Malibu

Her name was Malibu.

She appeared on a street corner a few blocks from Luigi's Sex Club 7, and word spread quick of the busty blonde carrying the mysterious suitcase. Nobody was really clear about how word got around so fast. Maybe it was her bright, blonde hair, which seemed to ride the wind whenever she let it down; or maybe it was the way her burgeoning breasts bounced from beneath that blouse each step she took. Who knew. But all was certain heads were being turned wherever those expensive heels clicked across the pavement.

On some nights, she is seen wearing a red, low-cut dress with fabric so thin, it seems to cling to her voluptuous figure like silk charged with excessive static. But tonight, she is seen with something different. She is wearing a mini-skirt high enough to reveal a tiny glimpse of her panties, along with a white blouse unbuttoned far enough to show off a solid line of cleavage. Over that blouse is a small jacket she would usually take off before pleasing clients with her irresistible assets. And if assets equaled liabilities plus stockholder's equity, then her assets meant the end of your financial equation. Which came to another point.

Malibu wasn't cheap, nor was she one to mess with.

She cleaned the money out of most men's wallets and left negating debts in their bank accounts. Taking her home was like starting a new drug habit. And once she got your money, it was hard to take it back. She had driven bullets through the heads of six men to prove her point; Portland had been stubborn during those moments. And Malibu never meant paradise whenever that occurred. Although…

When you were on her good side—and happened to be loaded enough to feed her economic desires—Malibu definitely meant paradise. Every dollar spent on every inch of that body was well worth her staggering price of admission. Unlike the other hookers lurking the Red Light District, Malibu had little things that made her stand out and easy to remember. Like that suitcase she always carried. Who knew the kinds of pleasurable devices she kept inside. It was all part of her surprise. That was Malibu. She also had this mole on the corner of her face. It was a noticeable spot below her left eye, and it stuck out like a speck of mud on a clean sheet of paper. It always drew your attention towards her eyes—which were azure, like the bright blue of Hawaiian surf. That was Malibu. Along with that, she had this body…this temple of curves and protrusions beneath clothes that always revealed some lace or satin wherever they were unbuttoned (or slit). Her body looked too expensive to be in Portland; it had more of a home in Staunton Island. That was Malibu. And the breasts she had…those enormous pair of assets which seemed to swallow your cash and end your financial equation, was what made Malibu the prized nymph of the Red Light District.

And the Man had his face smothered in between them.

He tightened his arms around her waist and pulled her closer to him. The vast cushion in between her breasts accommodated the size of his face. From under the rough, lacy bra beside his cheek, he could sense the hardening tips of her nipples poking at the bra's cups. No wonder why they associated her name with paradise. Here he was in the backseat of his Mafia Sentinel with a valley of bliss right up against his face. Now this was something he needed…some nice rest and relaxation over some leather seating with an expensive hooker straddled over him. The grand he was gonna spend on this broad was beginning to show its worth.

A giggle stirred him away from his thoughts.

"Sweetheart, you've been at that same spot forever," she sighed, moving her hands toward her shoulders. She hooked her thumbs below her bra's shoulder straps and yanked a small tug. Her breasts wobbled upward. "Why don't you start with my top and come get your money's worth, hmm?"

The Man didn't say a word. He simply stared at the vertical trench inches from his face and brushed a quick smile. So much for foreplay, he thought. And he liked foreplay too, but the broad had a point. He was anxious…and he wanted to release himself onto this endowed slut as soon as he could. That extra 25 points of energy meant a lot to him.

His face dove back down and pressed into her, feeling the clean smoothness of her skin touching his rugged features. Her warm breath from above began to shudder, peaking in intensity to become yearning cries dabbing at his ears. In seconds, those mewing cries blossomed into adulterous moans. As he continued to rub against her, her moans nearly drowned out the jazzy LIPS FM song playing over the car's radio. His face continued to graze along the warm surface of her chest until it hit the rough edge of her bra cup, where he teased and brushed at it until a large pink node came peering out. Against his lips, the stiffened peak of her nipple bent and rolled around its base. The warm tip was surrounded by an aura of pinkness, and he left a shiny finish over it with the tip of his tongue. She sighed out a moan when he did this; he felt her fingers feeling his ears as they stroked his hair. He continued to play with the warm nib of flesh, enjoying its maternal softness, before taking it into his mouth.

While his tongue licked at the slippery nipple, he could feel his erection screaming from beneath his pants. This woman sure generated a lot of heat in him. Steam would be jetting from his underpants if his manhood was ever allowed to express itself. There wasn't any comparison to heat like this…unless he considered Catalina into this matter. But Catalina was a double-crossing bitch. Malibu, on the other hand, was more like an expensive fuck. A memorable one, really.

Her lips hovered over his ear and exhaled a soothing warmth against his earlobe. "Sweetheart, you have that touch I've been looking for," she whispered, "and I want that touch all over me." She guided his hands up to the backside of her bra, where he quickly undid the straps to strip her from the top. As if they were restricted by a girdle of some sort, her breasts broke free from the confines of the bra and spilled forth into the Man's face. A bundle of softness flooded him. After tossing away her white garment, she embraced the Man's head and fell over him, searing through his lips with her hot tongue. As his lips pressed against hers, his hands filled themselves with the generous weight of her breasts.

They were more than a handful, all right. But there was also something peculiar about them. He felt around the underside of both breasts and came across thin bumps under each of them. Thin bumps…or scars he was thinking. Twin scars on her tits. That led him to suspect something.

Implants, the Man thought, smiling as his tongue coiled and looped around the tongue of this blonde beauty. Some things were too good to be true.

She pulled her lips away from him and began unzipping his pants. Once she pulled out his most valued organ, he felt the pressure rise wherever she touched him. It felt nice being touched by a hand other than his own. Her enclosed fingers stroked down the shaft of him while squeezing at various sections to engorge him with pleasure. What began as flaccid and unshapely soon became solid and defined, like thick iron. As her hand continued to rise and fall, her gaze met up with his. A glint appeared in those ocean-blue eyes. And it was followed by a foxy smile.

"Ever been down south?" she asked, hiking up her mini-skirt. From underneath the black skirt…in between her legs, the faint glow of white panties appeared. She crawled over him and sat on top of his pole, mashing it with white lace. From where she rubbed against him, he could feel hot moisture softening the area he touched. It nearly turned that part of her underwear into a sponge. Whenever she shifted over him, he could hear a faint squish emanating from that very spot.

She brushed her wavy hair back and stared into him with a glowing pair of blue eyes. "I'm all yours, baby," she smiled at him, taking his hand. "All that's left between you and me is a little lace." She then pressed the flat of his palm against her navel—fingers pointing downward, and inched them toward the hem of her underwear. His fingers hit the elastic of her panties before boring themselves under. Beneath the lacy material, his contented little piggies combed over a partially-shaven portion of fine hair before touching a hot mass of moisture eager to let in what he felt hardening right below it. There, he wrapped his palm around the spot, allowing her juices to flow between his fingers. The voice of Malibu cried in his ears. In response, his right hand groped her breast…where he felt a stiffened nipple poke at the center of his cupped palms. My God, his single hand couldn't contain her immense size—it was just too much for one hand to take on alone.…

What the…!

She whipped something out from her suitcase. Something bright…like a large knife.

The Man reacted. His right hand leapt on his pistol—seized it—and raised it at his assailant. He thumbed back the hammer. A metallic click crunched from out of the .45 caliber handgun.

"Whoa relax, sweetheart!" she gasped, nearly dropping the white bottle of Malibu Rum. "I think it'd take a lot more than cracking a bottle over your head if I were to kill you—ain't that right, baby? Now put that thing away!"

He rolled the hammer back down and put the gun aside. How in the Hell did he mistake a white bottle for a knife? He sighed as he pulled his hand out of her panties. They had been under them the entire time. How could he let the past interfere with his enjoyment like this? Hmm. The Man was just being cautious. Any man would be after being sentenced to ten years because their damn girlfriend set them up. Ten years for love, they wrote. Fuck that. Not even hookers were safe from his paranoia.

"So sweetheart…you still wanna fuck or what."

The Man looked at her. He nodded.

She had taken off her panties and was sprawled over him, naked with that white bottle of Malibu Rum. She began sipping its noxious coconut flavor, while the menacing odor of rum filled the space between them. It mixed with the sweet scent of her hair and produced a mild aphrodisiac in him. "Pardon my drinking," she said, gently stroking him, "it's just something that helps keep my juices flowing, if you know what I mean." She then giggled. "So baby, where did we leave off? If you like, I can do some rather nasty things with this bottle..."

The Man had enough. He seized her by the waist and flung her against the passenger door. She gasped as her back thumped against the Sentinel's door. Her bust bounced wonderfully; they bobbed and warbled from their base. Perhaps I should do that more often, the Man thought with a sneer. With his callused hands, the Man then spread her legs apart and got on top of her.

Her calves rubbed against his back. "Ooh baby, I like it rough!" she giggled up at him. "All right, enough with beating around the bush—let's just fuck our brains out!"

And that was what he did.

His rhythmic thrusting shook the car, causing its springs to utter forth a heinous creak-creak. Inside, the prostitute known as Malibu groaned, panting as her thighs tightened around the Man. Her voice trailed through his ears in moans and desperate cries. She shifted according to his movement—an accomplice to his libido—and yelped whenever her breathing flared to new heights. Pain intermingled with pleasure, while reciprocation merged with penetration.

She began to scream, "Fuck…Ooh…Yes!" as her blonde, wavy hair fluttered and stuck to the Man's sweaty body. Those enormous breasts shuffled and slapped against his chest. Their movements were as fluid as water balloons, bouncing and nodding along his pelvic thrusts. Her erect nipples lashed at him. With the bottle of rum still in her hand, she clung to his neck like a possum hanging from a branch.

The pressure in the Man's groin began to reach extreme levels. Inside Malibu, he swam in her fluids, grinding against hot, lubricating walls. With each thrust, the engorging sense of pleasure increased for the Man, pulling him closer to the impending waves of climax. With this in mind, his rhythm increased, sending him sailing toward those inevitable tides. His hands seized her ass and squeezed at its tenderness until it drew an extra breath out of her. The car's shaking increased in tempo.

The Mafia Sentinel creaked without hesitation, rocking atop its wheels. Rain poured over the black surface of the bouncing sedan, drumming the roof in lieu of the action. The car's springy sounds echoed in the alley of the Man's safe house near the Red Light District. As the rain continued, so did the sensual grinding inside the car. The car moved in periodic intervals; it paused after each fifteen minute session before rocking again. It was only until the rain settled (and this didn't happen for at least another hour) did the car really cease to move. It laid still in the dark alley with its engine on. Inside, the couple remained on top of each other, panting in long breaths of satisfaction. Their breaths fogged up the windows of the sedan, creating a translucent haze over its windows. From behind that haze, shadows moved about as the two began to dress. A dark alley, a stolen car, and two people…these were perfect conditions to cultivate crime.

"I know who you are…" Malibu said as she threw her arms into her jacket. "You're that small-time crook who does errands for the Leone family. That hired gunman with the reputation for jacking cars."

The Man nodded and looked off at the window with his emotionless eyes. The Liberty City moon loomed large in the late night. How she knew about him, he had no idea. For all he cared, she probably used to work for Luigi and managed to eavesdrop on some rumors.

"You were the one that got set-up by your girlfriend," she continued, drawing closer to him. "Right when you robbed the Liberty City Bank, she shot you. She had you ready to serve ten years. Ten years…for love." Her blue eyes stared into him. He wanted to look away, but he felt the urge to return her gaze. This segment of the past she brought up made him uneasy. He could hear Catalina's voice cackling from the dark crevices in his heart. That Colombian accent he used to love goaded him on, twisting his mind with thoughts of revenge. His hands clenched into shaking fists.

Sorry babe, I'm an ambitious girl and you, you're just small time.

One of his fists punched the window, leaving a web of cracks over the thick glass.

A set of soft hands rushed over his bleeding knuckles and pulled them away from the cracked window. "But you managed to escape," the voice behind him spoke, "and now you're starting over, hoping to move up in the world. You want revenge, and you're looking for a shot at it through Toni, Joey, and the rest of the Mafia."

I know who you are, she had said. This was creepy because he sure as hell didn't know who she was, and this broad probably knew more about him than his buddy 8-Ball. And worst of all, he just fucked this creepy bitch!

His hand went for the door handle. He had enough of this Alfred Hitchcock bullshit.

"I know a way you can get back at her," she said, dropping a hand on his shoulder. "Catalina…isn't that the name, sweetheart? Catalina's the one who has been on your mind this whole time."

The Man froze. How the fuck did she know that? More importantly…how the fuck did she know so much about him

"The thing is, sweetheart, we've both been hurt." She turned the Man's head around by his chin and stroked the side of his face. "I know of a connection that could lead you to your Catalina, but I also want you to do something for me. Something that suits you very well."

The Man tilted his head and stared into her blue eyes. He took his hands off the car door. This better be good, he thought, nodding at her.

"I need you to kill someone for me…" Malibu said, reaching for her suitcase. "Someone important, like my SPANK-dealing, ex-boyfriend. You see, he's your connection to Catalina, and I'm offering you 80 grand for his head." Like a clam, her suitcase popped open, revealing neatly-stacked rows of crisp bills adding up to 80,000 dollars. He thought about killing her to get to the money, but the thought left his mind once she drew a .45 caliber USP pistol at his face. She knew he was thinking of robbing her, so she packed some heat. Not bad for a hooker. But after experiencing what he just went through, this Malibu was definitely not the average street whore.

"So, do we have a deal or not?" Her aim never moved.

He checked the money, flipping through the bills to make sure he wasn't being ripped off. The money was legit. At first, the Man just couldn't get over the fact he was being hired by someone he just fucked—but in the end, he didn't mind the 80 grand. The connection to his old flame was an added bonus. He also thought it was rather cute to find a hooker using a gun to fend for herself. So he nodded.

And a wicked smile lit up her face. "I knew I could count on you, sweetheart."