Ever have a job that scars you for life? One that sears its way into your brain so you can’t stop thinking about it even when it's way behind you. A job that makes you reevaluate what life choices led you to that moment and it’s got you wide awake at night wishing the memories would stop playing endlessly in your head, and they just won’t stop? Or maybe you don’t want them to stop. Instead you launch out of bed and start madly smashing at your keyboard in the hope that you’ll never forget them, in the hope that maybe you’ll be able to relive them. Live vicariously through your own words. And it’s not like all scars are bad. Scars can remind you of better times, they can remind you of an adversity you’ve faced and conquered. They’re a mark that something has happened and you’ve changed, and change is good, right?

Physically, I feel better than ever. Fading bruises sure, but my arms are stronger, my legs are stronger and I can run for more than ten minutes without feeling like my lungs are on fire. A month prior to all this, I was rotting in bed, sucking on a cherry pomegranate vape doom-scrolling through the greedy dopamine mine known as fucking TikTok, until the bags under my eyes swallowed my vision, rinse and repeat, day and night, without the sun ever gracing my pale white skin. Speaking of, I think this is the first time in my life I’ve had somewhat of a tan. The sunburn came first but spend enough time out in the big wide world and the vitamin D will do you wonders. 

The only reason I left the confines of my hermit-like existence was because my cat, Bido, came back with some bad news from a trip to the vet, a previously undiagnosed heart disease. I would do anything for Bido, but cash wasn’t exactly spilling out of my pockets and I was short a few grand for the surgery bill. I left Bido with the vet while I searched on Airtasker for the highest return in the shortest time possible, that’s when I stumbled upon my scar giver.

It was a job with shared accommodation. With a woman named Kimberlee Harris. A forty-four year old woman living out in woop woop. She needed  help labouring for the local shire. A month away in far north Queensland, raised twenty metres in a cherry picker fixing telephone poles along a water deprived strip of the Bruce Highway, 14 hours from home under the broiling hot summer sun.

In hindsight the worst part was the drive there. The aircon in my Mazda 2 went to shit three hours in and my aux cord decided it hated me and stopped working, that hot and clammy sweat that only builds up when you sit in a car for too long permeated my little shitbox, the smell of my thin shorts (glued to my legs) stewed with the overheating car seat and made my nose wrinkle. I slept overnight on the side of the highway too, being woken up every half hour by a road train steaming past, my whole car rocking in its wake and I laid there repeatedly asking myself why? I was sleep deprived the next day, starting to feel like I might go mad as any semblance of interesting scenery went out the window and was replaced by a never-ending road shooting off into the horizon, one powerline after the other racing alongside desert shrubbery, red sand lined the bitumen and levelled out the landscape for as far as the eye could see, desperate attempts of life washed from their green colour sprouted in small huddles and quivered in the dry breeze.

Eventually, it grew greener and I neared civilisation. I’d arrived in Ravenswood, a small rural township with a tiny conglomerate of single-storey buildings in the town centre, their timber facades faded under the heat of day, windows obscured by curtains, or trinkets and knickknacks stacked high against the shutters. A pile of granite boulders beneath a water tower and wiry salmon gums drooped over the rare spot of shade. Not much else to see but an old Victorian ‘Railway Hotel’ and hardcore leathered Australians who knew nothing but the dry bush and belting sun on their back, dotted occasionally on the side of the road doing god knows what. I felt so out of place then, on roads filled with Utes and semi-trailers, my little hatchback stood out like a sore thumb. I feared I would too, my mild-mannered behaviour would be clapped on the back and reminded of its inferiority complex, especially amongst a small town where I guaranteed they all knew each other. I didn’t want to know them, they were probably right-leaning, probably racist, probably sexist, probably homophobic, probably transphobic. Not that these are mutually inclusive things, and what the hell do I know about politics, but to put it this way; I doubt they’d have any interest in talking about their feelings.  

I took a right and slowly drove down the road counting the mailbox numbers until I reached my destination. A quaint Queenslander raised on stilts, its rusty iron roof matched the dried grass lawn. (For those uninformed, a ‘Queenslander’ is a type of house or architecture originating in 1840 in the sunny state, Queensland, Australia. They are all high-set, single-storey dwellings with a characteristic veranda that extends around the house to varying extents but never entirely surrounds it.)

I hopped out of my car, immediately blinded by the setting sun and unhooked the front gate from a fence post. The ground out there was so dry it crunched and crumbled beneath my shoes and covered them in orange dust. I parked in the driveway and grabbed my bag from the boot before lugging it up the creaking wooden stairs onto the dusty veranda. There were two sun lounges and a dingy round table between them with an overflowing ashtray on top, flies buzzing around a half empty pint of beer. As I went to knock I noticed a piece of paper poking from the doorframe, it read.

Hey darl,

Forgot you arrived today

Make yourself at home 

The key is under the mat

I’ll see you tonight

Kim x

I still have this note to this day, in fact it’s right beside me as I write this. You see this note was what marked the beginning of my relationship with Kim. I remember standing there staring at it, staring at that x. It threw me off, being openly invited into her home while she wasn’t even there. It didn’t strike me as a normal thing to do. I wasn’t about to wait on the porch in the heat though, so as I reached under the faded welcome mat, I made a promise to myself to respect the space and wait patiently for her return. I was not to creep around her stuff, for a brief moment I considered if she was testing my trustworthiness. 

I let myself into the house. It was nothing out of the ordinary, a little dated if anything, a nostalgic interior, wide open halls and rooms with windows that spanned the walls, linen curtains tied to let the light in, the living room had a brown L-shaped couch and a boxset TV, a coffee mug sat on the wooden dining table and there were pans left on the stove, dirty dishes stacked in the sink. Inside the entrance was a discarded pair of well-worn thongs, the white landing tiles stained orange by crushed gravel, and as I kicked off my shoes to avoid tracking my own dirt into the house, I realised the thongs belonged to bigfoot. 

Long striped pluggers of blue, a dull blue, with big, faded footprints deeply embedded in the malleable rubber, the blue worn grey in the shape of a foot. But it wasn’t the worn toe prints or the deep well for her ball and heel that caught my attention, it was the fact that when my converse clattered beside them, they were barely even half the length. Like my little shoes had landed right next to daddy’s. 

Immediately I broke my promise of respect and placed my foot in those blue behemoths. I almost winced at the sight of my foot competing with her arch. Who the hell was feeding this person? I had to do a double take around the room, just to check that I hadn’t stumbled into the land of the giants. 

Soon I was on the couch typing Kimberlee Harris on Facebook, scrolling through a list of mature aged women, none exactly catching my eye until I spotted what I was looking for. A profile picture where a blonde sun-kissed woman stood head and shoulders above two blokes. I tapped her profile and enlarged the pic. 

I wish I could show you the look on my face when I first saw her. She wore a hi-vis shirt and dusty work shorts, a golden taint to her skin and dirty blonde hair (pulled into a ponytail). Though the neon yellow fabric did little to hide the enormous swell of her breasts and her shorts were stretched tight by a thick pair of legs, she had a body built for labour, a woman fit to have raised an army. Her arms wrapped around two bearded men in similar getups, she was pulling them toward her, squeezing their heads between her boobs and meaty biceps. Sun-leathered wrinkles framed her face, contorting around the edges of her charming yet casual smile. There was a subtly in her smile I thought, an almost smugness hidden behind that friendly grin. Those men where her friends sure but she toyed with their weight as if to remind them, hey, remember who’s in charge. 

I felt myself become hard and looked away from my phone. This had to be the same Kimberlee Harris that owned those blue thongs. Suddenly what was going to be a mind-numbing and tiring month of hard work turned into something else. I was living in the same house as her. 

When was she going to come home?

I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I tried to get her off my mind, but everywhere I went I was reminded of the goliath that lived in this quaint timber home. Initially, I thought cleaning up would be helpful, walking into a clean house would surely leave a good impression. But as I gazed across the empty trays of frozen lasagnas and plates stacked upon each other stained with sauce I couldn’t help but conjure images of Kim wolfing down meals in big hungry bites. Would our dinners involve me sitting there ignoring the fact that she was scoffing down my body weight in a few mouthfuls of mash? A bellowing belch erupting from across the table after heartily slapping her stomach. That insatiable smug grin.

It didn’t get any easier as I trudged down the hall, I’d tried to clear my mind on the couch but I gave in to my desire to explore the house further. I passed by a small bathroom and laundry, navy tiles ripped straight from the 80s, a hamper of unwashed clothes next to the sink, a faint smell of something foul. At the end of the hall two doors faced each other, the bedrooms. A part of me was horrified at the prospect of having to share a room with Kim yet I still felt disappointed that I seemed to have my own.

With the grace of a nervous child, tiptoeing through their house at night, skittish as they crack open their parents door, quietly terrified of what they might find inside.

I really shouldn’t have looked in her room. I couldn’t help myself.

The curtains were drawn, a dusty shadowy light cast over a double bed with peach coloured sheets, cast aside hi-vis shirts like the one in her picture, grey shorts with panties peeking out, and a pair of big sandy work boots sat beside the bed, covered in the beige dust they pulverized beneath their steps. Thick, ruffled black socks were crammed inside and spilled out. It felt like forbidden knowledge, to gaze upon Kimberlee Harris’ room.

I stepped inside, the cool floorboards beneath my feet, leaving the door open so I could bolt if I heard as little as a creak of timber. I picked up her bra and held it up, then over my chest, swallowing gravely at how it spanned the width of my torso, each cup could fit my head like a helmet. So I did just that, I raised the bra and took note of the tag, 40H, before pressing my face into the soft bowl, a slightly sour scent mixed into the fabric.

My cock had grown considerably in my pants and I’d lost myself to perversion. I shoved my hands down my pants and slowly started to stroke. Thinking of Kimberlee, her huge tits strained tight behind her shirt, her tree trunk thighs made me shudder at the thought of the ass it held behind, god and how huge she was compared to those men, how my foot was totally outmatched by a one of her thongs. I came away from the bra, letting it fall from my hands to grab one of her boots instead, I unplugged the sock and looked inside, a dark sole with a faded circle where the heel had faded any semblance of a number, but I could tell from the weight of them that her shoe size would have easily doubled, if not tripled my own. From heel to toe, the treads spanned the length of my forearm. My fucking forearm. I started to stroke faster, my tongue dumbly pinched between my teeth.  

 You might assume the big finale was that Kimberlee walked in and caught me dead to rights with her giant shoe in hand, whacking my little pecker off. An enormous paddle of a hand smacked over my head and sending me sprawling onto the floor where she’d grind my head flat under the enormous pad of her foot. Yelling obscene profanities about my dirty perverted mind, that country drawl hanging on each word. You little maggot. You dirty fuckin’ maggot.

I wonder what she would have done if she found me like that that day.

But no, I came in my pants in her room, twice on the toilet (my head thrown back in ecstasy as I drank in the scent of her sweaty, stale socks.) and then once more across the hall from her bedroom, in my own single bed. The sheets were wet with my perspiration as I lay there panting, reeling from orgasm, Kim’s panties laid across my face. I’d lost concept of time but it was late. It was starting to seem like she would never come home and the question had become more quiet as I lost myself in her used articles of clothing.

Then, while I lay on top of my sheets in the nude, because even the night was humid, with cock in hand and cum splattered up my stomach, I heard a set of heavy footsteps on the front stairs.

My eyes went from glazed over to wide, wide awake.

I sprang into action, wiping my cum onto the fresh white sheets and then just standing there madly swinging my head back and forth as I decided what to do with her panties.

My god! Her fucking panties.

The footsteps thudded closer from outside, stomping onto the veranda, and there were two sets of them. It felt like the whole house rocked with them. There was not one, but two. Two. Two people.

I sprinted to the door and opened hers and threw the panties inside as I heard the front door being shook on its hinge, loud, boisterous voices boomed from down the hall, jovial and thundering with laughter. I dove back into my room and threw my sheets over myself and turned away from the door. My heart fighting for its life in my chest.

The muffled voices suddenly became very clear as I imagined them bursting into the living room. A man and a woman. Their footsteps rocked the whole house. The echoing thud of giant shoes stomping on the thin floor. Their voices vibrated along the walls and I soon realised they were drunk.

“Those old boys down there can’t do it like I can love.” A deep gravelly voice said.

“You’re a proper man are ya?” Returned an equally gruff tone, who I thought must be Kimberlee.

“Cross me heart and hope to die love.”

“Oh, aren’t youse a treat.”

I felt each and every step jolt in my bones as they lumbered down the hall, directly opposite the walls in my room. Heavy, uncoordinated stomps, and their loud voices flirting in bogan. I imagined them filling the hallway, crouching to avoid hitting their head on the ceiling, Kimberlee’s hips brushing the walls with each hulking step, my bed shook in tandem.

I was ill. Ill with the thought I was a trespasser, a terrible pervert who had snuck into her home without her permission, rifled through her clothes and gotten off to them. I swallowed my breath as I heard Kimberlee’s door open and the giant voices disappeared inside. Terrified she would notice something was amiss, I pulled my sheets over my eyes, awaiting a sudden yell, the pounding knock of her fist against my door. But instead I felt every movement as the giants across the hall got into bed, their voices started to quiet down.

At last, the earthquake had stopped and the house gently swayed still and I could hear myself breathe again. I was rock hard too.

I was too scared to grab it and pleasure myself but then I couldn’t stop thinking of Kimberlee next door, riding some beast of a man, her juicy, toned ass slapping down on his belly as she rode him backward, his enormous cock barely long enough to pleasure her, for she was truly a giant. I’d felt it in the gait of her step, the way my whole room shook under her weight. The way my whole room suddenly did start to shake.

I didn’t notice it at first, lost in my fantasy, but my headboard was tapping the back wall and there was a pulsing rumble simmering through my bedframe. Then there was a bellowing groan and the tapping turned to knocking as the whole house started to rock on its stilts again. Groans turned to grunts and each one was accompanied by a thrust of violent thunder.

Two giants made love only a few metres from me, with naught but thin walls of timber to separate their flesh slapping together, their primal groans of pleasure, and I could only lie there, wide awake, as I listened. I listened all night.