The Dream Hands' Dominion

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A surreal image of a man sleeping peacefully in his bed, surrounded by a multitude of disembodied male hands. The hands are gently massaging his body, creating a dreamlike and eerie atmosphere in his bedroom.

**Tactile Dominion**

The city breathed a restless sigh as Thomas Grayson strolled its winding streets, every corner of his mind replaying the bizarre dream that haunted his sleep with vivid precision. He had dreamt of hands—disembodied yet undeniably masculine—skillful, heroic, and insatiable in their desire to serve him. They detached from their owners like a magician’s sleight of hand, scurrying across the ground like an army of obedient spiders, transforming chaos into his brand of order.

In his dream, the skyline of the city melted into an array of grayscale; ephemeral, like shifting sands. As he walked through crowded avenues and narrow alleyways alike, the hands would detach from the wrists of passersby. There was no blood, no pain—just the surreal sight of fingers wiggling free and knuckles crackling with newfound independence. Hands that belonged to burly construction workers were now moving rubble effortlessly. Hands of artisans molded invisible clay in the air, sculpting ethereal forms that evaporated like morning fog.

And these hands didn’t merely exist; they listened. They knew his thoughts and turned them into the primordial actions he desired. As he wondered if a locked door blocked his path, the hands slithered and jimmied the lock open without need for hesitation. Walking into a diner on Fourth Street, he whimsically thought of flipping all the chairs onto the tables, and in seconds, the hands obliged, leaving a path of astounded diners and a flabbergasted waitstaff in his wake.

Yet, with each step, more hands joined this peculiar procession, crawling up his legs, clinging to his waist, and eventually enveloping him in a sea of tactile devotion. They massaged his aches, smoothed his worries, their fingers kneading his flesh with hypnotic precision. Thomas reveled in the sensation, letting his eyes close with the assurance that this dominion was his kingdom paved in unreal malleability.

But then, as dreams often do, it fractured. He awoke, a sharp inhale pulling him back to the mundanity of his modest bedroom. The dim glow of pre-dawn light filtered through the thin curtains, and the sound of car horns blaring in the distance assured him that reality, however disappointing, awaited him.

Groaning softly, Thomas sat up, ruffling his dark hair, fighting the bitter twang of disappointment. The memories of dream hands' docile obedience were still vivid, almost metallic in taste and tang. Yet, as he glanced around his room, the lack of crawling, dismembered appendages was a cold reminder of the ordinary world he lived in. With a sigh, he sank back into the pillows, pulling the quilt over his weary form.

Sleep came swiftly, casting him into a profound slumber. In the growing stillness of the room, unseen by Thomas, the foot of his bed played host to an eerie spectacle. Quietly, they materialized—pairs of strong, capable, masculine hands—tightened into fists, fingers flexing experimentally. Emerging from the shadows, they began moving, one nimble pair after another, their fingertips brushing across the quilt.

Without so much as a whisper, they began their gentle, tireless work. One pair slid under the quilt, fingers splayed against his torso, tenderly massaging his muscles into deeper relaxation. Another pair moved to his shoulders, deftly kneading the tendons until the tension stored within them dissipated. A third found its way to his feet, strong and sure, caressing with a mindful touch, exploring his responses and modulating pressure with unseen expertise.

And so, while Thomas drifted even further into the depths of slumber, surrounded by the servient hands from his dream, they continued to serve their newfound master. Blurring the delicate line between reality and the realm of dream, feeding his longing in a paradoxical vigil, they awaited the dawn to reveal more than just daylight—a tactile dominion at his fingertips.

The city slept on, unaware of the peculiar confluence of dreams and reality unfolding in a modest apartment bedroom, where fantasy’s grasp on reality's wrist was tighter than ever.

This story was generated by user bud with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.

Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.

AI Prompts

Prompt: write a story of a man who dreams that he has the magical ability to steal the hands of other men, causing them to harmlessly detach from their former owners' wrists and crawl, move around and manipulate objects on their own. the male hands include a variety ranging from heroically large, strong and rugged ones to skillful and dexterously artistic, all unmistakably masculine. as he walks through town, the man creates chaos as the hands of men that he comes across detach from wrists, scrambling to follow him and and form an army to obediently carry his wishes, not even needing spoken commands, and turn his thoughts into action. as the hands all coalesce around and over his body in a sea of massaging fingers and palms, the man wakes up to find himself in bed. sadly disappointed that it was all a dream, he lies down to go back to sleep. unseen by him are a several pairs of male disembodied hands at the foot of the bed, waiting to tuck him in and massage his sleeping muscles once he slumbers.

Response: **Tactile Dominion** The city breathed a restless sigh as Thomas Grayson strolled its winding streets, every corner of his mind replaying the bizarre dream that haunted his sleep with vivid precision. He had dreamt of hands—disembodied yet undeniably masculine—skillful, heroic, and insatiable in their desire to serve him. They detached from their owners like a magician’s sleight of hand, scurrying across the ground like an army of obedient spiders, transforming chaos into his brand of order. In his dream, the skyline of the city melted into an array of grayscale; ephemeral, like shifting sands. As he walked through crowded avenues and narrow alleyways alike, the hands would detach from the wrists of passersby. There was no blood, no pain—just the surreal sight of fingers wiggling free and knuckles crackling with newfound independence. Hands that belonged to burly construction workers were now moving rubble effortlessly. Hands of artisans molded invisible clay in the air, sculpting ethereal forms that evaporated like morning fog. And these hands didn’t merely exist; they listened. They knew his thoughts and turned them into the primordial actions he desired. As he wondered if a locked door blocked his path, the hands slithered and jimmied the lock open without need for hesitation. Walking into a diner on Fourth Street, he whimsically thought of flipping all the chairs onto the tables, and in seconds, the hands obliged, leaving a path of astounded diners and a flabbergasted waitstaff in his wake. Yet, with each step, more hands joined this peculiar procession, crawling up his legs, clinging to his waist, and eventually enveloping him in a sea of tactile devotion. They massaged his aches, smoothed his worries, their fingers kneading his flesh with hypnotic precision. Thomas reveled in the sensation, letting his eyes close with the assurance that this dominion was his kingdom paved in unreal malleability. But then, as dreams often do, it fractured. He awoke, a sharp inhale pulling him back to the mundanity of his modest bedroom. The dim glow of pre-dawn light filtered through the thin curtains, and the sound of car horns blaring in the distance assured him that reality, however disappointing, awaited him. Groaning softly, Thomas sat up, ruffling his dark hair, fighting the bitter twang of disappointment. The memories of dream hands' docile obedience were still vivid, almost metallic in taste and tang. Yet, as he glanced around his room, the lack of crawling, dismembered appendages was a cold reminder of the ordinary world he lived in. With a sigh, he sank back into the pillows, pulling the quilt over his weary form. Sleep came swiftly, casting him into a profound slumber. In the growing stillness of the room, unseen by Thomas, the foot of his bed played host to an eerie spectacle. Quietly, they materialized—pairs of strong, capable, masculine hands—tightened into fists, fingers flexing experimentally. Emerging from the shadows, they began moving, one nimble pair after another, their fingertips brushing across the quilt. Without so much as a whisper, they began their gentle, tireless work. One pair slid under the quilt, fingers splayed against his torso, tenderly massaging his muscles into deeper relaxation. Another pair moved to his shoulders, deftly kneading the tendons until the tension stored within them dissipated. A third found its way to his feet, strong and sure, caressing with a mindful touch, exploring his responses and modulating pressure with unseen expertise. And so, while Thomas drifted even further into the depths of slumber, surrounded by the servient hands from his dream, they continued to serve their newfound master. Blurring the delicate line between reality and the realm of dream, feeding his longing in a paradoxical vigil, they awaited the dawn to reveal more than just daylight—a tactile dominion at his fingertips. The city slept on, unaware of the peculiar confluence of dreams and reality unfolding in a modest apartment bedroom, where fantasy’s grasp on reality's wrist was tighter than ever.