woman wants to fuck hood ornament of rolls royce phamton
Charles Sykes' 'Spirit of Ecstasy' by P.S. Haven
I love Charles Sykes' "Spirit of Ecstasy". Andy knows this. I love
every last inch of her and, knowing this, Andy sneaks me out to the
garage to look at her after his grandfather has fallen asleep. He indulges
me as I gaze upon her sensual silver form, her fluttering robe frozen
behind her. She's as beautiful as the first time I ever laid eyes on
her. We stare at her, and the 1934 Rolls-Royce Phantom II she adorns,
lovingly, both of us, Andy and I, admiring her lithe shape, her bewitching
beauty, the light from above glinting off her plating, causing her to
sparkle and glow almost magically. I love Charles Sykes' "Spirit of
Ecstasy". She's beautiful, absolutely gorgeous.
Andy finally coaxes me back into the house and into bed. I like it
up the ass. Andy knows this, too. I bend forward, my ass parting, opening
up to reveal to Andy the tiny pucker of my anus. I groan (softly, as
to not wake-up Grandpa) as he enters me, grateful for the familiar ache,
the fullness of having a cock in my ass. I let him fuck me as deeply
as he wants, even when he pins my hands helplessly to my back, the full
weight of his body pushing his cock into me, pressing me into the mattress.
Andy comes forever, and when he's empty he can do no more than lower
himself onto the bed beside me and fall asleep. I use his sheets to
wipe the sticky deposit from my asshole.
I leave Andy asleep in the bed, put on the Brooks Brothers dress shirt
he'd cast off before fucking me and then steal down the hallway past
his grandfather's bedroom and out the backdoor. I dash across the street-lit
back yard; the grass is cool and wet with dew. (Andy has done an amazing
job of ignoring his grandfather's hints to mow it.)
I love going out to the garage. Maybe it's that my dad was a mechanic.
The garage itself is small, especially compared to the house, just enough
room for the Rolls. There are dusty Venetian blinds on the windows and
inside the blue light of the boulevard is striped across the wooden
shelves lined with vintage repair manuals and old oilcans. I check over
my shoulder instinctively, making sure I had locked the door behind
me, making sure I was alone. I was, of course. I turn on one row of
the fluorescent fixtures above and look at her, poised at the prow of
the bonnet, bravely pointing the way into 1934's promising future.
I almost can't believe this is happening. I almost can't comprehend
how things have come this far, this fast. I am so nervous I am trembling.
How long have I fantasized about just this? How long have I searched
for her, built up to her, waited for her? I think of casing antique
car shows by day, only to jump fences and infiltrate fairgrounds after
dark and mount a 1933 Plymouth or a 1951 Nash to fill myself with one
of Avard Fairbanks' flying mermaids or George Petty's winged goddesses.
But never Charles Sykes' "Spirit of Ecstasy". I think of the time I
almost bought her, disembodied, from a member of the Rolls-Royce Enthusiasts'
Club. And how the thought of her like that, severed from the rest of
her Rolls, her enchantment taken out of context, suddenly repulsed me,
and I practically fled.
Then I think of Eleanor Thornton, a young woman with beauty, spirit
and intelligence, but not the social status to marry the man she loved,
John Walter Edward-Scott-Montagu, heir to Lord Montagu, English automobile
pioneer. I think of Lord Montagu, commissioning the creation of a mascot
to adorn the radiator of every Rolls Royce he produced, a commission
filled by one Charles Robinson Sykes, sculptor and close friend and
confidant of John. Charles knew of John's love affair with his secretary,
Eleanor, and like the lovers themselves, used utmost discretion, and
Lord Montagu was none the wiser when, in February 1911, he was presented
with a sculpted figurine of his son's forbidden love. Christened "Spirit
of Ecstasy", young Eleanor Thornton's likeness has graced every Rolls
Royce henceforth.
I let Andy's Brooks Brothers shirt slip from my arms and onto the
dusty concrete below like some burlesque ecdysiast, somebody Eleanor
might have known. The undercarriage creaks and sinks as I climb carefully
onto the front bumper and between those two huge headlamps. I can see
myself in the windshield, my nude body pale and ghost-like, my reflection
translucent, the steering wheel and driver's seat visible through me.
I gaze at my reflection, my eyes locking with themselves, child-like
with anticipation, flashing in the intermittent bands of light sweeping
across them as cars drive by outside the garage.
I turn my back to her and lift myself onto the bonnet, pushing my
ass out behind me, spreading my legs until I feel Eleanor's outstretched
arms brush against the insides of my thighs. I use her arms as my guide,
positioning myself over her, lowering myself until her fluttering robes
press into my skin. I hover over her for a moment, tensing and then
relaxing the long muscles in my thighs, in my back, my ass; the throbbing
muscles in my cunt. My sweat drips onto the bonnet, the radiator digging
into my palms. I try to toss the hair out of my face. My breathing is
almost desperate now and I deny myself no longer.
I descend until I feel Eleanor's head gently nudge against the soft
folds of my cunt and press into me there, and patiently I push against
her until I feel my body begin to yield. Slowly, certainly, she opens
me, my cunt yielding, first to Eleanor's head and then to her slender
shoulders, sliding onto her until her entire upper body was within me.
I hold her there for a moment, letting myself adjust to her, absorb
her, struggling against the desperate urge to plunge straight onto her.
I moan at the feel of her, moan louder as I raise my body and then gently
lower myself onto her again. Eleanor enters further, her long arms,
cast behind her like wings, spread me open. I press my hands flat against
the bonnet beneath me and arch my back, pushing my cunt onto her as
far as my body will let me.
I begin to fuck Eleanor, bracing myself against the bonnet, my arms
trembling with my weight as I work her into me with stuttered, abrupt
strokes. I spread my legs further still; Eleanor's head and shoulders
sliding in and out of me easily, running into me like a blade, and fucking
me thoroughly. I groan as she enters me again and again, slipping into
me, through my opening and deep inside, her backswept arms dictating
cruelly how far she can go. Tears escape my clenched eyelids, streaming
down my cheeks as Eleanor's entire torso slides into my cunt, puncturing
yet connecting at the same time.
I fuck her relentlessly, desperate to come. I listen to myself grunting,
almost barking, echoing in the empty garage as I plunge myself down
onto her again and again. Suddenly I think of Andy, and for a moment
I feel sorry for him. I had never behaved this way with him, had never
performed like this. He would understand, I told myself. He would.
The feel of Charles Sykes' "Spirit of Ecstasy" in my cunt, so much
harder than Andy's cock could ever be, filled my senses. With my moans
I try to show her how much I love her, how much I love what she is doing
to me. I need her and I know if I stop fucking her, I'll die. I enclose
her, envelop her in my body, and try my best to literally consume her,
wanting only to reward her with my orgasm.
I work Eleanor into my cunt, fitting every last inch of her into me
now. I'm loose now and Eleanor moves in and out easily. I drop the full
weight of my body onto the bonnet of the Rolls and weep uncontrollably,
the pain exhilarating as it fades into an almost unbearable pleasure.
I can feel Eleanor's entire body inside of me, filling me completely.
My breath flees me in a continuous moan, my body twisting and contorting
as if I've been speared. The tightness is agonizing, and I begin to
buck frantically against the bonnet, Eleanor sliding in and out so fast
I can't catch my breath. I impale myself on her, giving myself to her
fully, spreading my legs wide to accommodate as much of her as I could,
as deeply as I could.
I look down between my legs at the "Spirit of Ecstasy", the distorted
shape of my cunt around it as it gets fucked. I slide two fingers into
my empty ass and push at Eleanor through the thin membrane that separates
ass from cunt. I can feel her on the other side, her shoulders pushing
back and for a moment I fear that I might tear; that Eleanor might actually,
physically rip me open, but I keep fucking her.
I am slowly becoming aware of the orgasm building deep within me and
I fuck Eleanor harder still. It hurts, but I'm going to come, nonetheless.
All I can think about is coming; how good it's going to feel when I
come, how it doesn't matter that it hurts, how nothing matters but coming.
Suddenly my entire body buckles underneath me, my climax washing over
me like a tidal wave, and it feels like the hardest come ever. I sound
like I'm drowning. Eleanor doesn't stop. She keeps on fucking me. Hard.
Harder than anything can fuck. A burst of grunts escapes me and, with
my thighs trembling helplessly, I come all over Eleanor. My fluids drool
out of me and onto Eleanor, leaving her coated in a thick, white froth.
I think again of Eleanor Thornton and how her life had been lost off
the coast of Crete, on passage to India aboard the SS Persia, torpedoed
by a German submarine. She didn't live long enough to see the success
of the statue she had inspired.
I dismount Eleanor and lie on the bonnet and kiss her until I can
no longer taste myself on her. Maybe it's a coincidence, maybe it isn't,
that Andy is awake when I come back to bed. It takes me a long time
to fall asleep. But it's mostly because I don't want it to be the day
after I fucked Charles Sykes' Spirit of Ecstasy yet. I want it to still
be the day itself. When sleep finally comes, I dream I'm silver-plated.
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