Fast Beginning
The cigar smoke hangs low in the drawing room, a suffocating grey blanket that smells of wealth and decay.
Father stands by the fireplace, staring into the flames as if they hold the secrets to the crumbling Empire.
Mother sits on the velvet chaise, her hands trembling in her lap, clutching a handkerchief like a lifeline.
“Anatolia! Oh, dear the roads are barely passable, Penelope. And the men... bandits, worse. Please, stay here. Debutante season is starting.”
Pouring himself a scotch, father, mutters, “The continent becoming a communist cesspit. Pity Mosley isn’t PM. I forbid you to go young woman.”
I trace the rim of my crystal glass, the condensation cold against my fingertip. They don’t see the woman sitting in the chair; they see the porcelain doll they’ve been packaging for marriage since the crib.
I look at Father, then at Mother, my face a mask of polite indifference.
“I shall retire,” I fib, my voice flat, cutting through the thick air.
I stand up, the silk of my dress whispering against my stockings, and walk out. Let them choke on their fear. I have a date with a mechanic. Bag packed, and exit through the French doors.
The garage, across the lawns of the vast Midlands estate is a cathedral of steel and oil, smelling of gasoline, rubber, and the sharp tang of grease. It’s dark, the only light coming from the bare bulb swinging overhead, casting long, dancing shadows against the brick walls.
Roger is there, wiping his hands on a rag that’s seen better decades. He’s a big man, broad-shouldered and coarse, wearing a uniform that strains at the seams.
He looks up as I enter, his eyes raking over me, stripping away the ladylike exterior to find the hungry animal underneath.
He knows why I’m here. He knows what I need.
“You’re serious about this, then?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that vibrates in my chest.
“Deadly,” I reply, stepping closer.
The concrete is cold under my heels.
“The Siddeley?”
“It’s ready,” Roger says, tossing the rag onto a workbench.
“But the Earl didn’t order the extras I put in. The reinforced suspension, the hidden tanks, the engine tuning... that costs. And I know you don’t have access to the trust yet.”
I stop right in front of him. I can smell the sweat on his skin, the full scent of the oil. It makes my slit throb, a dull, insistent ache that has been building all evening.
I reach up, my fingers brushing the lapel of his jacket.
“I have other currency,” I whisper.
Roger doesn’t hesitate. He grabs me, his grip is strong, and spins me around. I’m bent over the cold steel of the workbench before I can draw a breath.
He flips up my skirt, tearing the silk with a rough jerk that sends swathes of buzzy joy straight to my clit. I’m not wearing panties—I haven’t worn them since I decided to leave this godforsaken estate.
“Fucking whore,” he growls, but there’s admiration in his voice.
I hear the zipper of his trousers go down, the metallic rasp loud in the silence of the garage. Then, the hot, heavy weight of his cock slaps against my bare ass.
He spits, and I feel the warm saliva land on my puckered hole, dripping down to my soaking wet slit. He spreads it with his thumb, male roughness dragging against my sensitive flesh.
“Take it, then,” he snarls, and drives into me.
I cry out, the sound echoing off the high ceiling.
“Orrhh! Oohh!”
He’s huge, stretching me wide, filling me until I can’t breathe. He doesn’t wait for me to adjust; he starts fucking me with hard, deep strokes, slamming his hips against my ass.
The workbench skids across the floor with every thrust.
“Yes,” I hiss, gripping the edge of the bench, my knuckles turning white. “Fuck me. Use that pussy.”
He grabs a handful of my bobbed hair, yanking my head back, arching my spine. “You think you can drive to hell and back? You’re just a tight little hole needing to be filled. That can happen just around any corner.”
He pistons into me, the wet slap of our bodies, giving and loud.
I can feel my juices running down my thighs, mixing with the grease on the floor. The smell of sex fills the garage, musky and raw.
He reaches around, his fingers finding my clit, rubbing it viciously in time with his thrusts.
The pressure builds, a tight coil in my belly.
“Harder, you bastard,” I gasp. “Make me pay for it.”
Roger, rogers me damn fine.
He roars, a sound more animal than human, and buries himself to the hilt. I feel him pulse, hot spurts of cum coating my insides, triggering my own release.
I shatter, my walls clamping down on his dick, waves of pleasure thrashing inside me, leaving me gasping and shaking.
He pulls out, and I feel the sticky mess dripping out of me, hitting the concrete floor. I straighten up, smoothing my skirt, though I know I’m a wreck.
My hair is wild, my face flushed.
Roger tucks himself in, looking satisfied.
“The Siddeley Special will do a hundred and twenty,” he says, his voice steady again. “And the extra tank is full. Strong enough to make Anatolia.”
I look at him, wiping a smear of lipstick from my chin.
“Good man, Roger.”
I leave him there in the dark, the smell of our fucking lingering like a ghost.
The evening sky is the colour of a bruised plum, heavy with rain that hasn’t fallen yet. The Siddeley Special purrs beneath me, the engine vibrating through the chassis and into my bones. It feels alive, a beast tamed only by my hands on the wheel. I drive out of the estate gates without looking back, leaving the manicured lawns and the suffocating polite society in the rearview mirror.
London is a smoky blur as I push south, then east. The clouds gather darker on the horizon, mirroring the tension tightening across Europe. People whisper of war, of dictators and marches, but I don’t give a damn. I have the road, the car, and the freedom stretching out before me.
Hour’s bleed into one another. The rain starts, a relentless drumming against the roof. I stop only for petrol, the nozzle slick with fuel, the smell triggering the memory of the garage.
I eat cold ham sandwiches at the wheel, my eyes scanning the horizon, alert for nothing and everything.
By the time I reach the coast, the late afternoon sun is struggling to pierce the gloom. The Channel is a churning expanse of black water. I pull up to the dock where the SS Forde is moored, its hull rusted and weeping. The ramp is down, and a handful of cars are queued, their drivers huddled in coats against the spray.
I roll down the window, the damp air hitting my face. I hand my passport to the officer in the booth. He’s an old man, his face a roadmap of wrinkles, his eyes magnified by thick spectacles. He takes the document, his fingers stained with ink and tobacco.
He opens the booklet. He stares at the page.
He stares at me. Then he looks back at the page.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. The engine idles, a low rumble.
“Problem?” I ask, my voice cool.
The officer licks his lips, a slow, nervous gesture. He closes the passport with a dull thud and hands it back to me, but he doesn’t lift the barrier.
“You’re not yet twenty-one, Miss Wordsworth,” he says, his voice brittle. “Regulations state that unaccompanied minors cannot cross without parental consent. Especially not with... intentions of travel to the Orient.”
I stare at him. The rain begins to fall, heavy drops splashing against the windshield.
“I turn twenty-one next week,” I say, my grip tightening on the wheel. “Surely you can let me go.”
“Sorry, Miss,” he says, his jaw set in a line of petty authority. “Turn the car around. Go home to your mother.”
The barrier stays down. The ferry horn blasts, a mournful sound across the water. The cars behind me honk, a cacophony of impatience.
I look at the officer, then at the open water ahead.
I’m not going back.
I’m not turning around.
My foot hovers over the accelerator, the engine growling in response.
