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
