Copyright Oggbashan June 2004
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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It was dark and raining, the light rain that doesn't seem much but soaks through everything in minutes. I was driving carefully along a side road on Romney Marsh watching carefully for the sudden right hand corners that marked the edge of a water-filled dyke. I had been to a committee meeting about a re-enactment event. The meeting had adjourned to a friend's house and we had been chatting for hours. I was thinking hard about a plot for Nude Day that is National in the US but is celebrated as Bastille Day in Europe. I was more successful in the driving than plot construction. So far I hadn't made any sudden stops or violent swerves. The plot was more elusive than the twists in the road.
'Wouldn't it be nice,' I thought 'if an attractive naked woman could appear in my headlights, flagging me down for help.'
That was unlikely as a plot and even more unlikely in real life. At two a.m. on a Saturday morning, in the rain, I was more likely to have an accident. If a naked woman occurred it would probably be a trap, a car jacking or something. But who would want my car? It is old, reliable, but had no real value to anyone but me. I'd probably have to scrap it when it finally started to become uneconomic to repair. And if a naked woman did appear she would probably be some ancient crone suffering from senile dementia who had escaped from her care home. She'd probably pee all over my car's worn upholstery as I drove her to the nearest Police station.
Where was the nearest Police Station open at this time of night? Folkestone might be open or Dover perhaps, but Ashford, although in the wrong direction was most likely.
Thinking about naked women reminded me of my ex-wife Emma. Even though we had been divorced for more than two years we still made love once in a while, only when she wanted me. I never forced myself on her but if she wanted sex I was always willing. I had the feeling that this stage in our lives was coming to an end. I think she had found a new man and didn't need me for sex. If that were true it would be good news for both of us. We needed to move on and rebuild our lives. I would be sad because making love to Emma was almost always great. She was passionate and noisy, always totally naked, and I managed to satisfy her almost every time. I could almost see her naked body lying against my shoulder, her hair spread over my chest...
Blast! I had to brake hard to avoid a sheep in the road. Where had she escaped from? Should I try to find out and put her back in her field? No. I didn't know which field, it was pitch black under the low cloud, and I didn't fancy trying to persuade a soggy sheep to go anywhere. Sheep are remarkably awkward when they want to be.
As I edged the car past the started sheep I thought that was it. I had met the naked female. The sheep was female, she wasn't wearing any clothes, she was soaking wet, but she didn't need my help. She was enjoying the usually inaccessible roadside grass.
Around the next bend a car's reflector caught my headlight as it passed. An abandoned car, I thought, as the light passed on. Then I braked. The shape of the reflector was modern, too modern for a wreck. I reversed carefully. There were tyre tracks across the grass verge and the car was nose down in a dyke. This looked bad. I climbed out of the car and put on the key-ring torch. The car's numberplate showed that the car was only a year or so old. I went back to my car and reversed so that the headlights shone on the wreck. I had to leave my ignition on, so I detached the torch from my car keys.
I through the wrecked fence and scrambled down beside the ditched car. I shone the torch inside, expecting a mangled body or two. There was a body resting on the deflated air bag but it didn't look mangled. It was female, her blonde hair splayed across the air bag, with her face away from me. I wrenched at the door handle. It opened easily but upwards because the car was tilted away from me. I gently touched the bare shoulder. It was cool to the touch, not dead but chilled.
The woman moaned and stirred. Her head lifted from the air bag. She turned towards me. Her eyes squinted against the feeble light of my tiny torch. She didn't look like attractive at present, her make up smeared on her face; red lines where she had been resting on the creases of the air bag.
"Who's there?" She asked.
"I'm Paul," I said. "A passing driver. How are you?"
She lifted her head further.
"I don't know... Paul. Where am I?"
"In a wrecked car on Romney Marsh. It looks as if you ran off the road into a ditch. Was anyone else with you?"
"Anyone else? No. I was alone."
She unfastened her seat belt and tried to get out of the car. That was when I saw that she was naked, nude, devoid of clothes, not even a G-string. I couldn't see any obvious injury so I helped her out into my arms. I carried her up the bank through the stinging nettles and brambles. I opened my passenger door and lowered her to the seat. Her arms were clasped around my neck. As the car's interior light shone over her I was very aware that she had an attractive body and that she was naturally blonde. I looked carefully. I couldn't see any injuries apart from a couple of grazes to her knees.
She became aware of my scrutiny. Her hands covered her pussy. I reached past her to pull the car rug from the back seat. She accepted it gravely and covered herself from the neck downwards.
I remembered enough first aid to check for concussion. I asked the usual questions. The answers that mattered: Her name is Julia; she lives alone in Canterbury; she had come to the Marsh to spend a weekend with a man she wouldn't name but she had changed her mind and fled in HIS car which she had crashed. She knew the date, who was the Prime Minister, she could see my fingers – all that sort of thing. She had been drinking too much before she drove away.
I asked what she wanted to do now.
"Paul," she answered, "HE will be looking for me. I don't want HIM to find me today."
"Does he know where you live?"
"Yes."
"But if you have crashed his car, surely he is stuck – wherever he is?"
"No. He still has his four-wheel drive. I took his Porsche – and wrecked it."
Julia started crying. I pulled her to my shoulder. She rested against it, burying her face and sobbing convulsively. I let her cry, stroking her damp blonde hair.
I was thinking furiously. An imaginary plot about a naked woman was one thing. A real distressed naked woman crying against my shoulder was different. I could see many problems for me. Julia might look attractive but what was she like? She could accuse me of attempted rape and I'd have little defence. She was still naked under that rug. How could I get her somewhere where she could get clothes if she didn't want to go home? What did I do about the wrecked Porsche? Where exactly was I?
I scrabbled for a map. I knew where I was coming from and where I was heading when I stopped. Could I find the exact position on the map? I opened it and peered, using my key ring torch again.
Julia stirred from my shoulder. She wiped her tears with the edge of the rug inadvertently flashing an appealing nipple. I looked away. I didn't want more trouble. She smiled at me.
"Sorry, Paul, did I reveal something? It doesn't matter. You've seen all of me, haven't you? Getting worried about being the knight in shining armour?"
I nodded.
"What are you trying to do?" she asked.
