His name now was Bat not Bart. In 33 years he never cared for the name Bart, a diminutive of Bartholomew. By shedding one consonant, a little consonant for sure, not even a full sized one like b, d or k, a buxom, long-legged woman with a most pleasing disposition handed him his new appellation. Resorting to sloppy penmanship he even wrote Bat Masters instead of Bart Masters on legal documents presented to him for signature. Bat Masters almost sounded like Bat Masterson. Only two letters, a vowel and another stature challenged consonant, a two letter word separated their names. The name with the O and the N tacked to it, a reversal of positions in the alphabet arrangement, conjured up in his mind the legendary gunslinger, a derby hat cocked on the side of his head, a growth of hair above his lips, the same thick handlebar moustache he himself deemed to wear. He was physically bigger then Mr. Masterson, more educated, more handsome and quite often the baddest man ever to ride the rails or hitchhike from one berg to another.
He did not have a clue how Bat Masterson came by his nickname. Bart's came in Grand Island, Nebraska, under the harsh glare of a 100 watt light bulb screwed inside a dented tin fixture resembling a pilgrim's hat swinging to and fro from the ceiling. Monica, the blond haired wife with the dubious allegiance to her husband, fucked any man she fancied and at the moment she fancied Bart. On her knees, a sheet of newsprint under her firm, sculpted calves, she tried to take his member, an organ, its length and thickness of such dimensions it bordered on being freakish looking, inside her mouth. Her nylons rustled whenever she shifted position on the room's grooved yellow wood plank floor. The tiny black caps on her yellow high heels poked her white skirted ass; she opened her mouth wide; he saw its pink insides and several shiny silver fillings.
Bart had ripped open her pale yellow blouse, the pearl buttons popped off, ricocheted across the tiny, cramped room. She did not seem to mind. Actually, she swooned when he did it. He did not take time to unclasp her translucent white bra; he speeded up the process by bending the elastic straps down over her sturdy looking shoulders, pried her tits from their cups and forced the entire rig toward the slight pooch at her waist. He found the brassiere's tiny size tag, flicked it, saw the number 40D in thick black script. She looked even bigger. Her heavy tits did not sag; the shadow of fine blue veins just under the pure pink skin seemed to embellish her tits, inflate them with a lading of wanton excess.
As she worked her lips around his cock, he kneaded her breasts, tweaked her hardened nipples between thumbs and index fingers. Gripping them in the palms of his hands, he squeezed, flesh oozed between the separations of his long fingers, under the pushing and pressure of his hands, the tight carcass of each tit softened, blanched, sent shivers of ecstasy shooting through him.
No way could she fit his entire cock inside her mouth, but enough of him went inside to dazzle him with the style and elegance of her fellatio. Monica was definitely the queen bee of cock suckers. He remained Bart for a few more minutes before Monica blessed him with a new moniker. Here, enjoying some leisure time away from his boring job at Case Holland in a Nebraska city colonized by German immigrants, not too far from the Stuhr Museum of the Prairie, a blond haired vixen, a lusty married woman with the freedom to fuck when and where she chose, had chosen him, now she fervently sucked him. He pushed the side of the tin hood housing the bare light bulb; the dangling light fixture swinging back and forth beamed a narrow cone of glaring illumination arcing back and forth across the small room, while everything outside the light's perimeter was cast in the color of sable. One moment light flared across her mouth suctioning him so ardently and the next her nose, mouth, chin, eyes, jaw, ears, her whole visage drowned in darkness. One moment his cock appeared like an escaped convict frozen in the glare of halogen search lights, the next her mouth having left rings of red lipstick on his dick melted away as the light lifted away, swung toward the shelves of booze and bar food of the tavern's storage room. She continued to suck him; he glimpsed the shadow of her fingers fucking herself. He imagined the husband fucking her while she described fucking him.
Not 30 minutes earlier he sat on a bar stool, its black cushion nearly worn through. He drank a PBR from a frosted over glass. Around him, men, working men with calloused hands, some with pot bellies, others rail thin, all wearing soiled coveralls or denim shirts with stains on the collars or other working togs. They sipped hard liquor not cocktails, full blown beer not the light stuff. In the company of these men several female bar hogs, one or two of them not too shabby in appearance, caged drinks, made ribald comments to keep the alcohol flowing their way.
