Jane s Endless Automotive Agony (Part 2)
Jane sat motionless, the Fiesta stalled silent on the muddy, puddle-filled single-track lane. Barrier ahead—Closed road! Potholes gleaming wet around her, fields and woods stretching empty on all sides. Isolation pressed in, real and heavy, a lonely trap with no quick escape.
No words. Key in. Crank—long, hard, flooded. Starter spun strong, engine churning endlessly. Splutter. Fire. Tease. But no catch.
Deep sigh. Her foot engaged the accelerator with purpose—hard, deliberate pumps, heel popping effortlessly from her black flat with each powerful thrust. Flat foot smashing the pedal to the floor. Thud after thud, body rocking in silent effort. Even from outside the vehicle you could hear her foot thumping hard against the pedal, pumping away relentlessly.
Crank again. Longer, harder—flooded battle. Splutter. Fire. Tease. No fire.
Minutes blurred. Crank after crank, constant for eight full minutes. Not a word spoken. Frustration boiled beneath her skin, etched in every tense line, every purposeful pump.
Choke adjustment required. Tiny pulls, precise. It caught—started, spluttered, stalled. Exquisite toe cleavage wrapped the gas pedal as the engine fired briefly, then quit. Seductive curve under the strain, teasing with each pump.
Back to cranks. Starts. Revs. Stalls. Repeat. This is Jane’s world—sheer cranking frustration.
Then she softened. Sweetly, softly talking to the car, subtly begging as if the machine could hear, could respond to her pleas.
“Come on, baby, you know you want to,” she whispered, voice nurturing, coaxing.
It started—successful bark, rough idle. Every one met the same frustrating end: engine stalled completely.
Eleven minutes of flooded cranking and constant stalling dragged on. Still trapped on this isolated road.