"

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.

"Then how can you possibly say no to my request?"

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...

"Hmmm..." Sandra muttered and he couldn't help but wonder if that was a sign of approval or disapproval. He confronted the alien word automatically brought to life but, instead of erasing it from existence, he added to it, turning a single impression into a half-sentence of harmonious sounds, something like

"I see..." she chirped.

Brian's buttocks barely bruised

Good question, one he would love to answer if only he knew how. Whatever he was channeling at that moment was different from all the other times when he had felt control was being taken away from him. A fleeting shadow hung over his thoughts, a dark-tipped fingernail poked his dominant hand, and something rubbery traced a sensual outline at the base of his neck.

"It's automatic," she replied. "And quite fitting, too."

"This is getting fucked up," he mumbled.

"I want..."

"I... I'm not sure what I want right now. Perhaps we should stop this... whatever this is... " he responded yet unable to prevent his hand from moving and adding even more words to the fantasy in play.

"If you want to stop, why do you continue writing? It's obvious you have more words wishing to come out and I see you think my way."

She kissed his right ear lobe, a bit of tongue sliding in. "Whatever I want it to be. Didn't I tell you before I love puppets?"

"It depends on whether you want to believe that or not. Why do you think you're writing what you're writing right now? Did the words come from you or did I put them there somehow? Perhaps you're remembering something you thought you forgot out of your own accord or you've been triggered to remember. I know how much you love triggers after all..."

Sandra turned the chair around, raised his chin up high to meet her eyes. "I think I can drop the act now. I read your stories, your poems, silly boy. I read all the lines and everything in-between even before you gave them to me today, I read your movements every time you came into my office, I read the surprise, the shock, the shyness. I read it all and mirrored it for you which is why I'm going to ask you again. Why do you think you're writing the things you're writing right now? Where do your fantasies come from?"

"Were they always there?"

"What do you think you know then?"

Sandra pushed the image of the strap-on deeper into his mind. "I was a Muse not so long ago and now I'm a witch? Is that something you find entertaining? Does it amuse you to consider such a fantastic possibility? Or does it bother you because you're used to seeing the fantastic only on paper or on the TV? I could have simply hypnotized you but look where your imagination has led you... Witches, Muses, mind puppets, magic... fictitious creations or realities of their own? You get to choose."

"Oh?"

"That sounds like something Plato would say. Copies of Ideas, imperfect manifestations of perfect concepts. He was quite the strange man, you know?"

"I'm not suggesting anything, my dear. Your own imagination is. You listen to what you want to listen, interpret what you want to interpret until everything makes sense to you. I'm just a whisperer in a world of noise."

"Yes, my puppet?"

"Did you now?"

"More what?"

"... getting fucked time and time again whenever I feel like it?" she concluded.

"I certainly enjoy a good fuck. Bonus points if the mind gets it too and you, my dear, you have such a wonderful mind ready for the taking."

She snapped her fingers and had him look at everything he had written in just three weeks just in case he needed concrete evidence.

"A beginning, the start of something great."

"I see the beginning of it creeping up on my end..." he blushed.

"I thought you would see it that way."

"Yes, Sandra."

And so, he did.