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.
A woman with long blond hair, a woman in her middle to late 40s, wearing a short white skirt well above her knees and a yellow blouse matching perfectly her shoes, shoes he defined as come fuck me pumps, entered the tavern. A man, another working stiff, maybe her husband, maybe a boyfriend or nothing but a drinking buddy followed closely behind her, they sat down at a table. Whoever he was, he looked pleased to be here, looked like a hard core drinking man, he proved it ordering a Boilermaker, yelling the order at the bartender through the room's din of voices and country western music. He hated shit kicking music but this was a good place to pick up women and it fitted in with his legend. The man who definitely liked the music ordered his female companion a Bacardi and Coke. When the bartender served them, he drank solidly, greedily; she sipped, licked her lips, sat the glass on a dainty looking white napkin, played with the lemon wedge floating in the drink and ignored the man sitting with her. She looked about the room, her eyes roving like an undercover narc watching, waiting for a doper to dig down for Moola, close the deal, and drop dope deep in a pocket. She looked hungry like she might be the doper desperate for a fix but she was way too healthy to be an addict, a disgusting crack whore. Her sexy demeanor, the way she pushed her breasts forward, licked her lips and restlessly shifted in her seat signaled that her addiction was purely sexual. She looked like a woman wanting, a lady looking for a good, hard fuck. By their body language, in the close distance between them looking like a gap the size of Texas the guy sitting with her was not even under consideration. No, she wanted fucking from one of the working stiffs hanging off a bar stool or sitting at one of the tables. Sensuality shimmered on her, distorted her like a distant car on a desert highway.
She finished the rum and Coke. The man ordered her another. Every man in the room ogled her including Bart. One woman sitting across the room on a black sofa with her legs crossed, a woman he considered fucking until this new woman entered the tavern. In her skin tight jeans, a t-shirt not showing too much tit, auburn hair covering her head but way too short for his taste, she reminded him of a French woman who he took in the bottom a bass boat on the St John's River near Jacksonville, Florida. She was eminently fuckable, a worthy bedmate. He saw himself smearing lavender or rose scented emollient to the hemispheres of her derrière, and then grinding his cock into that soft and supple ass. At this moment she licked her lips. Looking at the glazed look in her eyes, the way her nostrils flared, she wanted to go down on the big breasted, blond haired woman, suck her clit, tongue her twat, use a wide assortment of toys to pleasure her, get great fucking in return. Maybe she was bi, he could wile away some time fucking them both when they were not fucking each other. Then the real fun.
As the blond toyed with her drink, took her sweet time drinking it, he noticed goose bumps on her arms, the same flaring of nostrils as the woman on the divan. This woman was in heat, wanted some loving. She looked at Bart, stood; let him study the plush contour of her breasts, the majesty of her hips, the slightly thickened waist that in no way diminished her sensuality. If anything it made her riper, tastier, and more delicious to look at. She cocked her leg; the tall heels corded the muscles in her tall legs, made him marvel at their perfect architecture.
