Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology

by C. P. Dunphey

  He had woken the next day feeling disturbed. How did she know my name? he wondered. And the shame thing. About my dick. . . .

  The size of Dylan’s penis had been a source of depression since his teenage years. A micropenis was the technical term for it, something he’d learned after several private internet searches. At twenty-three years old, Dylan was still a virgin; he had never wanted to let any member of the opposite sex see where he quite literally came up short. And as a black man, he had to put up with countless comments from white people about the size of a black man’s penis. He would just smile and feign an embarrassed look whenever these comments emerged, giving a non-committal laugh. But inside he was dying. How could the size of one body part affect a human being so much? A small nose, small ears, small feet. Even some kind of deformity. He would take all of them over his micropenis. He remembered with some pain the first time someone had seen it. He was thirteen in the swimming pool changing rooms and Billy Stephenson had pointed it out to the entire class. They had crowded round and laughed. He had glanced at their penises, each were at least twice the size of his. Billy himself had what could only be described as an elephant’s trunk hanging out of his groin. Word had soon spread around school; Dylan had a tiny cock. Of course, as teasing and jokes tend to do, the joke soon died and people forgot. But Dylan had remembered. He had cried himself to sleep for weeks, and told no-one. From that day on, not one person had set their eyes on his naked penis; Dylan fully committed himself to ensure this would never happen.

  In his later teenage years and early twenties he had had some relationships, but had always broken them off whenever things got too steamy. He hoped he could find someone one day who would understand. A woman who could look past his tiny penis and fall in love with the man attached to it.

  2.

  Something was definitely happening. It had been a week since the old woman had grabbed him and his penis had grown to four inches. Dylan laughed as he looked at the yellow tape measure. Had it been wishful thinking? Was he somehow measuring it wrong? Or had the old witch used some kind of magic to make it a normal size?

  He stood opposite his bathroom mirror and looked at his genitals. His flaccid, fleshy appendage hung over the testicles. Below the balls! It must have been over a thousand times that Dylan had stood opposite this mirror and something around the size of an acorn usually peered back at him, nestled on top of a wrinkly dark ball sack. But now what he saw was longer. It was definitely longer. The old woman had put a spell on him and his cock had grown. It was normal size. He was normal. Dylan stood to one side to view himself from a different angle. His dick still hung over his balls. His head lay back on his shoulders and he bellowed a loud, joyful laugh.

  3.

  The same night, Dylan lay naked on his bed, browsing the internet. He wanted to test his new-found confidence. Browsing the search engines, he came across listings for local escorts in the London area. He found a white woman. She was of large proportions and over fifty years old. She charged £40 per night for her “services.” Dylan phoned the number and arranged to meet her in Tottenham at ten o’clock. He booked a local hotel, one of the budget ones where the workers look on with no judgement.

  “Sandra” was uglier in person than the pictures on her website suggested, but that was okay by Dylan. With his confidence fragile, he felt that he would start with someone who would be grateful of his company. He kept checking his penis every few minutes to make sure it hadn’t shrunk back to its original tiny form, that the old woman’s spell hadn’t worn off. It hadn’t.

  The sex with the prostitute was fast. Dylan was excited and didn’t last long at all. But he left the hotel with a huge grin on his face. The woman must have seen thousands of penises in her working life and she had called Dylan a big boy. A big boy! Dylan couldn’t believe it. He felt like a man for the first time in his life. He was no longer a virgin; a woman had seen his penis and not only thought it was acceptable but it was big. Of course, she might have said that to all the punters. And that was okay by Dylan, even if she did, the fact that she could say something to flatter him without it being sarcastic or ridiculous pleased him hugely. She had even bled slightly from his penetration.

  Dylan returned home and went to bed. He slept a dreamless sleep with a huge grin slapped on his face.

  4.

  The grin remained on his face when he woke. But that wasn’t all. He looked down the bedsheets at his naked groin. His morning erection stared back at him. To Dylan it looked huge. He jumped out of his bed and went to the bathroom, grabbing the tape measure out of the cabinet drawer. When he measured his now flaccid penis, he gasped, putting his hand to his mouth. Six inches. It was still growing.

  Dylan punched the air and danced around his bathroom, his penis slapping against his thighs as he moved. He booked another prostitute, this time one slightly younger, in her late-thirties. She was pretty, blonde and slim with a pleasant face.

  The sex lasted longer this time and again the woman commented on his size. This time though, something happened to disturb him somewhat. The woman had bled again but appeared to suffer pain.

  “Sorry, it’s too big and it felt like . . .” her words faded as she failed to complete her sentence.

  “Felt like what?” Dylan asked.

  “If felt like it jabbed me inside. Something sharp. Like a bite. It felt like something bit me.”

  5.

  Dylan’s penis continued to grow. Six inches became eight, eight became twelve and on the morning of 21 November, around three weeks after his encounter with the witch, it measured eighteen inches long.

  People at work had begun to notice the long bulge in his trousers. Dylan saw women giggle and wink as he walked past them in the work café. He was struggling keeping it tucked into his trousers. Its tip went well below the crotch of his trousers and he needed to constantly adjust its position, such was his discomfort. He had slept with two more prostitutes. Both had commented on his size and both had bled. The last one had cried out in pain and thrown him out angrily, telling him he was a monster, that he shouldn’t be allowed near women. Dylan didn’t care, if anything, the prostitute’s words had boosted his ego. She was angry at him for the size of his penis. It was something he could not have imagined before.

  A woman sat opposite him as he ate his jacket potato. Dylan had seen her around.

  “Hi, I’m not sure we’ve met properly,” she said. “I’m Debbie. I work in the Accounting Department.”

  “Dylan. I work in Facilities. Nice to meet you.” He smiled. Debbie was gorgeous. Long, blonde hair fell to her shoulders. Her smile was heavenly, displaying bright white teeth and sparkling blue eyes.

  “I was just wondering,” Debbie said. “Would you like to go for a drink on Friday?”

  “Is there an office do, like? A work night out?”

  Debbie laughed. “No, don’t be silly! Just me and you. I’m asking you out on a date, Dylan. Don’t make me feel silly and have to ask you again.”

  “Er. Yeah. Yeah of course. I’d love to.”

  6.

  Dylan showered and dressed, spraying aftershave. His penis, now over twenty inches long, needed tucking into his jeans. He had been forced to buy baggier jeans to accommodate it. The growth had begun to worry him. What if Debbie wanted to have sex? He thought to himself. Will my cock keep growing? When will it stop? His confidence had grown in the past few weeks, at the same rate as the growth of his penis, but now for the first time he was beginning to feel fear. What would she say if she saw it? Would she be scared?

  He met her at the pub. Debbie was fantastic, full of fun. She was Oxford-educated and had a keen interest in Art. Dylan liked her immediately. After a few drinks he began to feel a stirring in his groin. Fear filled him again, worry that he would hurt her, anxiety that she would be shocked by what she saw. But all the feelings of worry were swept away by a desperate, burning desire from his groin. A feeling of utter emptiness that could be filled and satisfied by taking Debbie to
bed.

  The stirring grew into an almost explosive excitement when Debbie looked at him with her bright blue eyes and said, “Shall we go back to yours?”

  They went to Dylan’s flat and immediately began removing each other’s clothes. Dylan ripped open Debbie’s blouse, exposing her large, firm breasts. Debbie went straight for Dylan’s trousers. He gulped as she pulled them down. Debbie gasped.

  “It’s true. Oh, my God, it’s true.” She laughed and looked up at him.

  “What’s true?” he asked. A large grin on Dylan’s face betrayed his combined feelings of relief and delight.

  “They said they’d seen it . . . the bulge. Oh, my God, Dylan. It’s absolutely huge. It’s the biggest I’ve seen. How do you . . .?”

  Suddenly, Dylan’s penis moved. It twitched upwards.

  “Oooh, it’s a bit lively,” she said, grinning as she took it in both of her hands. It moved again, snapping itself out of her hands like a whip.

  “Dylan what are you—” Her words were cut off as the long, fleshy penis thrust itself at her. Debbie held her hand to her face and then brought it away. Her face was full of blood.

  “What the fuck?” she yelled. But her words were soon cut off as Dylan’s penis went forward again. It seemed to stretch into an even longer shape, elongating and bending. It wrapped around Debbie’s neck. Dylan tried desperately to stop, pulling his hips away from Debbie’s face and using his hands to pull it back. But it wouldn’t move. It was thick, ropey and pulsating. Dylan had lost all feeling down there. It was as if his penis was completely independent from his body. He was powerless to stop it.

  Debbie gurgled as it tightened its grip around her throat. Her bright white eyes began to fill with blood. Blood also ran out of her nose, spurting out with each struggling, suffocated breath. Dylan began to cry.

  “Debbie, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Debbie spluttered again and Dylan heard a popping sound. Her eyes were now bleeding and Debbie had defecated. The rancid smell filled the air. Debbie’s lips turned blue, in contrast to her white, blotchy face. Dylan’s penis loosened and Debbie’s lifeless body fell to the floor.

  Dylan put his hand over his mouth and cried. Surely this was a nightmare from which he would wake any minute? He slapped himself hard in the face. This couldn’t have happened. Surely it couldn’t? He looked down at his flaccid penis, the end of which was resting on the cold wooden floor. He put his hand around it and picked it up, staring at the shiny end.

  “You bastard,” he said. “You murdering bastard.”

  Suddenly the end of his penis glimmered. The urethra opening was large, around the size of a coin. Dylan looked at the blackness contained within and felt like he was looking into death, the blackest soul from hell. Suddenly there was a flash of white. Were they teeth? He thought so. They flashed again. Tiny white, jagged triangles in two circular rows were contained within the hole at the tip of his penis. He put his hands around it and squeezed. Maybe he could kill it. Maybe he could strangle it just like it had strangled Debbie in front of his eyes. Suddenly his penis darted forward and he felt a sharp pain in his right hand. It had bitten him. A fast trickle of blood fell from the wound. His own penis had bitten him on the hand. But this wasn’t his own penis. Not anymore.

  7.

  Dylan put Debbie’s body in a large holdall that usually held his Christmas Tree and dragged it to the woods. At two in the morning, it was unlikely that anyone would see him, but he had a cover story sorted all the same. He was carrying an old Christmas tree ready to make way for a new one. He worked nightshift and only had the middle of the night to do so. To make the story stand up against any possible police checks, he put branches of the tree around Debbie’s body, which was covered in bin liners.

  In the woods, he dug a shallow grave in the most remote area, right in the middle. It took him forty-five minutes to walk there and a further hour to dig. There was a creepy atmosphere in the dead of night, with the tree branches rustling in the breeze and several nocturnal animals scurrying, calling, crying, and squeaking. He pushed Debbie’s body into the grave and re-covered it with loose dirt. He looked down to his dirty jeans and caught sight of the huge, long bulge down his right trouser leg. Has it got even bigger since Debbie’s death? he thought to himself. What is happening to me? When will this end? He cursed his penis. He cursed his former self for making his penis the cause of all his problems. And he cursed the old witch for putting this terrible spell on him. Suddenly, Dylan had a thought. The witch was in these woods! He threw down his spade and ran farther into the dark woods.

  He ran without direction for an hour, tripped over old stumps and caught sharp branches across his body, the trees overlooking him like eerie, dark pillars, judging him and tracking him. Suddenly he came across a small white caravan, partly hidden under a dead, fallen tree. The caravan was dirty and old, muddy handprints were stamped all over its battered façade. Dylan ran to the caravan and hammered his fists on the door.

  “Come out! Come out, you old witch! What did you do, gypsy? What the fuck did you do to me?”

  Suddenly the door swung open. A woman came out. She was young and beautiful. Long dark hair seemed to move and twirl of its own accord around her shoulders. Her skin was milky white and she was dressed in a bright red ballgown. The dress was strapless, exposing her perfect shoulders. Her lips were full and luscious and her eyes sang of beauty.

  “You were looking for me?” she said.

  “No. I was looking for . . . the witch.”

  “The witch! Ha! I take many forms, Dylan Turner.”

  “It was you.”

  She raised her delicate hand and moved her fingers lightly. Dylan looked down. He felt a stirring in his trousers. Suddenly his penis broke free and pushed its own way out of his jeans. He looked at the incredible sight in front of him. As the woman moved her hand, the penis was moving with it. She was controlling it. She snapped her fingers and the penis turned to Dylan, snapping at him with its awful ring of teeth. She clicked her fingers again and it fell back to his jeans limply. Still in terrible awe, Dylan tucked it back into his jeans. His mouth gaped open and he began to shake his head.

  “But . . . why?”

  “Why? No particular reason. I could see your pain, Dylan. Your stupid egotistical pain. It was running your entire life, heaping misery on you. I wanted to show you. To teach you a lesson. And it was fun. I enjoyed watching you. First the glee, then the ego, then the misery. Tell me, Dylan, what have you learned?”

  “You’re fucking evil! You’re a psycho! I want to take it back! I want to go back.”

  The witch released a horrible cackle, the same one she had bellowed all those weeks ago. Suddenly her eyes brightened, the whites became larger and the pupils burned into a red fire. Her hair became grey and matted, with bald patches appearing all over her head. The gown fell from her body completely, revealing a bony, haggard torso, completely naked. Her breasts shrivelled and her skin sagged. The woman’s nose grew into a hook and large warts appeared on her face. She raised a bony finger and pointed it towards Dylan.

  “Go! You Go! The shame will return! The shame. The shame!” She cackled again, a sound that echoed across the desolate woods, rattling through Dylan’s head and reverberating across his entire body.

  Dylan fled.

  8.

  The following morning, Dylan was awakened by a knock at the door. It was the police.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Dewsbury. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Debbie Field. A colleague of yours. I understand you went for a drink with her last night?”

  “Yes,” Dylan replied.

  “Unfortunately, Miss Field’s body was found in the woods in the early hours of this morning.”

  It didn’t take Dylan long to confess. A witness had seen him dragging the bag across the woods. A dog walker had discovered the body when his German Shepherd had decided to dig the fresh earth, finding the large holdall buried below. Dylan had left the spade ne
xt to the grave. There was no escaping. He told the police everything. About the witch, the large penis, the growth. He even stood to undo his trousers to prove his story, which the Detective forcefully stopped him.

  Dylan was arrested without bail and placed in a cell while a thorough investigation was carried out. Alone in the middle of the night, he sat in his cell and cried, with his head in his hands. How could everything have taken such a bad turn? He felt a sudden stirring in his groin and his penis burst out of his jeans, ripping the material around his button fly in the process. The penis hovered at his eyeline and its two rows of circular teeth glowed in the dim light of the prison cell. He looked at it with dismal resignation.

  “You bastard. You’ve ruined my life.” The penis looked back at him, the sharp teeth gleaming. Was it smiling at him? Mocking him? He put his hands up to grab it. He had nothing to lose. He was going to strangle the bastard, even if he took himself with it. The penis escaped his hands with ease, like a snake slithering out of its handler’s grasp. It quickly wrapped itself around his neck. Dylan began to choke and splutter, his eyes filling up with blood. His bowels opened and his body slumped against the cell wall. He was dead.

  9.

  “Another one this morning,” said Greg as he walked along the prison halls, talking to his colleague John. He swung his jailer keys around his fingers rhythmically. “Never get used to the suicides.”

  “Yep. Goes with the territory I suppose,” John replied.

  They stopped opposite Dylan’s cell. His pale, lifeless body hung in front of them as other officers took photographs and surveyed the scene. Thin, tangled bedsheets were wrapped around Dylan’s neck as he hung stiffly from the light fixture on the ceiling.