Downfall of a Street Racing Vixen

Yet it wasn't about the loss of the car or the loss of material assets. Dulce could piss that all away and get it back again with ease. Nope, it was about the humbling of Dulce Satana. It was about the insane terms she'd agreed to. It was about...submitting to Josh Maxwell and having the world see her do it.

But as soon as that race was lost Dulce felt impotent to respond. Her power had fled and fleeing with it into the night felt like an impossibility. She felt like a ragdoll when it came time to step out of her lost ride. The urge to vomit was ever present, but Dulce was operating on auto-pilot. Stupidly going through the motions like this was just another race. The noise being made by the crowd should've disabused her of that...

They could smell blood. All apprehension about the rightness of what they were seeing had flown away with the prospect of seeing a Queen dragged into the gutter. And there stood Maxwell and his crew. Hooting animal men and scantily clad bitches with zero self-respect. Imani grinned malevolently at the ragdoll as she opened the car door and swung her feet down to solid ground.

Dulce Satana stood on shaky legs and sought to strut. It was pathetic. As if a spell had been broken by her loss. Dulce appeared out of control on the towering platforms. She shrank and tottered with each step towards the asphalt clearing and Maxwell. Confidence had formerly kept her aloft, but all of that had gone. She seemed to flail like a little doe on uncertain gangly legs. A young girl out of sneakers and wearing heels for the first time.

Despite the insane stakes crudely outlined in advance of the race and the dismal uncharacteristic performance of their scene Matriarch, many in the crowd still refused to believe that Dulce would ever give up anything more than her car to the big man. Surely they'd have to kill that bitch to take her ass!? But when people witnessed that broken woman stumbling forward and buckling on those crazy ass platforms, well...this was a dazed Ho happily putting her cloistered pussy on the chopping block.

Eyes downcast and green lips trembling Dulce stood shrunken before the victor.

"Title?" Maxwell asked.

"G-g-glove compartment." Dulce replied miserably and a couple of members of Maxwell's crew dutifully stepped away to ransack the ride. They ran back and handed the documents to Maxwell.

"I got your ride...Coco Lopez, (he theatrically read from the slip) I popped your losing cherry twice, now I want your shit. Take off them fucking big girl dominatrix clothes. You ain't shit now."

The crowd hushed. All focus was on the quivering girl who had once been proud Dulce Satana. Had part of Dulce doubted that it could really happen? That she could be...stripped in public...paraded for all to see...destroyed as racer. No, she'd always been aware of the stakes, even if the dominant, aggressive side of her nature had refused to actually envisage it happening. But it was actually happening and Dulce suddenly switched into panic mode. Yet this panic to preserve her dignity sat upon an undercurrent of something else. A tingling she struggled to ignore. The unthinkable notion that a part of her was perversely responding to the idea of losing it all.

"We can work something out. I got other rides. A stake in a garage. I...I can race for you. Make you some money." Dulce blurted desperately, her watery brown eyes making contact with Maxwell's for the first time since her loss.

"You finished as a racer. And I ain't here to get rich. I'm here to dominate this shit and I'm starting with Queen of the scene. You getting dethroned and demoted Ho."

"Please...I'll fucking do anything...just don't do this to me here." Dulce said quietly through gritted teeth. Tears finally made an appearance, tracing chalky trails through her dark foundation.

"Imani wants your shit and I wanna see the goods. Get to it Dulce."

Like a spooked doe Dulce suddenly turned to flee. The realisation that she wasn't going to be able to bargain her way out of being stripped and shamed in public brought about an almost instinctive effort to buck away from the threat. It was too late for that of course. Peeling away into the night never to be seen again really should've happened as soon as she'd realised the race was lost. Instead she'd stupidly returned to the slaughterhouse. Dazed, but still believing that her respected ass could somehow talk her way out of the situation. She was wrong. Her brain knew that, even if her bucking body didn't.

"Oh no you don't..." Dulce heard Imani spit to her rear.

Milliseconds after Dulce had turned and sought to step, her head snapped back violently and she struggled to keep her feet. Panic swelled in her chest when she realised that not only did somebody have hold of her long glossy butt long ponytail, but if they tugged any harder something even worse was going to-...

Roars of laughter erupted as Dulce stumbled and dropped to one knee. Her hands instinctively sought to confirm what had happened. What remained of Dulce Satana's lustrous green streaked raven hair ended in a knot of unsightly split ends tied up with a yellow elastic band barely an inch from the back of her skull. Dulce looked up to see a Imani clowning with the clip-on fake ponytail that she'd barbarically ripped from the back of her old Sugar Mommy's head.

Unfortunately for Dulce the clowning ceased quickly. Fast as lightening, two meaty moist hands shot down and seized Dulce by the throat. With ease the deceptively powerful black girl lifted Dulce flailing to her platformed feet.

"Where you going with my shit Ho!" The suddenly frightening black girl boomed into Dulce's anguished face. All Dulce could think of was how much more obnoxiously 'ghetto' Imani had become. Some last shred of feisty Dulce stirred and she swiped her zombie green painted nails at the younger girl, but one meaty slap to the cheek was enough to whack the 'bad girl' out of her. Another across the other cheek pretty much assured the quivering woman's compliance. Her nylon gloved hands only came up to protect her face from more punishment.

A huge self-deception was suddenly revealed to the defeated rag doll street racer. Despite the posturing, the confidence, the talk, the nerve, the driving skills and the style, Dulce was no fucking fighter. She was no gangster. Nobody had ever hit Dulce like that before and the cowed girl was willing to do pretty much anything to stop it from happening again. The worst thing was that she never saw it coming. There was Maxwell and his boys, but they were...boys. Forcefully putting their hands on Dulce could very well have elicited a hostile, possibly deadly reaction from the crowd. But Imani? Nobody was stepping in to stop a younger eye-candy Ho from owning the fallen Queen of the scene. In fact, the prospect only encouraged the hooting bastards.

All Dulce could do was sob and gasp for breath, as Imani squeezed on her chockered neck.

"Now you need to start handing your shit over bitch! If you make me strip yo ass in this parking lot, I'm gonna beat you ugly afterwards. Understand?"

Dulce nodded as vigorously as she could while squawking noises of assent.

"Good girl. I'll let go of you neck, so long as you take off the lil booties."

Dulce sucked in air and almost collapsed. As inconceivable as the idea of stripping may have been only minutes prior, the toppled Monarch would've done anything to avoid being slapped or choked by the viper she'd foolishly brought along to her own funeral.

"Get on with it Ho, else you'll be picking your teeth up off this parking lot."

Dulce let forth a racking sob as she bent down to attend to her trademark platform boots. For the first time since she'd been manhandled into submission, Dulce could make out what her fellow scenesters were cruelly bleating.

"They gonna take her shit!"

"You lost your hair bitch!"

"That fake ass Ho!"

"Beat her ass!"

"Ain't nothing lower than trying to run out on a debt!"

"Satana ain't shit no more!"

"Show us that ass! Show us that ass!"

"Every stitch bitch!"

"I can't wait to see that uppity skank sucking cock for bus fare!"

"I'm filming all this shit!"

And the worst thing was that Dulce even recognised some of those voices as belonging to guys and girls who had once been friendly acquaintances. All sympathy and allegiance had vanished when she'd tried to run...and when they realised how sweet her humiliation was going to be.

Dulce tried not to blubber as she wrenched down the inner gold zips on each of her platform boots. The tight towering platforms sprang apart when unzipped, giving a glimpse of the PVC cat-suit cuffs that rested just above her pale ankles. A bright no-show sock could be seen just below those ankles.

"Gimme, gimme, gimme." Imani gestured down to the splayed boots.

With no way out Dulce Satana did the unthinkable and wrenched her prized boots from her sweaty nylon socked feet. Laughter rang out as cool Dulce's rather unexpected socks were revealed. Perhaps the crowd had been expecting black stockings that went all the way up or vampish fishnets, but Satana's juvenile socks looked more suited to watching Saturday morning cartoons rather than deadly seduction. Dulce stood foolishly on the tippy toes of her bright neon pink and white streaked tie-dye print no-show nylon socks, unconsciously seeking to keep her garish bright socks off of the warm tarmac. As she submissively handed the boots over to Imani, the reality of just how short she was in comparison to her former squeeze became clear to all.

"Now pull this shit down. Let me help you..." Imani said as she wrenched the zip of Dulce's cat suit down and pulled the almost broken former race queen off of her socked tippy-toes. A sob escaped her pouting lips as her former arm candy roughly peeled the sleek PVC skin down Dulce's body. When the suit made it to the top of Dulce's butt she foolishly raised her hands to again prevent the stripping. Like a coiled viper Imani delivered another stinging slap to the cowed woman's left cheek and then grasped a handful of what remained of Dulce's glossy black hair. Another hand wrapped around her throat and lifted Dulce back onto her socked tippy-toes.

"Short ass Mexican acting like you hot shit! Lift your hands to me again and your naked ass is getting curb stomped tonight!"

"W-w-w-what did I ever do to you?" Dulce managed to sob-gurgle through her squeezed throat.

"You ain't special. Just another fake ass bitch with a few dollars who needs putting in her place. Now you better strip the rest of that skanky suit off yourself or else I'm breaking your jaw!"

"Okay...okay..." Dulce spluttered placatingly, red faced and starved of oxygen, her fake lashes hanging foolishly from her streaked lids.

Imani then mercifully released the disgraced race queen who obediently began inching the tight suit down past her big brown booty before the eyes of those who had once idolised the fallen diva.

Fear compelled her. A fear she had never known before. Without her car or confidence, Dulce Satana wanted only to get out of her current situation in one piece. She thought that all of the humiliation had been slapped and strangled out of her until the cat-suit was peeled from her socked feet and snatched away by Imani. Despite being a relatively cheap and tacky cat-suit of the fancy dress variety, the shiny garment had done an amazing job of reining in Dulce's slightly chubby corpulence. Every part of Dulce that had appeared sleek and toned by the black cat-suit seemed to inflate slightly without it. A layer of wayward puppy fat was revealed from her arms down to her ankles. Without the suit every part of Dulce appeared somehow thicker.

The crowd cackled with glee. Multiple phones and cameras were held up to capture her shame for posterity. A plain black sports bra held aloft her breasts, while a purple and black waist cincher worked to shape that thick figure. A frayed white cotton thong with baby pink elastic waistband hid little of her bulbous faintly cellulite streaked ass. The string ate deep into her crack and the little front panel struggled to contain her untamed thatch of black pubic hair.

It was patently obviously to all assembled that Dulce Satana had not worn underthings that were ever meant to be seen. Sans platform heels, a flowing black mane of hair and a svelte cat-suit, the former top girl of the LA street racing scene was a sorry sight indeed. Dumpy and shivering, her extensive chola make-up in combination with the free-flowing hot tears gave Dulce a particularly clownish countenance. The more pale skin tone of her formerly hidden body also stood out starkly in contrast to the darker artificial tone applied to her neck and face.

Dulce simply didn't know where to put her hands given the enormity of her exposure. Unfortunately for her, things were going to get a lot worse...

Imani made quick work of taking away the poor girl's prized choker. She then roughly removed Dulce's silver ear piercings. The removal of the big ear plugs in particular left her stretched lugs sadly hanging. Dulce squealed in outrage as Imani pulled up her cute nose pig-like and manipulated out the black ring that had been embedded in her septum.

Stripped of outfit and jewellery, Dulce was shocked when Imani's hand suddenly grabbed onto the rear of her thong and wrenched upwards. The pink elastic of the hard worn panties had already torn away from the white cotton in places, but this didn't stop Imani from lifting the disgraced racer up onto her pink nylon socked tippy toes. The thong ate deep and painfully into her crotch, spilling black pubes and creating an unsightly camel toe to the delight of all assembled.

Imani breathed hot into her ear.

"You take off that girdle and sports bra or I'm gonna rip these welfare store panties right off your fat ass."

Dulce avoided all eye contact as she got to work. Revolt had been expertly wrung out of her. Keeping her thong was arguably preferable to losing her support garments, but she was well past the point of disobeying her former bitch.

The cincher was dropped to reveal a clammy little pot belly. Her thick hour glass figure dropped to the warm asphalt along with that stretchy belt. Dulce instinctively hesitated when reaching for her bra, suddenly remembering the secrets hidden within. A tearing wrench on the thong along with a vicious tug on her disheveled black hair jarred her out of anticipating the impending shame.

"Ow! Fuck, please stop!" Dulce whined.

"Take.Off.The.Bra.You.Stupid.Ho." Imani intoned like she was talking to an imbecile. Dulce cursed inwardly at the pain, but did as she was told. The crowd roared when it dropped.

Maxwell drifted into view with a look of mock disappointment on his face.

"Coco Lopez, this shit is false advertising. I took that last race in the expectation that you were gonna be working off your debt to me. But girl, how we gonna work with this?"

The jock pornographer waved with disdain at Dulce's semi-exposed chest. What was always believed to have been a substantial rack was nothing but padding (which fell away with the bra...) and two weighty jiggling breast forms glued to her miniature mounds.

Imani jovially swung the disgraced diva around to show off the beige fake titties.

"You better suck a dick good to make up for them non-titties Coco Lopez." Todd declared with a shit eating grin.

"W-What?!" Dulce gazed at him in disbelief. False eyelashes now gone the way of her outfit. Still a part of her had believed that things couldn't possibly get any worse...

"You took the bet girl, but I'm not a bad guy, so it's like this Dulce or should I say Coco? You do a screen test in the back of the Fuck Wagon over there and I'm gonna let you keep your panties, give you a tee and even toss you a bus fare home. All you need to do is suck my dick like you love it and sign a waiver for this footage. The whole episode is going on the site. You do that then unless you want to make money fluffing dick for my shoots, I never need to see your fake ass again and you out of the racing business for good. But if you don't want to accept my generous deal then your big ass is Imani's to stomp on."

Imani grinned malevolently and tugged harder on both Dulce's increasingly shredded thong and fucked-up hair. She moved in menacingly close to the dethroned race queen. Dulce was conflicted as to whether Imani would rather see her former employer sucking dick in only her thong and socks for the entertainment of a baying crowd or see her beat down and bleeding in the gutter.

"I have my way, I'll strip your ass butt-naked, beat you ugly, pull out what little hair you got left and knock them crooked teeth out of your nasty mouth. You wanna end up in the hospital tonight chica?"

"Suck! I-I-I'll suck your dick good pappy." Dulce blurted at Maxwell with a pathetic wide eyed desperation that saw the last of her self-respect ooze down into the gutter. Her improvised 'bimbo' voice succeeded in coaxing riotous laughter from the assembled twisted rubberneckers.

"Pappy? Now that's more like it. Promise you gonna smile?"

"I-I will P-pappy." Piped up Dulce, while twisting her face into an uncomfortable looking approximation of a smile.

Dulce (or Coco...) was unceremoniously grasped by the neck and marched quickly across the lot towards Maxwell's waiting 'Fuck Wagon'. Whoops and hollers followed the fallen woman as she trotted teary eyed in her almost baggy thong. The fierce wedgy delivered by Imani had seriously tested the integrity of the baby pink elastic and frayed white cotton. Not only was her bush on show to the world, but it felt as if the ragged panties would drop down to her ankles at any moment. Only the fact that the string had been painfully wedged into her butt crack kept the panties up. The soles of her little neon pink nylon socks were rendered increasingly grubby by the parking lot floor, while the only other item of 'clothing' she still wore were her trademark thin green nylon racing gloves. Each shiny metallic green glove reached up just beyond her wrists. Dulce bowed her head in everlasting shame. Somehow the jiggling breast forms had remained glued to her own little titties. Shorn of her flowing black mane, only the gothy pointed bangs remained relatively untouched, whereas the formerly sleek real locks partially escaped the band on the back of her head and frizzily corkscrewed out.

Pointed insults rang in her ears and cameras were thrust in her face, while a few scumbags gave her big exposed booty meaty smacks. Men and women alike took liberties with giving Dulce a cheeky butt slap. The idea of the whole sorry episode being uploaded onto the internet made her want to vomit. After all, she was a minor celebrity on the street racing scene. A face featured in multiple YouTube uploaded clips. For all the interest in her previous race clips, people would be rabid at the prospect of seeing her humiliating fall...

She'd seen Maxwell's 'Fuck Wagon' at race meets before and she'd been well aware that the scumbag pornographer had created a career out of cruising around and fucking bimbos in the back of it, but the prospect of ever being one of those broke down, desperate bitches was unthinkable. Not for the first time that night Dulce Satana wondered whether she was starring in a particularly degrading episode of the Twilight Zone.

Maxwell pretty much lifted the squealing chica into the 'Fuck Wagon' by her spanked red butt cheeks. Not only was the mobile fuck studio kitted out with small unobtrusive cameras, but he also had a couple of his own guys in there with small HD cameras. Dulce crawled further inside across the spunk stained black carpeting, intent on escaping the jeering crowd and getting her humiliation over with.