Welcome to
Carnage House

– this is your trigger warning

Trouser Snake

by J. Rocky Colavito

I KEEP CHECKING the damn mailbox, but the plastic envelope still hasn’t arrived. It’s well past the delivery date, and every time I call to get an update or report the missing shipment I get routed into a voicemail maze that is worse than the labyrinth, and I ain’t Theseus. This is exactly what happens when you pin your hopes on something to improve your something, and the product is only available via overseas shipping and is only reputable according to the reviews—probably expurgated and filtered—on the website.


“This shit changed my life! Never had it better!”

“And I thought I was larger than life! Talk about an eye opener!”

“Please, god, don’t send any more. I’m gonna die from the ecstasy!”

“My girlfriend would give this two thumbs up but she needs both hands.”


Given that I always felt I came up more than a little short, I was easily swayed, and had handed over my credit card number. Being a regular laughingstock since that first communal shower after gym class in elementary school will do that to a guy, as will snarky comments from hookups—like, Who are you gonna please with that little thing? Or conciliatory sympathy from girlfriends—Size means nothing to me. Yeah, right, which is exactly what did matter when you left me for my former best friend, aka “the stallion.” Hope you’re having a good time. I hear there’s a new product you can buy to deal with the internal chafing.

See what I’ve had to put up with? Sucks to be me, I know, but my luck’s about to change.

If the fucking product would just show up.

This stuff is supposed to be an amped-up version of the other little blue pill, one that will not only increase your staying power but also your size. I’ve watched the NSFW videos of guys who’ve taken it, and the results are amazing. I saw one where the “before” shot is something about the size of a peanut, and after taking the pill it’s as big as a medal-winning lake fish. There are no cuts in the video—the growth is shown without trick photography. And when the effect wears off, what I’m looking at is at least three inches longer than the original.

God, I wish the mail would get here.

I try to occupy my mind with something, anything, else. I turn on the TV and see reruns featuring stars I once crushed heavy on—resulting in hot, sweaty, fantasy-filled nights that left me glued to my sheets the next morning. One particularly ardent session had cost me a layer of skin on my thigh when I pulled the sheets away.

I turn off the TV and pick up my phone. No help—my social media feeds are saturated with pal requests from women with no history whose only friends look like guys more desperate than I am. But they are universally good looking, and a perusal of one’s profile shows that she has great taste in lingerie.

Fuck my life. Oh wait—my size is the ultimate joy blocker.

I’m so desperate I look lustfully at the couch, but even I have standards. Besides, I’m out of rubber gloves.

It sucks so much I go to handwash the dishes that don’t go into the dishwasher, and would you believe that I get a cricket-sized boner from the slickness of the dish soap. It takes all my focus to get the assortment of plastic containers and sharp knives clean.

The dishes are done and drying. I flop my depressed ass back into my recliner, put my feet up, and brood. What does it say about me that I’m depending upon chemical enhancement to make my life better? How am I different from any other addict?

I remember that I had downloaded the information about the miracle stuff from the company’s website. I grab my phone, open the file and scan the ingredients. Lots of stuff I can’t pronounce, some natural components like blackberry essence for coloring, something I recognize as a steroid derivative—maybe for muscle growth—and some scurrilous mentions of animal products that are supposed to improve performance and size.

Great, I’ll be on the PETA watch list now for trafficking in rhino horn, gorilla semen, and something called Squatch essence. What the fuck is that? Has this company somehow found Bigfoot and is harvesting, willingly or otherwise, sexual essence from him?

Honestly, I don’t fucking care, and if it works, I’ll be signing up for the overpriced monthly prescription. This company is smart. The first taste, er, month is free except for shipping. Money-back guarantee if it doesn’t work to your satisfaction, and a discount that drops the monthly payment by twenty dollars—to ninety-nine-ninety-nine plus shipping for an automatic refill.

I decide to meditate. Raising the recliner so I’m almost supine, I cross my arms over my chest like a corpse, shut my eyes, and start regulating my breathing. Emptying my mind of all the impurities takes time and effort, and I only get like seven minutes of a vacant head before I start wondering why the damn mail is late today. I give up and lower my feet.

My ringing doorbell almost drops me face-first onto the cheap carpet. Scrambling to my feet, I bumble to the door like a cartoon character and glance out the peephole.

My heart seizes. It’s a dude in a yellow and purple uniform, holding a large plastic envelope. I yank open the door.

“Need a signature for this, sir. And I’ll need an ID to verify that you’re you.”

“Huh?” I don’t remember ever needing ID to collect my mail.

The deliveryman nods at my confusion. “New procedure. Too many people signing for things and not getting them because roommates or house sitters collect the shipment. It’s for your protection.”

I grumble as I leave him on the doorstep and go in search of my wallet, which I find in the bedroom. I pull out my driver’s license and trace my steps back to the door, show him the ID, and sign for the package.

Damned if delivery dude doesn’t compare the signatures. He acts suspicious as he gives me the package and hands back my license. Then he stands there like he’s expecting a tip.

I leave him expecting as I shut the door and lock it, and then hotfoot it to the kitchen. I try to tear open the envelope, and realize that it needs to be cut. I pull the box cutter from the tool drawer and slit the envelope carefully across the top. A piece of paper slides out. I let it fall to the floor as I shake out the important contents onto the countertop.

The medium-sized solid white bottle clanks onto the Formica. On the floor, the paper starts fluttering. I ignore it and grab the bottle. The top is encased in plastic—I use the box cutter to get it open. Once the plastic is removed I take the cap off and find the bottle sealed. I try to break the seal with my fingernail, and again have to use the box cutter to make a slit that I can get my finger through. I yank the seal off and pull out the balled cotton. Finally, nothing stands between me and the pills. Gingerly, I pour a few into my hand.

I’m a bit disappointed.

They’re half the size of a breath mint, and bright blue, probably from the blackberry essence. I have no idea how the makers managed to pack so much into something the diameter of a pencil eraser.

I replace the pills back into the bottle and squint at the label to make sure I got what I ordered.

Yep, Ugrowits, twenty-five milligrams, thirty-day supply. It is what it’s supposed to be.

Below me, the paper flutters aggressively. Fuck it. I’ve waited long enough. I stomp on the paper and to hell with label directions. I shake six of the pills into my hand and wash them down with a glass of water.

When they hit my stomach, I hit the floor. I’m out for the count.

I wake up much later, groaning. My head rests on the discarded sheet of paper, and below that, cold linoleum. I feel a draft. Sitting up, I look down at the front of my pants and do a triple take. I have to process what I’m seeing. I need to take it all in.

The front of my pants and my underwear are shredded from the inside out. Poking up from a newly grown forest of pubic hair is something that I certainly don’t recognize. I tentatively reach out to touch it and find that I can’t get a hand around it. I grab it the way I learned to hold a bat, fist over fist, and the tip and head bulge out over the top. How long is that? Ten inches? A foot? Down below, my enlarged testicles balloon out from the hair, the size and hardness of golf balls.

To say that I’m happy would be an understatement. The challenge, now, is to stand.

Easier said than done. The increased size and density have added bulk and weight to my lower body. I strain my back getting to my feet, and gravity plays hell with me as I try the simple task of stepping toward my chair. If I hang on to the edge of the kitchen island I can keep steady, but once I let go, I lose my balance. I decide to walk in a crouch, thinking, Don’t fucking fall. You’ll either break it or punch a hole in the floor!

I manage to make it to my recliner and climb into it. As I pull the lever to raise my legs, the chair groans, and my new-and-improved something rises and obscures one of my feet. I swear it looks longer and broader than it had just a few minutes earlier. My predicament dawns on me.

How do I leave the house when I can’t even stand up?

If I do manage to get out of the house, how do I cover this thing to avoid being arrested?

And most importantly, what woman would want to get anywhere near this one-eyed monster? Shagging me would be like mounting a horse, and not in a good way.

I think of the paper, still lying on the kitchen floor. Probably directions. I’m wondering if I should have read them. I hear a rustling, and look down and the paper is there, within reach.

I grab it and a quick glance over the instructions tells me that I took too much at once. Obvious. But they don’t exactly tell me what to do now. There is a number to call for FAQs.

Shit. My phone. I reach around and heave a big sigh of relief that I’d shoved it into my back pocket. I punch in the number, praying that I don’t get the voicemail labyrinth again.

A woman answers after two rings. Her voice is pleasant, almost sultry.

“Skyvex Pharmaceuticals. This is Kerry with a K and a Y. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking and how may I help you?”

To have this conversation with a woman. Good luck with that.

“I’m Jack, with a J and a K, and, uh, it’s about one of your products.”

“Nice to meet you, Jack. Which one of our products?”

Dammit, I miss having the automated menu to choose from.

“Uh, um, erm, ahh.” I blurt it out. “Ugrowit.”

Kerry speaks in a nonjudgmental fashion. “I am sorry that you are experiencing difficulty with the product. Did the shipment arrive damaged?”

“Uh, no, ma’am.”

“Was the packaging compromised?”

“No. Your company did a great job of insuring product safety.”

“Was the package missing anything? It’s supposed to come with complete product information and dosage instructions.”

“I guess the instructions were there… I…”

“Did you take the medication without reading the instructions?” I am surprised that she has interrupted, but her voice drips slightly of urgency.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you take more than one?”

“Guilty.”

“How many did you take and how long has it been since you took them?”

“Uh, I’m not sure.” I glance at my phone—the time reads after seven p.m. “I’ll guesstimate four or so hours.”

Kerry is quiet a few moments. I start to get nervous.

“Kerry?” I ask.

“I’m still here. I have a protocol to follow. The first request is going to sound inappropriate, but it’s absolutely necessary.”

“What? What?”

“I need you to take a picture of your, er, issue, and text it to a number.” She starts to rattle it off, but I interrupt.

“Wait, wait, wait a goddamn minute! Did I hear you right? You want me to send you a dick pic?”

“Yes, unfortunately. Are you ready to take down the number?”

I look across the kitchen, where a pen and paper taunt me from the counter. I try to move from the chair but it’s not happening. “Ma’am, I’m kind of…immobilized. Any way you can text it to me?”

“Of course. One moment.” She speaks in a tone that suggests she’s done this before. After a minute my phone lights up. I read the number back to her.

“That’s it,” she says. “Send the photo as soon as possible, please.”

“I’m taking and sending now.”

I snap the picture, having to enlarge the viewfinder space to get it all in. Reading from my text, I key the number in and send the picture.

Within seconds my phone starts blowing up.

Holy shit, you’re deformed.

What breed of horse are you?

What do you feed that thing?

What do you charge for rides?

“What the hell?” I say as the texts keep coming in.

“I haven’t received the picture yet. Did you copy and paste the number I sent you?” I compare the numbers and curse. With my shaking hand I had transposed at least two digits, and now I’ve sent a dick pic into the virtual ether.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!” I scream in frustration as I send the picture again, to the right number this time.

“There is no need for that kind of language… Oh, dear me. That is certainly a problem.”

Thanks, Captain Obvious, I think but don’t say. “What can I do about it?”

“Do you remember how many you took? I know you said that you couldn’t recall when I asked you before. Think hard—it’s vitally important.”

Nice choice of words, again, I think but don’t say. What I do say is, “I think it might have been six. Wait, how many pills are in a shipment again?”

“Thirty, a month’s supply. I’ll wait while you count.”

I will have to get up now. In a monumental effort, I force myself out of the chair and hold onto the kitchen island as I inch my way back to the counter. My dick feels even heavier if you can believe that. That song lyric about “my anaconda” takes on a radically different meaning.

I reach the counter and painstakingly empty the container and count the pills twice—twenty-four.

Fuck. I didn’t bring my phone. I carefully make my way back and fall into the chair. “I took six.”

“That is not good, sir. The treatment is meant to induce gradual growth. Your issue is well outside the expected results. Where are you located?”

I give her my full address—she tsks.

“Normally I would tell you to come in to our clinic, but you are three states away.”

“Can I go to the ER?” I’m getting desperate. I’ve glanced at my growing endowment and notice some fine cracks on the tip that ooze blood.

“I’m afraid they won’t be able to help you. None of the current treatments for priapism resulting from an overdose have been effective. We have something that can counteract it, and I can send it out immediately via overnight delivery.” She quotes me the price and I nearly pass out.

“Sir, sir? Are you still with me?”

“Seventy-five hundred dollars is a little steep, especially for one pill.”

“It’s not a pill. It’s a shot. You’ll need to insert the needle into the tip of your penis and inject the antidote.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“You can try cold treatments: showers, immersion in an ice bath, cold balm, but that will only yield temporary relief. You’ll need the injection.”

“Why is the cost so high? Seems to me that if this happens, you don’t want it getting out and leading to bad product reviews, do you?” I’m taking a chance that she’ll see this as a threat.

“Not to be flippant, sir, but you are the one who disregarded the instructions…” She says something else but I’m distracted by one of the cracks on my dick widening and the skin separating from the tip, like a banana beginning to peel itself.

“Did you hear me?”

“Uh, sorry, I don’t know why but my skin on the—the tip—is cracking and peeling away.”

“That sadly is a side effect of the overdose. The penis has a finite capacity for enlargement. Your penis is outgrowing your available skin. It will grow back in time, but at the moment you will see more peeling until you take the antidote.”

Another bit of skin peels back, and pinpricks of blood slowly coalesce and drip down my ever-growing shaft.

“Are you going to order the antidote or not?” She is starting to sound impatient.

“Yes, goddamn it! I’ll need my wallet.”

“We have a card on file…”

“That one’s nearly maxed out. I’ll need to use two or three different cards.” I groan as I remember that I left my wallet in the bedroom. The act of crossing the house is excruciating. There is more peeling, and in my wake the carpeting dots with blood.

This time, at least I remembered to take my phone with me.

My wallet is on top of my dresser and I flop onto my unmade bed and fumble with the contents, fishing out my other two credit cards. I read one off to the woman.

“I’m sorry sir. That one is declined.”

Fuck me, I rage. I give her the other number.

“You are coming up five hundred dollars short, sir.”

“Can you hold? I need to transfer some funds to my checking account.”

“I really cannot, there are other callers…”

I minimize the phone screen and quickly go to my bank account. I barely have enough money in savings to cover the shortfall. Gonna be a lean month as a result, but, well, it’s better than the alternative.

I get back into the call and give her the debit card number.

“That covers it, sir. Thank you. Please hold a moment while I verify your mailing address.”

She gets it wrong and I impatiently correct her.

“There’s no need for a sharp tone, sir. I am doing the best that I can. Now, is this correct?”

She gets it right this time. Then she verifies my phone number. She gets that right, too.

“I have completed your order and the antidote will be coming to you via overnight express. Please be advised that occasionally the delivery arrives beyond a twenty-four-hour period for circumstances beyond our control.”

“What? I could be dying here and you’re telling me you cannot guarantee overnight delivery?”

“Sir, look at the time. Your order is received and may be fulfilled in time for outgoing mail. But I cannot absolutely guarantee it will be processed today.”

“Great, just great. What can I do in the interim? The head of my dick is molting.”

“Cold compresses…”

“Ice baths, yes, I’ve got that.”

“Thank you for using our helpline, sir. Please take a moment to fill out our survey so that we may continue to guarantee superior service.”

I think she has more of the spiel, but I’ve ended the call and let out a shriek.

The skin on my dick is starting to split lengthwise.

I limp back to the kitchen and empty all the ice from the ice maker. It isn’t much, but it’s a start. My walk-limp to the bathroom takes an eon. While the tub is filling with cold water I frantically place a delivery order for five bags of ice, two tubes of an athletic balm that freezes muscles, a freeze spray that I remember from college sports, and some cooling antiseptic gel that might help with the split skin.

I somehow shimmy out of my shorts and lower myself into the tub. The blood ebbing from my split skin colors the water pink. I yell as the cold washes over me, and my teeth chatter.

The bath does help with the pain…a little. Once the numbness takes over I feel semi-human. I lie in the water until the ice fully melts, and what little body heat I exude warms the water to tepid.

I’m halfway out of the bath when I hear the knock at the door. I wrap myself in a robe and trudge to answer it.

The deliveryman is there, holding five sacks of partially melted ice with the bag of other items clenched in his teeth.

His eyes widen when he gets a look at the bulge and the organ beneath it, only partially concealed by the robe.

I have no time to deal with his shock. “Go dump the ice in the bathtub and leave the other stuff there.” I struggle to get the words out as the pain returns.

He does what I ask, then stands expectantly.

“Put it on the order, my man. No cash in hand, sorry.”

He throws me a disgusted look and leaves, taking a long glance over his shoulder as he reaches the door. I’m barely paying attention until I see the flash. Fucker has taken a picture of me and my pet.

He laughs and slams the door behind him.

I curse and fumble with the robe. It falls to the floor. “Hello hypothermia,” I say, ready to crawl into the cold water. But I make the mistake of glancing down at my dick, and I scream.

The skin is split and sloughed off, hanging on only at the base and leaving the underdermis, or whatever the fuck that lower layer of skin is called, completely exposed. I gulp when I see a crack forming on the under-skin.

My whole body rebels as I force myself into the ice. Chunks rudely intrude upon my anus, adding another layer of discomfort. In desperation I grab a handful of ice and slowly rub it on the exposed skin. There’s some numbing, and the cracking seems to slow. As I rub, I feel a tearing and yelp as some of my ball skin comes off in my hand, along with a clump of pubic hair. Stroking wasn’t a good idea. I change strategies, letting melting ice in my hand slowly drip on the towering structure of skinned flesh. I almost want to measure it to get an exact size for posterity.

I stay in this ice bath until I can no longer feel anything below my waist, then drag myself from the tub and pull my still dripping carcass to my bed. As I flop on my back, drenching the sheets, I survey the damage.

The flaying of the lower layer of skin seems to have abated for now. The splits that are showing seem to have coagulated shut, and I don’t see evidence of any more. I’m beginning to wonder what they used to make these pills. I push the inquiring thoughts out of my mind.

I realize that I have made another tactical error. The bag containing the salve and spray sits on the bathroom vanity, in my line of sight, but out of reach. The effort that it takes to reposition myself nearly renders me unconscious, and I rise on wobbly feet that I still can’t fully feel. I walk carefully toward the bathroom, hanging onto whatever furniture I can, and somehow manage to grab the doorframe. I’m three long steps away from the vanity, but there are no handholds here. I sink to all fours and crawl the rest of the way. This part of the journey is much easier, notwithstanding that I’m dragging the skinned head of my penis along the floor. I grab the bag, grip it with my teeth, and awkwardly maneuver around and make the crawl back to the bed painfully, as the carpet and rasps at my denuded member.

I climb back into the bed, lie down, pop the cap on the freeze spray, and coat my dick with it. The pain is hideous, and I bite down on a pillow as I apply a second coat. The stuff turns white when it hits something warm, and soon my cock looks like a giant white stalagmite, proudly jutting up from the forest of my remaining pubic hair.

I can’t stand the sight of it, so I shut my eyes, ignoring the gnawing in my stomach and the pressure on my sphincter and, God help me, my bladder.

Sleep is long in coming because every time I move I experience shooting pains. The pressure in my bladder is finally too much to bear and I grab a fortuitously empty water bottle from one of the nightstands. My urine takes forever to release. It reminds me of the time I had a kidney stone, except it’s a million times more painful. I half expect to get little trickles here and there, but the stream finally emerges, starting with drips and accelerating to a waterfall that quickly fills the bottle to overflowing. My urine is orangish, and I suspect the source of the discoloration might be blood. I have no choice but to let the liquid spill out of the bottle and over my hand. The floor underneath is quickly soaked.

Relieving the pressure on my bladder unfortunately intensifies the pressure on my sphincter. I try to stand and drop the full bottle onto my bed—its contents empty onto my linens. I curse as I struggle to the bathroom, still spraying urine from my unemptied bladder, dousing my dresser with the runoff. I find that I still can’t stand up so I drop to all fours.

And, of course, doing so unclenches my sphincter and a loud fart precedes projectile defecation of soft logs of feces. It isn’t diarrhea, but it covers the floor between the bed and the door, the floor in the bathroom, and the front of the toilet as I pull myself up to sit. And, of course, the seat cover is down.

Fuck my life.

I make a small effort to clean myself up, settling for a very cold shower to rinse the smashed shit off my lower body. I can’t stand upright to clean the rest of it off. Hopefully, it will dry up and I can scrape it off the carpet and toilet seat.

If things ever return to normal. That antidote better show up tomorrow.

I gobble some melatonin and try to fall asleep, to very limited success.

I wake from fever dreams of being a bottom for horny reptiles and gasp.

My fucking dick is even bigger, and the remaining skin is hanging off. I hear crackling noises as I shift and glimpse more of the discarded skin disintegrating into the sheets.

I scream in frustration, cursing the helpline voice, the company, the commercials.

I try to stand and the weight of my massive organ drops me to all fours. I’m starving, so I crawl to the kitchen and try to pull myself up so I can see what’s in the fridge. I settle for half an iced coffee, but the first mouthful is clumpy and sour. I spit it out and miss the sink.

I go hungry and crawl to the couch, situate myself, and turn on the television. Wouldn’t you know that the channel I’d been watching last is now running a movie about two giant snakes in a death match with each other? I desperately start surfing and settle on something soft-core with lots of nudity and mutual pleasuring.

I nearly pass out from shock when my dick elevates like a cobra and points itself at the screen, where the soft-core orgy is tuning up. My foreskin recedes and spreads like the mighty snake’s hood, and my monstrous meat begins swaying.

It’s too much, and I start hammering at it. I’m delirious, and less shocked than I should be when it turns toward me and unleashes a jet of cum in my face.

It holds my gaze, and two dark spots on each side (that I hadn’t noticed before) coalesce into eyes. The head elongates into something triangular and a forked something forces its way out of the hole in the tip. Two sharp objects thrust from the sides and frame the mouth that splits the head of what used to be my dick.

It moves sinuously. Scales have begun to grow from its base.

I start praying.


About the Story:
I don’t know what caused me to ask myself “what if a guy’s dick slowly and painfully turned into a snake” but this is the answer.