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.
She beckoned him with the index finger of her right hand. He stood, followed as she rounded the table without saying a word to the man sitting there. He passed the table, the man smiled, winked at Bart. Bart continued to trail behind the woman. She moved like a sated jungle cat, her hips swiveled back and forth. As she passed the woman on the sofa, she leaned down, kissed her solidly on the lips, said something to her and moved on. This entire tavern from its brown shabby front door to the loading dock out back was well inside her comfort zone. She moved as if she owned the place, carried herself with ease, he could see her making the trek totally nude, getting off on the naked stares, her thighs shining with moisture dribbling from her slit, thinking of all the erect cocks pointing her way, the women's pussies wishing to bump against hers.
She knew exactly where she was going. He imagined she had gone there many times before. As she reached a white door at the back end of a short hallway, she turned, kissed him firmly on the lips, and touched his erection through his trousers. "My name is Monica."
"My name is Bart, Bart Masters. Is that your husband out there?" He pointed toward the room filled with clinking glasses, people talking, a female voice singing about an unfaithful husband.
"Yep, it turns him on when I pick a man to fuck and then bring him back here and fuck him."
She opened the door, turned on the light and he followed her into a storage room the size of an average bathroom in an average home. Monica found a piece of newspaper, laid it on the floor, dropped to her knees. Quickly, unceremoniously, expertly Monica had Bart out of his pants and before she attempted to shovel his length into her mouth, she said, "Honey, that is not a cock, it is a fucking baseball bat."
When she said the word "bat" he thought he heard the Hallelujah Chorus in his ears instead of Tammy Whatchamacallit. For ever more when he introduced himself, before he fucked a woman, prior to her sucking his cock, before he went down on her, fucked her in the ass, while they bantered and sized each other up she, whoever she was, would know him by the name of Bat. In saying the name he would append a great weight to it so they remembered it. Bart was no more as Monica slipped her nimble lips around his cock.
"Honey, I normally do not fuck guys who I bring back here but for you I am going to make an exception. Tomorrow while Jack is slaving away at work, you are going to come to my house and fuck the living shit out of me."
"Cool," said the new bat man. Not the Batman with the cowl and the car and the utility belt but bat man with a neat cleaved space between the word bat and man, a bat man with a new persona. Monica had given him a new nom de plum.
He would fuck her until she begged for him to stop. To show his appreciation for suggesting his new name he would not kill her. That would be his greatest gift to her. He did get off though sending a woman into the throes of orgasm and then snapping her neck or crimping her throat until she was gone as she came. No, Jack had seen him up close; a room full of people had paid attention to his attraction to this choice morsel named Monica. No, he would leave town with a new name, a renewed spring in his step. In the next town Bat would show more caution. After Grand Island in the next town, his first town as Bat he would fuck a woman as much as he liked, as much as she desired, then kill her swiftly. No, he might wait until he visited two or three towns before killing. Taking time between killings was comparable to a man deferring cigarettes as long as possible to make each one smoked more potent and pleasurable. Murder was the same way. By delaying it, deferring it, not giving in to the impulse too soon that when it finally did happen it was so much more fun, so much more rewarding. While he waited for the right opportunity, let his homicidal cravings remain unsatisfied, Bat using his bat would have no trouble finding woman to fuck, women willing to suck his dick, a woman wanting him to pleasure her ass in the same way he pleasured her other orifices. Sometimes he did not have to work other then satisfy a woman day and night. That was the best of all possible worlds. Eat the woman's food, eat the woman. Fuck the woman, fuck her bank accounts. Make her do the most deliciously evil things, make her crawl around in the muck, make her beg, plead and moan for more of his cock, more nasty, kinky shit. He conveyed women down to the bottom rung of debauchery, tuned their senses, satisfied them. He remembered the Episcopal minister's drab and virginal looking wife, and what he turned her into before he strangled her to death with his bare hands. His biggest kick was watching her husband, a gray haired pinch faced gentleman wearing horn-rims, bury his wife. Standing away from the burial party, as though he was visiting a lost loved one, he could see a group of teary eyed souls blowing their noses into handkerchiefs, crying, grieving for poor Emily on a blustery November afternoon. Her husband said a final prayer as they lowered her into the ground. He tried to keep his composure, not think of her with a diabolical lover who took his time turning her into the lowest form of a whore before he finally murdered her. Doctor Peabody, the minister would remember Emily on the bed, naked, all her holes brimming over with Bat's semen, the look of satiation and ecstasy on her dead face. If he not found a woman to be with, the image of that tableau always made him beat off.
Bat did tire quickly fucking one woman and he was always anxious to be off to his next assignation. Tomorrow or the day after or next week when Monica lost her appeal he would move on and she would have ample opportunities to visit this tavern and its little back room. Bat, the name, the word saved her life.