Part 1:

Jane slid into the driver’s seat of the battered old Ford Fiesta automatic, door thudding shut. Beige faux-fur coat draped loose over her shoulders, white turtleneck tucked neatly, bl*ck leggings, braid secured tight. Mild late-February air—no need to fuss.

She turned the key. No ch*ke. The 1.0 starter spun with a flooded whirl, engine caught for a ragged half-second, then stalled the instant she eased onto the accelerator. Silence. Cabin filling with thick petrol fumes.

Deep sigh through the nose, furrowed brows, thin-pressed lips. Frustration building.

Ch*ke knob: tiny pull. Turn again. Fast idle... sagged... stalled.

Longer exhale. Body rocking slightly.

Hands rose briefly—small open-palmed shrug—then back to the wheel.

Windows everywhere. Red-brick terraces closing in. Balconies. Kitchen lights on. Curtains cr*cked open. Blinds angled. Every pane watching the woman in the fluffy coat fight her ancient automatic 1.0. She felt the eyes—real or not—prickling her skin. No scene. Just start.

Another millimetre ch*ke. Precise. Careful—terrified of flooding it. Crank over and over with flooded whirls. It caught richer this time, running faster and rougher. Held... dipped... threatened.

Deep sigh. Quick palm-up flick of quiet defeat.

She worked it in tiny fractions, feet slipping in and out of bl*ck flat pump shoes, heels popping free with each firm thud, pumping the pedals relentlessly, showcasing toe cleavage and flexing skin against the gritty accelerator. Revs climbed, hovered, clung.

She leaned forward just a fraction, voice the softest whisper: “Come on, please start...”

The engine barked back—sharp, strong, the best start yet. It settled into a fast, rough idle around 2500 rpm, ch*ke pulled hard, exhaust thick and dark in the mirror. For a moment it felt alive.

Quiet exhale—relief tight, but tension coiled.

Selector to Drive—slow, deliberate.

The torque converter swallowed the revs. The l*ttle engine bucked, dropped away, and stalled with a wheezy ch*ke.

Deep sigh. Shoulders rose, fell. Raw frustration etched deeper.

Key in. Crank. Fired first turn—still roaring high, too high to rev properly. She gave the pedal a few gentle taps—tap-tap-tap—coaxing it, keeping it from fouling, feet pumping with determination.

Cabin hummed with the insistent drone. Windows still staring.

Once it felt steady—rough but holding—she eased the old CVT selector down again. Foot ready.

Drive engaged. Revs sagged hard through the slushy converter. She caught it with a quick, precise blip—just enough.

It held. Barely.

She crept forward, nursing the high revs, the Fiesta gliding ahead in its smooth, ratio-less way, protesting but refusing to quit.

The estate’s concrete grid slid past. Tension coiled in her chest.

Short drive to the shop. Restarted easily on return.

Where was she going? Just a quiet errand run—post office, maybe the chemist—nothing grand. Anything to get out of this stifling estate for an hour.

She took the shortcut anyway—potholes, mud, standing water.

Then barriers. Road closed.

Ease off. Stall.

Deep sigh. Hands still on the wheel. Body rocking with irritation.

“Damn it.”

Part 2 Coming soon — You know it’s not gonna start don’t you!

Pedalpumpen Strumpfhosen/Strümpfe Fußfetisch Jane’s Endless Automotive Agony (Part 1) mit C4s.com