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.