A Rough Ride

Chapter 2: The Price of Progress (Part 2)

There it was. The catch. Not money, but something else---something she couldn't quite name but could feel, a pressure in the air, an expectation.

"I don't think---"

"Come now." The man cut her off, his tone shifting from friendly to something harder. "I'm offering you a kindness. It's not often I get to help a damsel in distress. Don't be rude."

Lyra's heart hammered. She looked at the road ahead---five miles of dirt and stones and sun---and then at the cart, with its promise of shade and rest. The man was still smiling, but his eyes were flat and watchful.

Just a ride, she told herself. Five minutes. Then you're gone.

"Alright," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

Climbing onto the cart was an ordeal.

The driver's seat was high, and the dress was short, and the man made no move to look away as she struggled to hoist herself up. Her hem rode up to her hips, exposing the full length of her thighs and, for one horrible moment, the curve of her bare ass. She felt the man's gaze on her like a physical weight, and her face burned with shame as she finally settled onto the wooden bench beside him.

"Comfortable?" he asked, and the word dripped with amusement.

"Yes," she lied.

The cart lurched into motion, and Lyra clutched the edge of the seat, trying to keep her balance. The road was rough, and every bump and jolt sent a tremor through her body that made her breasts bounce beneath the thin wool. She pressed her arms tighter against her chest, but it did little good. The neckline had slipped, and she could feel the cool air on her shoulder, the sun on her collarbone.

"So," the man said, his eyes still on the road but his attention clearly elsewhere, "what's a girl like you doing out here alone? Run away from home? Get kicked out by a jealous wife?"

The question was casual, but there was an edge to it. He was fishing.

"I'm just trying to get to the city," Lyra said, keeping her voice steady. "I need work."

"Work, is it?" He chuckled. "I can think of a few professions you'd be suited for, dressed like that."

The words hit her like a slap. She turned her head away, staring at the passing fields, the golden wheat and green corn, the distant shapes of farmhouses and barns. She didn't trust herself to speak.

The cart hit a particularly deep rut, and the entire vehicle lurched sideways. Lyra gasped, grabbing at the seat to keep from falling. At the same moment, there was a sharp rip---the sound of tearing fabric.

She froze.

Looking down, she saw that the hem of her dress had caught on a splintered edge of the wooden seat. The force of the cart's lurch had pulled it, and a long tear now ran up the side of the garment, from her hip almost to her waist. The fabric gaped open, exposing the pale skin of her flank and the upper curve of her thigh.

No. No, no, no---

"Looks like you've got a problem," the man observed, his tone far too casual.

Lyra grabbed at the torn edges, trying to hold them together, but the wool was old and fragile, and her frantic tugging only made the rip worse. The tear spread another inch, and now she could feel the wind on her hip, on the side of her ass, and she knew---she knew---that if she moved wrong, everything would be on display.

"I---I need to---" She couldn't finish the sentence. She didn't know what she needed.

The man clucked his tongue. "Shame. That was a nice dress. Well, nice enough." He flicked the reins, and the cart picked up speed. "Don't worry. We're almost to town. Maybe someone there can help you."

The rest of the ride passed in a blur of humiliation.

Every bump, every jolt, every shift of the cart sent a fresh wave of exposure through the torn dress. Lyra clutched the fabric with both hands, trying to hold herself together, but it was like trying to dam a river with her fingers. The tear kept spreading. The neckline kept slipping. And the man kept looking---quick sidelong glances, never long enough to be called staring, but constant, like a predator watching wounded prey.

When the cart finally rolled into Brenthollow, Lyra didn't wait for it to stop. She slid off the seat the moment they reached the town's edge, her bare feet hitting the dirt with a jarring thud. The torn dress fluttered around her, and she had to grab at it desperately to keep from flashing the entire street.

"Thanks for the ride," she gasped, already backing away.

The man tipped his hat, his smile still in place. "Any time, sweetheart. Good luck finding work."

She turned and fled.

Brenthollow was larger than the village she had left, but only just. A main street lined with shops and stalls, a few side streets, a stone well in the center of a dusty square. The buildings were timber-framed and thatched, and the people looked much like the ones she'd already met---weathered faces, rough clothes, eyes that slid over her with curiosity or disdain.

Lyra kept to the edges of the street, one hand clutching the torn side of her dress, the other trying to keep the neckline from slipping off her shoulder entirely. The sun was high now, and the heat made the wool itch against her skin. She was acutely aware of the stares she was drawing---the women who whispered to each other as she passed, the men whose gazes lingered a little too long.