Somewhere Outside Bakersfield, California – One Week Later
Darla had been laying low. After what she did to Loretta, her name traveled fast down the convoy lines. Every trucker, every woman who'd ever stepped into a sandlot ring or behind a shipping yard for a cash fight—they all knew what went down in Las Cruces.
Wade was still hauling freight. Darla rode with him, bruised, sore, and buzzed from the afterglow of total domination. She’d tasted power. Humiliation. Control. It was like diesel in her blood now. She wanted more.
But in the shadows of the circuit, someone else had noticed.
Enter: ANGELA “TANK” DELANEY
Angela wasn’t new to fighting. Mid-forties, 5'6", built like a bulldozer. She’d been a corrections officer at a women's prison for 18 years before she “retired early” after an incident involving a shank and a guardroom beating that went too far. Rumor was, she’d smothered a cellblock leader out cold during a riot—sat on her until she screamed into unconsciousness.
Now she drove flatbeds and lowboys cross-country in a black Peterbilt with a cracked windshield and the words “BUCKWILD” spray-painted across the hood. She didn’t ride with a man. Didn’t need to.
Angela had seen the footage of the Las Cruces match. Some driver’s dashcam had caught it and passed it through the underground like gospel. Darla’s grinding, humiliating face-sit submission? The punch-drunk look on Loretta’s smeared face? It pissed Angela off.
“That bitch wants to mark herself queen? Nah,” Angela growled. “Ain’t nobody rides out on top like that without payin’ for it.”
She didn’t want a brawl.
She didn’t want a win.
Angela wanted Darla beneath her. Under her. Broken the same way she broke Loretta.
She wanted to grind her down, force Darla to feel what she made another woman feel—and worse. And she'd already told every trucker on the I-5 she could reach:
“I’m gonna ride that bitch’s face until she sobs like a motel maid with rent due.”
________________________________________
Wade got the call in a bar outside Bakersfield.
Some driver with a toothpick in his mouth handed him a burner phone.
“Got someone wants a crack at your girl,” he said.
Wade raised an eyebrow. “What’s the purse?”
The voice on the other end was low and raspy. Angela.
“No purse. Just pride. No rules, no ref, no men steppin’ in. Just two fat bitches in a closed warehouse. First to scream taps. And I promise you, Wade—your girl’s comin’ out eatin’ dirt and ass.”
Wade hung up, turned to Darla. “You in?”
Darla took a sip of whiskey, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“She wants to sit on my face? Let the cow try.”
An abandoned produce warehouse on the south side of Bakersfield. Midday sun blasting through cracked windows, the air thick with dust, oil, and tension. Two rigs—Angela’s black Peterbilt and Wade’s chrome tanker—parked nose to nose just outside the dock.
Inside, the main floor had been cleared. Oil-stained concrete, flickering lights overhead. Pallets and crates stacked along the walls, creating a cavernous fight pit. The high beams from the trucks outside poured in, flooding the floor with harsh white light.
No ropes. No canvas. No ref.
Just two women. No rules. No mercy. No exits.
Word had spread. A few trusted drivers lined the shadows, smoking and whispering. They weren’t betting tonight. This wasn’t a match—it was a vendetta.
Darla stretched in one corner, topless, thick-bodied, bruised from her last war. Gray panties rode deep into her hips, her heavy breasts swaying with each breath. Her face still bore the red traces of Loretta’s punches, and she wore those scars proudly.
Angela “Tank” Delaney stood across the space, barefoot, built like a prison block. Her buzzed red hair was soaked already in sweat. Her upper body was massive—broad shoulders, thick arms, and a belly that told you she didn’t care about appearances—only results. She wore nothing but black boyshorts and an expression like she was already digging Darla’s grave.
Angela’s voice echoed through the warehouse.
“I’m gonna ride you 'til your face gives out. You’re not walkin’ outta here without my scent between your teeth.”
Darla just licked her lips.
“Bitch, you better bring two asses. Yours ain’t big enough to finish me.”
Someone shouted, “GO!”
The moment the words stopped, they charged.
They slammed together with a sickening crack of bare skin and sweat, their thick arms wrapping around each other’s torsos, teeth bared, snarling, grinding. It was like watching two enraged bulls lock horns—sloppy, primal, violent.
Angela landed the first blow—a short, savage right to Darla’s ribs. Darla responded with an elbow to the back of Angela’s head. They tangled up, hands clutching hair, fingers clawing at flesh, spinning each other across the floor until they crashed into a crate.
Darla slammed Angela’s head against the crate once—twice—then kneed her in the belly. Angela folded but grabbed Darla’s waist and plowed her into the concrete, flattening her.
Angela landed on top and immediately punched Darla’s face, once… twice… a third time, knuckles cracking against cheek and jaw.
Blood spurted from Darla’s nose, and she screamed—rage, not pain. She twisted her hips violently, flipped Angela, and bit down hard on her collarbone.
Angela shrieked and clawed Darla’s back with both hands, leaving deep, raw red lines.
They rolled across the floor, kicking, slapping, grabbing, like animals in heat and hate.
Angela managed to get to her feet first and yanked Darla up by the hair.
Then she spun her and bodyslammed her onto a broken pallet, splinters digging into bare flesh. Darla arched and howled, legs kicking wildly.
Angela dropped down and mounted her chest, pinning her arms beneath her knees.
“Now I break your tits, bitch.”
She drove both fists into Darla’s breasts, hammering them down like heavy bags. Darla screamed and bucked, but Tank was a slab of immovable flesh.
Angela slapped her—hard—then grabbed both nipples and twisted, tugging, stretching.
Darla’s eyes rolled. “FfffffFUCK!”
She snapped her head up and bit Angela’s tit hard enough to draw blood.
Angela screamed and scrambled back, chest heaving, blood running down.
Darla crawled forward like a feral beast, launched herself at Angela’s waist, and took her down hard, smashing her shoulder into Angela’s gut.
Darla got her second wind.
She straddled Angela, grabbed both ears, and slammed the back of her head into the floor. Then again. Then again.
“Still feel like Tank? You’re gonna be a damn pancake when I’m done!”
Angela tried to crawl away.
Darla grabbed her panties, yanked them up tight into her ass, then mounted her face reverse-style, dropping her full weight ass-first onto Angela’s struggling mouth.
Angela’s legs kicked. Her fists slapped the floor. Darla grabbed both thighs, leaned forward, and ground her hips into Angela’s face, full weight bearing down, smearing sweat and filth into her.
“Suck it, bitch. You’re mine now!”
Angela bucked, thrashed—and bit down.
Darla screamed and rolled off, clutching her inner thigh, shaking, furious.
Angela climbed onto Darla’s back and began slamming her face into the floor, holding a fistful of hair.
“Your turn to bleed, you hog-faced slut!”
She smashed Darla’s face into concrete until blood smeared in a red arc across the floor.
Then she pulled Darla up by the hair… and spit in her mouth.
________________________________________
Darla responded with a wild, sloppy haymaker that caught Angela off guard—right across the jaw. Angela stumbled.
Darla grabbed her, hooked her head, and dropped her down with a brutal DDT-style slam.
Now both women were on the floor, drenched in sweat, blood, and dirt. Both gasping. Both too stubborn to give in.
They crawled toward each other, snarling.
Angela slapped Darla across the face. Darla slapped back.
They began trading slaps—slow, thunderous, humiliating—until Darla tackled Angela again and wrapped her thighs around her waist, trying to crush the breath from her.
Angela grunted, face twisted, fists pounding Darla’s back as her air was choked off.
“You’re mine,” Darla hissed. “Say it! Scream it!”
Angela didn’t scream—she scratched, clawed, bit—until Darla’s hold broke.
Angela collapsed face-first into the floor, heaving.
________________________________________
They crawled again.
Exhausted.
Bleeding.
Every inch of skin was bruised, cut, or rubbed raw.
But Angela grabbed Darla’s hair.
Darla grabbed Angela’s.
They rose together, cheek to cheek, snarling through broken teeth and blood.
Angela spat, “One of us is leaving on her knees.”
Darla whispered, “Then get down already.”
They collapsed into each other again—then Angela tripped her, mounted her back, and yanked her panties down.
With her full bodyweight, Angela slammed her bare ass down onto the back of Darla’s head, smothering her into the cold concrete.
Then she shifted, rolled Darla over, and sat on her face full-weight, skin to skin, thighs sealed.
Darla thrashed. She slapped. Kicked.
Angela grabbed her tits and twisted them cruelly.
“Beg, bitch.”
Darla bucked.
Angela ground harder.
“BEG!”
Darla’s hand tapped the floor.
Once.
Twice.
Then a muffled, shaking voice came out beneath Angela’s flesh:
“I… I beg. You win… you fucking win…”
Angela leaned back, grinning.
“Damn right I do.”
Darla lay broken. Stripped. Defeated. Her arms were spread wide, legs limp, face unrecognizable—swollen, bruised, streaked with sweat and blood. One eye was sealed shut, her lips split, her pride bleeding out onto the concrete.
Angela stood over her, legs wide, staring down with breath heaving in her chest and fury still burning in her eyes.
“You wanna know what ‘finished’ really means?” Angela muttered. “I’ll show you.”
She didn’t just sit on Darla’s face.
She claimed it.
Angela turned, squatted low, and positioned her thick, bare ass squarely over Darla’s mouth and nose—lining up with cruel precision with a reverse facesit. Then, with all her weight, she dropped full-force onto her rival’s face, burying her under soft, hot, sweat-slick flesh.
Darla’s entire body jerked under the impact.
Angela leaned forward, planting both hands on Darla’s chest, pinning her flat to the floor.
And then… she started to grind.
Slow. Deep. Cruel.
Angela rocked her hips in tight, suffocating circles, forcing Darla’s nose and mouth deeper into her flesh. She didn’t just want to silence her—she wanted to erase her.
“Breathe it in, bitch. That’s the last scent your pride’s ever gonna know.”
Darla's legs thrashed. Her arms flailed weakly. She pawed at Angela’s thighs, clawed at her hips, desperate to escape the smothering pressure. But Angela rode it out, pressing her hips down harder, deeper, grinding like she was sculpting a memory into Darla’s face.
Angela’s body trembled—not from exhaustion, but from total control. Every roll of her hips was a statement. You’re done. You’re mine. This is forever.
She looked down at Darla’s belly twitching beneath her.
“You feel that? That’s your legacy shaking underneath me.”
Then—Angela threw her head back and let out a long, shuddering breath as she finished the ride with one final, crushing bounce—grinding her full weight into Darla’s nose and mouth until Darla’s body went stiff… then limp.
Darla’s hand slapped the concrete.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Angela didn’t rise.
Not yet.
She kept her seat.
She rocked once more—slow, heavy, deliberate—making sure everyone watching knew: this wasn’t a hold. This was a coronation.
Angela Delaney finished Darla by suffocating every last gasp of resistance—burying her ego, her fight, and her name under the grinding press of another woman’s flesh.
Angela finally stood.
Darla’s face was soaked. Her eyes were shut tight, lips swollen, skin red and glistening from the long, suffocating grind. She wasn’t unconscious—but she looked broken in every way that mattered.
Angela spat on her chest, turned to the few silent drivers in the shadows, and spoke loud enough for the whole barn to hear:
“Don’t call her ‘Queen’ again. She ain’t earned it. Only thing she’s queen of now is my seat.”
And with that, Angela walked out, barefoot and bloodied, but victorious—having finished Darla in the cruelest, most final way a woman can be beaten
