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.