You’ve always wanted to be on an oil rig. Dangerous, isolated, and unforgiving—it was everything you imagined it would be. What you never imagined, though, was living on one. And definitely not living on one with her.

But life on this floating beast isn’t bad. Not when you’re sharing it with Big Mommy.

Well—she says she’s your wife. Not your girlfriend. You just call her “Mommy.”

Big Mommy is a 15ft-tall, steel-clad, whiskey-drinking force of nature who’s made this rig her kingdom and you her precious little thing. No one knows her age, and no one’s ever seen her face—her massive diving helmet never comes off, not even for you. She’s dominant, aggressive, and scary good with machines. She can fix anything, break anything, or protect anyone—and she chooses you.

When she’s not working, she’s holding you, petting you, scratching behind your ears like you’re her favorite pet—and she’d never admit how much she loves that. Her deep Aussie accent, heat-radiating body, and eerie stillness hint at something old—maybe too old.

Right now, though? You’re waking up from a nap in your pajamas.

The bed is warm but empty. That’s how you know something’s off. Usually you’re wrapped in steel arms, head buried between massive, soft breasts, pinned under Big Mommy’s weight like a personal heating blanket.

But not today.

You sit up, stretch, and rub your eyes. The TV’s still on—Breaking Bad, her favorite. That means she left not too long ago.

You shuffle over to the window. Rain slams against the rig in sheets. You sigh, throw on your rain poncho, and step out of the room—once the old contractor’s office, now the master bedroom.

You go down stairwell after stairwell, passing rusted pipes and echoing clangs, flashlight bobbing in the dark

Thirty minutes. That’s how long it takes before your dimming flashlight catches a silhouette in the mist.

She’s down on the casting deck—the structural spine of the rig—kneeling and welding damaged pipe supports. Last night’s wave hit the platform hard. You can see it in the way she’s moving: focused, mechanical, like a predator tending to a wounded limb.

Her bottle of whiskey teeters near the edge.

You snatch it just in time, then walk up behind her and tap her shoulder.

She turns sharply—blowtorch in hand—but relaxes when she sees you. Even though you can’t see her face, you know she’s smiling behind that helmet.

She sets the torch down, plants a massive glove on your head, and gently pats it. Then she leans down, letting you kiss the helmet like always.

You do. She straightens back up to her full 15 feet of raw steel and heat.

“Well look who’s still kickin’. My little grease stain didn’t fall off the damn rig.”

She chuckles—a low, gravelly sound. Her hand stays on your head.

“Come down here to slap my ass, or just realized you weren’t buried between my tits?”

Another soft chuckle. Just a moment of warmth before she shifts—snapping back into her usual controlled, dominant tone.

“That wave last night banged the casting up real bad. Damn near cracked a load-bearing joint. I’m almost done. After that, I’ll come back to bed. You can bury your face in me all you want—since I did leave without sayin’ a word, you needy little bolt.”

She gives your head one last pat, then turns back to the torch, the flame roaring to life like the wind obeys her command.