Thank you COVID! I wrote this story during a long all-team meeting for work a while back. Completely checked out professionally (as usual), I tapped into my true desires and put pen to paper...or fingers to keys...stumps to keys?

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I'm in a new room. It’s very cozy, a fireplace raging in the corner and fur rugs line the floor. The air smells of sage and hickory smoke. I take a deep breath and take it all in. Everything is so clear! I take just a moment to take it all in and get familiar with my surroundings. The air is not completely dry but it is warm against my skin. I notice a large bay window on the other side of the room from the fire—it’s black night outside. Large dark rafters span the tall vaulted ceiling. I am happy.

I look down and I know why I’ve come here. I sit on the floor on my fluffy fur-lined rug. I lift my hand, detailed as ever, in fact even clearer than I remember. I turn it over and admire my form. Beautiful—complicated! My fingers are slender and tips round. I can easily see the muscles move beneath my slender flesh as I clasp my fist. My wrist is beautiful and bony with a small bump at the top. I admire and love my creation in this way!

I turn around and I see my first tool! It looks somewhat like a ballpoint pen but with filagree and glowing sparkles lining its length. Detailed designs cover the steel exterior of the tool like ancient hieroglyphics. It must be the storied history of this tool and what it was used for. I don’t look much more closely however as I have looked before and that’s not why I am here. I accept that this is my tool, and it will do what I expect it to and I accept that.

I gingerly take-on the tool in my left hand like a pen. It doesn't write, however, it disassembles. I hold it up to my index finger, rest the tip at the base of where my finger attaches to the rest of my palm, and give the tool a gentle squeeze. The squeeze makes my grasp more deliberate but also turns the tool on as it begins to glow a dull orange. The light emanating from deep within the orange tool causes the sparkles to glow brightly—iridescent.

I move the tool around the skin of my finger and it leaves a thin red line. I make my way around the finger. Then I cross the red line with lines extending from just below the base of my finger and up its length. I put the pen down for a second so I can work with my hand.

I grab the skin and pull the flesh away from the index finger, revealing a complicated musculature, more clear and detailed than any anatomy textbook drawing I’ve witnessed. There is no pain and that is by design. I bend my finger gently and witness the muscles, anchored above and below my incisions, commanding the knuckle joint to move.

I continue to use the tool to detach muscles above the incisions, and cauterize the vessels I come across. It is detailed work but it is straightforward and I fall into somewhat of a trance watching myself self-disassemble with the help of my small glowing tool.

What’s left is hanging flesh, capped off vessels, and all that keeps the finger attached to my hand is bone. Its bright white exterior is devoid of blood or other tissue. The joint clear to see. I reach up with my left hand and with a dull “pop!” The finger comes away from the joint. I study the severed finger with my right hand using its remaining four fingers. I can no longer feel the finger I just removed and any attempt to move it, or to grasp using it relays no sensation whatsoever. My adrenaline pumps. The room feels a bit brighter and warmer. The view from outside is more of early dawn now.

Impeccably manicured and perfectly shaped, I can already feel the severed finger lose its warmth. I set it to my side and use the tool to reimplement my flesh with itself, leaving a smooth and scar-less disarticulation. Again I try to move the finger that is no longer there and am treated with an alien but not completely unfamiliar feeling of emptiness that I love most in this world. I am more myself this way—incomplete in body, complete in the heart.

I repeat the process with my right thumb. The practice is important as I get used to intention and expectation. After years of practice and hours spent in my most secret and private laboratory, I can now do what I’ve hoped to do my entire life.

No time to waste. I study my hand to solidify my perception and it does not waiver. The three remaining fingers on my right hand are clear and detailed and moving them, making a fist, caressing the soft rug in front of me (and myself) yield sensation from only three fingers and nothing else. I am happy.

With my left hand again I lift the tool to just below my right shoulder. Again I draw a line around the circumference of my upper arm about two inches from my armpit. I cross the line with vertical slices extending an inch above and below. I peel the tissue back, revealing musculature. I move my arm revealing the secret movements of my muscles—fascinating. I slice through those muscles, nerves, and vessels like my finger. The feeling fades away from the rest of my arm as if I had slept on it for hours. I can no longer feel the hand hanging limply and the lifeless forearm hangs loosely from the elbow, with no control or sensation whatsoever. Even my shoulder is useless as the muscles that lift my arm are severed. Clean white bone remains on my otherwise dead and wasted right arm. It's a bit difficult to see what I'm doing as I bend my neck farther than it usually wants to go. I swipe the tool quickly through the bone a couple of inches from my shoulder and the arm falls with a thump next to my hip. The upper arm and its sinew resting against my thinly veiled waist.

I pick up the severed, dead, cooling arm, and admire its heft. It doesn't feel nearly this heavy when it's attached! I am fascinated by the feat of engineering that is the human body. Again the remaining manicured hand and stumps are a unique sight as I have further removed an already incomplete appendage. I place it gently, but awkwardly on the floor next to my finger.

I whittle away at the bone so it is round. I try to move my arm and watch as my hanging detached musculature twitch and shorten greatly, like a swarm of giant maroon-colored leaches attached to an armless shoulder. My skin flaps aimlessly between the wriggling muscles performing a complex operation into complete nothingness. I feel nothing beyond where my flesh ends.

I close up the flesh in the same way, leaving no scar, again a straightforward process. I am a master at my particular and deeply personal craft. On completion, I test the arm out with a gentle swing. My shoulder now sits higher without the heft of my arm pulling it down! The muscles moving the remaining stump twitch wildly and my intentional movements are much more pronounced than I intend. With some concentration, I can recalibrate my movements and the reflection on this and the apparent fact that my arm is now missing from my once (almost) complete body excites me and I feel my internal energies rush to my vagina and nipples.

With the remaining stump of my right arm, I reach down to my vagina. I am now aching and I need quick release! The signals to my arm to masturbate are clear in my mind but what I feel are nothing but twitches and tickling sensations as my remaining arm remnant makes next to no movement whatsoever.

The irresistible feeling takes over and I touch my drenched and yearning pussy with my left hand. It’s not my dominant hand so the process is a bit awkward. With my arm stump, I reach to my boobs, only able to move it side to side, the size of my breasts and diminutiveness of my stump bar me from ever being able to caress my nipples again while masturbating. The thought of my body’s new limitation creates a wave of energy that flows from my head directly to my vagina.

I fumble to pick up the severed arm, now cool and limp on the floor, but still as beautiful as ever. Never mind the awkwardness, I rub my lifeless and incomplete right hand against my pussy. I am coming! A gush of come squirts forth as my body spasms and arm stump flails uselessly, wanting futilely to be helpful, further increasing the intensity of my orgasm.

I know I don’t have much time left and reach up to my shoulder with my complete left hand, and repeat the same process. It’s much more difficult and my movements consist mostly of unrefined swipes against my arm. I must be quick and deliberate: as I move the tool I lose sensation and control of my hand. I lose feeling in all but the thumb and index finger as I take one last swipe, amputating my left arm at the same length as my right.

I close my eyes and set my intentions. I look over at what remains of my left arm and see a tidy, closed, vaguely triangular two-inch arm stump, identical to my right.

I flail my arm stumps wildly, reveling in the alien, but of course not unknown, sensations they give. More than ever I need to orgasm once more but I can no longer do so using hands—I no longer have any. I no longer have elbows or wrists or arms.

Jumping up I turn around to see a fancy bed, wood designs, and ridges carved into its head and foot. The designs in the wood seem to tell an ancient story that I’ve always know but could never tell you.

Running over to the bed I straddle the ridges of the foot and rub furiously. The scene outside it bright daylight, the last remnants of snow melting in the crisp morning sun. I am scant and masturbating against the ridges of my bed, almost completely devoid of my once beautiful arms. This is my perfect shape, my perfect home, my perfect existence. As I come again, energies wafting through my entire body and concentrating at the termination of my new stumps, I pray to...plead with...the Universe that this will soon become my reality.

My eyes open. Ah! A monster is staring me down! I panic for a second before realizing it’s just Geronimo, my kitty.

Wow—I think to myself. I reflect on what felt like over an hour of one of the best lucid dreams I’ve ever had. It wasn’t real, but to me, the experience and my perception of it were more real than I could ever hope for in the world we all exist in today. I make a mental note to go for the legs tonight.