Downfall of a Street Racing Vixen

Dulce Satana had once been her name. Before meeting Josh Maxwell she'd been a street racing legend, but ever since the fateful night of her downfall, she was mostly referred to as Coco. It was her real name, as revealed on the 'Pink Slip' she'd foolishly lost. If only that slip and the coveted 'ride' she'd personally restored, were the only things to be gambled away on that life changing evening...

Those new on the LA street racing scene found it hard to believe what Coco had once been when the stories of her downfall were periodically shared. Those who had heard of Dulce Satana's reputation throughout California and even down into Mexico were always taken aback when they finally caught a glimpse of the transformed woman. But those who were around before and during Dulce/Coco's downfall still found her descent hard to believe.

Before the car and her reputation had been gambled away, Dulce Satana was an enigma. People knew that the Latino femme fatale was heading towards her late twenties and speculated that she probably worked as a high-end mechanic. She shared little. Her restored candy apple green Dodge Challenger was a thing of rare beauty. And Dulce was clearly at home under the bonnet. She knew every inch of her car and how to make it purr. Her superior mechanics knowledge was enough to command respect from most on the scene, but her driving skills were next level. Many a naive sucker had let his bravado get the better of him and ended up losing his ride to Dulce Satana.

Then there was the expertly crafted image and the word-of-mouth legend. Dulce was almost a super-hero on the scene. It was like Dulce had this whole different identity that she strapped on when taking to the streets on the prowl for races. She gave little away, playing her vampish racer persona to the hilt and evoking both awe and loathing from rivals. Penelope Pitstop from dark side.

And her reputation went way beyond those who witnessed her in the flesh on the scene. Requests to appear as background 'colour' in music videos and even movies with a street racing theme were uniformly turned down, but this didn't stop the living, breathing, sexy myth that was Dulce Satana turning up online in photos and amateur videos. That Dulce's downfall was also caught on camera and disseminated on the internet, and that 'Coco' could be easily found in some of the sleazier corners of the internet post-Dulce, only gave the world a chance to compare what was with what had been...

The truth is that those few older folks left on the illegal circuit could dimly remember Dulce when she was a kid hanging around on the periphery of the scene. A dorky car crazy tomboy was how they remembered her. Less a groupie of the racers, more a knowledge nerd for the cars.

Some say she went away and spent time down in Mexico. Picked up skills and obviously crafted a career out of working on cars. When she came back to race, Dulce Satana was an entirely different proposition.

Her trademark attire was a PVC cat suit with a candy apple green racing stripe that stretched from her left shoulder and then down between the 'V' of her loins. A zipper stretched up from her crotch, but was always zipped right up to her neck, never giving so much as a peek at the big shapely titties that filled out the suit so exquisitely. Too awesomely real for a clichéd hourglass figure, Dulce filled out the suit solidly in the middle before her deliciously bulbous booty strained the shiny PVC to its limit down below.

Ever-present on her feet were tottering high-heeled, platform soled black leather calf-boots. Gold zips stretched up the inside of each boot and it was into these head-turning boots that the PVC suit vanished. Despite appearing to be impractical in the extreme, Dulce Satana rocked the footwear like a professional dominatrix, always being in total control of the foot warping towering platform boots.

By all rights she was not that tall, but those sky-high boots and the way she held herself and strutted in them made her seem statuesque as hell. You had to take a step back to realise that she wasn't much over five three

A face full of expertly applied severe dark make-up exemplified the vampish look. Her big brown eyes were framed by long fake lashes surrounded by ostentatious swooshes of kohl. Metallic green lipstick was painted thick upon her lips, making them appear significantly larger & more pouty than they actually were. The skin beneath the dark foundation beyond was a luscious light brown and seemingly flawless. An attractive woman, but more uniquely cute than blandly beautiful, Dulce's whole image was coordinated to transcend the notion that perhaps she was not a natural beauty beneath the layers of artifice. Pointed devilish bangs met in a sharp raven tip on her forehead. Other than the distinctive fringe, the rest of Dulce's glossy black hair was tied back into an ass-long ponytail shot through with a streak of candy apple green. A vintage silver choker wrapped tight around her neck, the chunky centerpiece held a real scorpion in a presumably faux-emerald stone. Silver piercings lined her little brown ears, while sizeable plugs stretched her lugs. A shiny black ring hung from her septum.

The final trademark part of Dulce Satana's look were her driving gloves. Unorthodox to say the least, her thin nylon stocking gloves were shiny candy apple green, fingerless and stretched up into her long sleeve PVC cat-suit.

In Dulce's mind the look was an approximation of Catwoman, a gothy chola Dominatrix and her namesake, Tura Satana from the movie 'Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill!'. The identity instilled in her a confidence and belief in her abilities that stratospherically exceeded that of her everyday life.

Then there were the companions. Dulce evidently swung both ways, turning up with both boys and girls riding shotgun. Of course, nobody sat in the passenger seat when she raced, but a companion was ever-present. She tended to ping-pong between pretty white boys who dressed well and marginally 'ghetto' black girls packing extra booty and buxom heft. Despite playing her cards close to her chest in most other regards, Dulce Satana was never shy when it came to putting her hands and lips on her companions. In fact, if there was one thing ever likely to get that she-devil irate, it was if somebody stepped to her date. And ironically, it was a date that would contribute to Dulce Satana's ultimate downfall and subsequent transformation...

The fateful night began with a strutting Dulce turning up to a bustling parking lot meet with a new date in tow. Imani was an extremely buxom light-skinned black girl with a mane of explosive corkscrew curls. Her flawless flesh ran to fat in all the right places, damn near busting the seams on her cut-off denim short-shorts and hot pink vest. Platform stripper mules with transparent crystal soles kept her perpetually jiggling form tottering exquisitely. About a head taller than her 'sugar mommy' Dulce, Imani was barely into her twenties, but exuded an aura of sly, sexy, streetwise maturity. A disarming cat-like countenance characterised her facial bone structure, walking a line between unique beauty and freakishness that somehow jumbled up and transcended both.

As they hung out and drank a few beers, Dulce eyed the competition. There were a huge number of familiar faces. Some friendly, some most definitely not friendly, but most were hangers-on hoping to see some action. It was a busy bustling night with cameras everywhere, bowel quaking bass, and the usual obnoxious automotive peacocking. Dulce was not expecting anything serious. She had turned up with a view to winning a few races, getting some green, and keeping herself living lavish in the style to which she had become accustomed. A fine bitch like Imani also took a fair bit of looking after and fine treatment, so...Where was that bitch?

It took seconds for Dulce's big brown eyes to locate her errant date. Fury blazed as soon as she clocked who she was with and what she was doing. Imani was lewdly rubbing her jiggling butt against the groin of...Josh Maxwell. The beefed up white boy was a jock turned street racing gutter pornographer. Not even twenty-five and the prick had created a little empire out of filming wannabe models fuck and suck him and his friends for money. Imani had clearly dumped Dulce at the prospect of getting to make a little more cash on one of his sleazy ass websites.

Dulce Satana should have shrugged and moved on. It was not as if she really liked the girl. Yeah, she'd been hoping to get into her panties by the end of the night, but Dulce had only ever hooked up with the bitch because of how she'd look riding in her passenger seat. After all, Dulce Satana did not make a fool out of herself over fickle little boys or girls. Easy come, easy go.

Unfortunately, this sensible rationalization did not halt her saunter. The fire in Dulce's chest compelled her booted feet to strut and with reason in the rear-view, the living legend found herself challenging the grinning asshole to a race. Imani grinned grotesquely as if this shit was all she'd ever wanted in life. Two street racers competing for her big ass.

Josh grinned the faux-boyish grin of a man who charms and then exploits women for a living.

"You're on chica. What are the stakes?"

Dulce tossed a contemptuous glance at a pouting Imani as if to say 'In your dreams skank', before fixing her glare on the shaven headed beefcake. His obnoxious grin enraged her. The boy was no real racer. Just a poser with the money, the confidence, the women, and the ride to make it look like he could compete. A life spent working out, fucking girls and hanging with his dunderheaded 'boys' was not conducive to knowing cars and knowing how to race.

"Stakes? Your fucking pink slip bitch. It's mine."

The crowd who had been assembling around the blossoming confrontation roared with approval at Dulce Satana's spat utterance. It seemed certain to most that Maxwell would be catching a cab home later that night. If...he even agreed to the challenge.

The grin never left his face as his coked-up eyes bored into Dulce's. To the street racing vamp time suddenly seemed to stop. In the pregnant pause before Maxwell opened his mouth to reply, Dulce was hit with a terrible feeling. Despite her well-hewn skills and her own confidence in said skills, challenging some douchebag in anger was so not 'Dulce'. It just did not happen. Dulce Satana ordinarily let the idiots come to her. The boys with balls bigger than brains and an inferiority complex when it came to women like Dulce. She let them step up, make fools of themselves and those were the pink slips she coolly collected. Picking on people to challenge and rip-off for their cars was not how Dulce had become a respected street racer. It was entirely out of character and left her feeling oddly out of her element.

"Let's do it chica! I can't wait for people to see how your girl and me (with this he gave Imani a meaty slap on the butt) look in that sweet ride of yours."

Dulce fumed inwardly as the young Vin Diesel wannabe exchanged high-fives with his cadre of retarded sycophants. The crowd roared in appreciation of the trash talk, but Dulce had already begun strutting back to her Dodge.

"Oh, and Doofus Satana? When we're done, I might even get one of my girls to lend you some flip-flops for the long walk home. Wouldn't want you to be getting bunions in those stupid-ass boots you're wearing."

Dulce bristled as the crowd broke up at his barb. At that moment, the mythic lady racer was determined to see the bastard lose. Regardless of her creeping concerns, Dulce would see Josh Maxwell broken and ride-less like all the others...

Moments later the vehicles sat alongside each other in a nearby street as the crowd tittered and a 'Race Marshal', they'd both agreed on set down the route and rules between the two cars. The route and rules were quickly agreed on. Dulce gritted her teeth as she watched Imani blow kisses at the lunk in the ostentatiously trashy modern car alongside her own. She didn't even want his generic, tasteless, souped-up idiot-mobile. Dulce Satana just wanted to punish him. She grinned as she imagined perhaps having it junked and sending him the photos. That was her last lucid thought before the race began...

X

Dulce Satana was in a numb daze as she tried to find her feet and climb out of the car that was no longer her own. Her mind struggled to comprehend what had gone wrong. She'd driven as good as she always did, but somehow the smug bastard her pipped her at the post. It was unthinkable. A thought echoed by the crowd whose chorus of 'Oh shit!' rang in her ears. Dulce Satana of course knew who Josh Maxwell was and he was undeniably a face on the scene, but he had zero fucking rep as a competitive racer!

Dulce Satana fought to walk on weak legs as she approached the Marshal, Maxwell, Imani and the pornographer's crew. The bastard beamed, the skank grinned an evil grin, his crew hooted, and the Marshal looked somewhat sheepish. Worst of all was the crowd. The living legend had been beaten and the sick thrill of being present for her downfall buzzed in the suddenly sweltering night. People who had cheered and congratulated her in the past suddenly appeared to be delighted at her unexpected fate. She would have given anything for the ground to swallow her up at that moment. Dulce was certain that she would vomit down the front of her cat suit before she could hand over the title and keys to her car.

The Marshal forlornly looked to Dulce and reached out to take the title for the love of her fucking life...

"Hold up. How about we go double or quits? I don't want these motherfuckers to think this shit was a fluke."

Both Dulce and the Marshal gawped at Maxwell in disbelief.

"W-what?" Dulce squeaked in a voice that didn't sound anything like the ordinarily vicious tones of the once unbeaten outlaw racer.

Was he that stupid? Wondered Dulce along with pretty much everybody assembled. Did he not know how fucking lucky he had been? Dulce immediately fought through the fog of defeat and the sense of being blindsided once again.

"You're on bitch." The fierce Latina knew that she had to seize back some credibility. He'd made the moronic move of proposing double or quits and she needed to hold him to it. Lock him in. The most important thing was getting her ride back and then regaining a little credibility in the face of what had been a devastating defeat. A part of her had also been genuinely wondering how she was going to get home walking on her tottering bitch queen platforms. So no sooner had the words left her mouth than Dulce Satana turned to go back to her ride.

"Hold up Girl. Ain't you forgetting something? The terms, Ho!?"

Dulce stopped and looked back, the fire returned to her eyes. She had not for a minute considered what the 'double' would be.

"As of now, your ride is mine. So what you got for me when I win?"

"I got other cars." Dulce sneered back at him.

"Bitch, I don't need another car."

Dulce stopped and turned around, realizing that the puta clearly was not going to make things easy.

"What then?"

Maxwell grinned and sauntered over to where Dulce stood. He stopped excessively close and looked down at his scowling opponent.

"Bitch, I wanna be your last race ever. I wanna finish you. I want to own you. Lose to me again and I'm gonna have you pay back every penny of your debt on your knees with a motherfucking dick in your mouth. I wanna be the big swinging dick that took Dulce Satana out of the game and put that uppity Ho on the game."

Dulce's jaw dropped. For the first time ever, many regulars on the scene got to see the vamp's slightly crooked white teeth. Just to be spoken of in such a way, especially in public, left Dulce momentarily dazed. It was as if all of the breath had been sucked out of her, as the bastard stood looming over her. Thankfully, the breath rushed back with undiluted fury.

"What the fuck are you talking about!?" Dulce's cool evaporated, her voice losing its huskiness and taking on a shrill tone.

"You lose then you owe me the value of another one of those. (He pointed in the direction of her souped-up muscle car) And that vehicle is one of a fucking kind. You can't just buy or build me another. Nor do I want another. Now you know what I do for a living bitch. I need girls. You work off your debt to me for the value of that ride and I'll let your candy ass go. But until then I own you."

The crowd hushed as the full enormity of what was going down became apparent. Dulce was speechless despite knowing full well that a response was required. There was no coming back to her former rep if she walked away. Dulce would be finished in the LA race game if she backed down. But if she...lost...if Dulce Satana lost, she would simply cease to exist. It was unthinkable. Becoming some guy's bitch? Sucking and fucking on camera for a living? Going from race winning femme fatale legend to cock-sucking, owned skank?! Having her people on the scene witness her humiliation?!

Dulce felt like vomiting and bursting into tears, as the smug prick stood over her. In the blink of an eye, Dulce was gone, leaving Coco Lopez to face the bastard on her own. What was worse was that Maxwell could totally see the mask slip. The façade peel back. Beneath Dulce's chola mask was the bitch he intended to own. Coco Lopez would've walked away and never looked back. Fuck the car. Fuck racing and a massive fuck you to ever letting some jock white boy pimp with a camera own her. The risk simply wasn't worth it. But with another blink of the eye, Dulce was back and with Dulce Satana came the anger, the confidence and the lust to take a risk.

"You're on puta." She grinned, closed her green painted lips like a petulant feline and turned again to strut back to her car.

The crowd were split between roars of support, shrieks of outrage and stunned silence. What she missed at that point was the snake Imani whispering into her new man's ear.

"Oh, and Dulce? One more thing. Imani here wants all your shit when you lose. Once I beat your ass again you need to bring it back here in front of all these people and give up everything to my girl here. The boots, that tacky fancy dress store cat-suit, your jewellery and all the rest. Then after you've wrapped those green lips around my cock in the back of my new ride, I'll send your big brown ass home with bus fare. Swallow and I'll let you keep your panties to wear home. Smile and call me Pappy...and you might just get some flip-flops."

Those words may have spooked some part of Coco buried deep inside the strutting Vamp on her way to the vehicle, but for better or worse, Dulce Satana was in charge and all that mattered was the race...

X

She probably should've ran. No. She definitely should've ran. Dulce Satana was finished. It should've been a quiet exile. Not the humiliating shaming that awaited her at the packed parking lot. Why didn't she run? Well she was probably suffering from shock. Being beaten not once but twice. And the second time...she'd driven like a rookie. Chickened out on the turns. Let him bully her out of even trying to take the lead. Dulce had driven into the lot like an automaton. Given herself zero exit strategies. She was boxed in. What she should've done was peeled the fuck out of there as soon as the race was lost.

They'd try to chase her down, but beating Dulce Satana in a straight up race and catching her when she wanted to evade you were two very different things. In hindsight Dulce realised that she should've just totaled the fucking car. A trip to the hospital and a few war wounds would've been infinitely preferable to the fate that awaited her on the lot...and she'd get to ensure that Maxwell never got his hands on her baby.