Jane eased the Fiesta forward, ch*ke out, engine rumbling uneven but holding. “Piece of sh.. car,” she moaned, voice dripping exhaustion, cabin thick with petrol tang.

Adjusted her shoe mid drive—stripy bl*e flat slipping off; quick nudge, toes flexing snug back in.

No sooner fixed—an ambulance appeared around the bend ahead, bl*e lights flashing. Jane guided the Fiesta quickly into a lay by to let it p*ss. The engine faltered and cut out with a tired wheeze.

Unbeknownst to her, the nearby woods hid a newly built solar panel site—workmen busy with power tools, drills whining and hammers thudding. Janes nerves spiked, skin tingling in the uneasy quiet.

The car resisted: crank, stumble. She coaxed it back into life—just barely, power weak.

Perched awkwardly in the lay by, she steadied herself.

Emotion rising—cranking again, “Please, car, come on, b*by.”

Ch*ke pulled—fuel rushing through, engine overwhelmed by excess.

Through her tight white polo top, breasts bounced inside the fabric as she worked the pedal aggressively, her whole body jolting in the driver seat.

Bra irritating her—she unclipped it subtly beneath the top, sliding it free and tugging it out through her right sleeve.

Nipples pressing clearly through the material now, she continued turning the key.

Emotion peaking, pleading for the engine to fire, body rocking under the fierce strain of her right leg working the pedal.

Breasts heaving up and down as Jane wrestled with the stubborn machine.

Finally the engine barked into life. Homeward push—ch*ke out, weaving through the remaining villages before reaching the faster roads.

Tension stayed sharp. Quiet pleas under her breath as the traffic slowed and flowed around her.

Eyes flicking constantly to the mirrors—who followed behind?

With the ch*ke still pulled, the engine threatened to flood again at any moment.

Roundabouts taken carefully, motorway ahead.

The dreaded merge—no easy way out. She pushed the pedal down and slipped safely into the stream of cars.

Ch*ke still out on the motorway, power struggling—foot down, speed hovering around sixty miles per hour with the engine whining.

A maintenance lorry appeared ahead; she settled behind it, staying safely in its shadow rather than attempting a p*ss.

One junction appeared—she took it, peeling away from the motorway.

Soft pleas under her breath. “Just get me home, please.”

Finally back where the journey had begun hours earlier, Jane switched the engine off and leaned forward, head resting heavily against the steering wheel.

Fahren Strumpfhosen/Strümpfe Pedalpumpen Jane’s Endless Automotive Agony (Part 5) mit C4s.com