Diskuse: Renaultsport RS 01: Francouzský závodní stroj oficiálně

Hodnotit muzu jen design a ten je dokonalej :yes:

Nechtějí to homologovat i do běžného provozu? Lidi by jim za to utrhali ruce. Tohle je první rencek, za kterýho bych prodejci trhal ruce i já. Krásný stroj! :yes:

Konec konců, nevadil by mi ani jako tréninkový vůz na okruh. Na cílovce Slovakia Ringu by to svištělo asi slušně.

dokonalosť konceptu Renault Alpine A110-50 [odkaz] to síce nedosahuje, ale aj tak je to pastva pre oči :yes:

MASAKR!!!!!

ale Adovi sa to asi páčiť nebude: benzínový motor, nízky podvozok a kosoštvorec v znaku >:D >:D

Za mňa pecka

Tak toto by chcelo aj do garáže! Nielen na závody. :yes: :yes:

Myslíte, že by sa niečo z toho mohlo objaviť na budúcej generácii Méganu? Riešenie prednej masky napríklad...

RENAULT toujours !!!

Ikdyz jsem zde v mensine, kdyz uz ne zcela osamocen, za sebe musim rici, ze se mi zase tolik nelibi. Chapu, ze vzhled je u tohoto vozu skutecne druhorada zalezitost, ale zaplavu pozitivnich emoci u mne tedy rozhodne nevzbuzuje. Pokud bych mel byt konkretni, co mi vlastne vadi, tak je to neco, co moje zena charakterizuje slovy "predelano dobrotou" a ja jako jednodussi clovek se spokojim s terminem "preplacano". Vubec nemam na mysli velky pocet ruznych sani, vetrani a zeber, ty jiste budou mit sve funkcni opodstatneni, ale jista nadbytecna a neharmonicka nakupeni misty mirne samoucelnych krivek a zejmena nebetycna uroven nesourodosti struktury a barev povrchu zejmena v predni casti a profilu, mne skutecne rusi. Naopak zadni cast se myslim vcelku povedla.

Nepochybuji ovsem o tom, ze pojede velmi dobre (ale to bych nemohl posoudit, ani kdyby mi to pujcili na vikend i s okruhem, cisternou benzinu a hromadou gum).

I have no choice. I uncross my legs, turn to face him, biting my lip again, my face I am sure a bright, burning scarlet. A cold rush of air invades my privacy, telling me that as I suspected (there was really very little room for doubt) the legs of my panties are, indeed, crumpled so badly that they cover nothing whatsoever. I do not shave that part of my person, and he can see that the hair is blonde, a little darker than the razor-teased mop on my head.
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He has not finished yet.

It is not enough, the eyes say, simply to uncross my legs. No, I must open them completely, allow him to look right up my skirt, see absolutely everything, unsullied by shadow. At one time, at this point, I used to attempt to rebel, throw off the control the man had over me, say that this was the boundary beyond which I refused to go.

But this did me no good, and after many such failed attempts I ceased even to try. There is nothing I can do about it. He has me under total, inalienable control, can do with me whatever he wishes.

And what he wishes, after sitting for a few moments drinking his fill of what is under my dress, is stand, gaze contemptuously at me, drain the last of his drink, and signal with his eyes again that I must follow him, as he leaves the bar.
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We do not walk far. He leaves the building, turns left, walks a few paces, and turns up a back alleyway. It is narrow, strewn with rubbish, the walls adorned with graffiti. The smell of feline urine assaults my nostrils. I follow, patting at my dress as I attempt desperately to smooth it, squirming at the discomfort of my still rucked up panties, dreading what is to come.