Michael Wright – 1937 Coppa Acerbo

From the painting you really don’t get a sense of the noise. The roaring growl. The growling roar. Those silver racing cars shot by, blurred as bullets. I really needed a ride. So I put my thumb out.

Two silver cars streaked by, the drivers blind to me. I don’t know that I really expected them to pick me up. One-track mind, these speed demons. But with a screech and the stench of burnt rubber, the third car stopped. The driver, barely more than a kid, hopped out. “Want a lift?” he said. I nodded. He hoisted me onto the rear of his racer. “Check your oil, ma’am?” Dumbfounded, I nodded again. His tossed off his gloves and fitted two fingers into my cunt. His thumb caressed my clit. “Your oil is perfecto-mundo,” he said through a shy but knowing grin.

“Fill’er up?” For a kid he had a deliciously daring prick. He drove it deep deep deep into my welcoming cunt. It wasn’t the ride I expected. It was way way better. When he came he roared. By that time I’d come half a dozen times.

“Whew,” I breathed, after he fucked me into two more orgasms. “That was sensational. I’m sorry you gave up your chance at the trophy, but –.”

Pulling up his overalls, he winked at me. “Oh, I didn’t give up anything. I’d already finished well ahead of the pack. That was my victory lap, and you were my prize. You up for another go?”

I was. This time he sat me on his lap in the aptly named cockpit, revved it up, and off we went. We left the sound and the scenery in our orgasmic dust.