Glory Days Ch. 01

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Big Dicks

Introduction: This story is based on Bruce Springsteen’s classic song “Glory Days,” which has to do with memories, immaturity and aging. In the song, the narrator talks about, “boring stories of glory days,” in a hardscrabble Rust Belt town.

As I’ve listened to the song over the years, I’ve started seeing interesting possibilities for a very nice erotic story with an important message. The plot loosely follows the song through the first two stanzas, the first two chapters, then makes its own way to the conclusion.

Chapter 1

Braxton Rogers sighed as he maneuvered his car through traffic on the interstate. He had just crested the last hill before the highway descended into Palestine, and he could see the town spread out before him.

As was the case with anyone who approached the town from the west, as he was that day, the first thing he saw was the Palestine Steel Works, the massive plant that dominated the skyline of the town from every direction.

It sat up high, like a king’s castle, on the banks of the river that snaked through town, hovering over the buildings that made up the nearby downtown business district.

The huge smokestack still blew the detritus of steel manufacturing into the warm summer sky, lending a yellow haze to the sun that was dipping into the western horizon.

Braxton couldn’t believe he was coming back here to live, but that was the fate that had been thrown his way.

There really hadn’t been any choice. His mother had passed away eight months earlier, quite suddenly, and somebody had to take care of his father. Bruce Rogers had worked at the steel plant for 35 years, and he had developed lung problems, which left him an invalid.

Bruce was still of fairly sound mind, but physically, he could no longer keep up the house where he and his wife had raised their three children. With Mary gone and himself unable to get around very well, Bruce was considering selling the house and moving into an assisted-living facility.

If that happened, someone had to come home to take care of the business of selling the house, making sure the legal niceties were handled and keep an eye on Bruce.

Braxton hadn’t liked it, but he was the logical choice to move back and help with his dad. His older brother lived in Philadelphia with his family, where he had his business, and his little sister lived in California, with her family.

At age 35, Braxton was still single, working as an insurance adjuster for a major company, so it was fairly easy for him to get a transfer from Nashville, where he’d been living, to Palestine.

It wasn’t that he averse to a move from Nashville; far from it. He’d just broken up with his most recent girlfriend, and it had been a rather hostile split. So he didn’t mind putting Nashville behind him. But Palestine was about the last place he wanted to live.

He had left town at age 18 after accepting a football scholarship to a small school in Kentucky. He’d played four years there while majoring in business, then had gone to work for the insurance company. He was good at his work, but his personal life hadn’t been as successful as his professional life.

Braxton had had plenty of relationships, but none of them had been “the one.” Early on, his girlfriends had accused him of having a commitment problem; later, they were the ones who had the difficulty committing to a deeper relationship.

So, he was coming back to make a fresh start, but he wasn’t exactly excited about the prospects of making Palestine his home again.

Certainly, he had been back to visit many times, but he rarely stayed long. The place had always slightly depressed him. It was a hard town, a workingman’s town, a town that had seen better days.

It was in the heart of the Rust Belt, and in its prime it had been one of most prosperous in the state, with a population of approximately 90,000. Now that number was down to about 50,000, and opportunity for those not interested in going to work at the steel mill was pretty limited.

Finally, Braxton came to the exit off the interstate and headed south on Main Street. The first thing he saw on his left was the old train station, which still did a surprisingly brisk business, largely because Palestine was on the main Amtrak line between New York and Chicago.

Further down the street, he passed St. James Prep, the Catholic high school he’d attended, which was the feeder for St. James College, a Jesuit school that had been founded by steel money, but which had developed a reputation as a fine Catholic college with a good small-college athletic program.

Braxton turned left at the high school onto Capitol Street, then turned right a couple of blocks later and wound his way through the side streets to Five Points.

In spite of himself, Braxton found himself smiling as he reached the place where five streets came together at one intersection. He was back in the old neighborhood, for better of worse, and his feelings were decidedly mixed.

He took a left, then an immediate left again, ataşehir escort onto St. Patrick Avenue, went three blocks to Chestnut Street, took a right and traveled two blocks to 607 Chestnut. He pulled into the driveway of the old house, just as the sun was disappearing for the night.

Braxton greeted his father warmly, and they talked far into the night over a 12-pack of Rolling Rock, which had been the favored beer in Palestine long before it went national and became trendy.

They discussed a wide range of subjects, including whether or not Bruce should move. They didn’t come to any decision, but as they polished off the last of the beer, they seemed to be leaning toward Bruce’s staying in the house with Braxton.

The next day, Sunday, father and son made it to Mass, even though they were both a little hung over. It was the first time Bruce had been to church in several months, but he wanted to let all of his friends know that his boy was home, this time for good, he hoped.

Braxton’s brother, Lenny, and his sister, Julie, had taken after their mother. Mary had always been a little frail and slight of stature, and she’d passed that on to her oldest and youngest child. She’d been a teacher, and very smart, and they had also inherited her brains and her sense of achievement in the classroom.

Braxton, on the other hand, had been his father’s child, all the way. He was bigger, though not that much bigger, but certainly more athletic than either of his siblings, and the only one of the two boys who went hunting with their father, back when he’d been healthy enough to do so.

Bruce loved all three of his children, and he was proud of how Lenny had made his way in the big city, but he and Braxton shared a closeness that was special. They were a lot alike, with many shared interests.

On Monday, Braxton started his new job, and within a couple of weeks it was like he’d never left.

He’d been back three full weeks, and he’d been lying low. Although he had re-assimilated himself with the town, he hadn’t run into many of his old school friends. When you’re away from you old hometown, old friends move on and new blood moves in.

Still, he’d have thought he’d see more people he knew. That changed on a Friday night, three weeks after he’d moved back.

He had decided to hit a few bars and see what kind of action there was to be had. He’d spent a busy three weeks working around the house fixing up things that his father had been unable to do.

They had talked again about whether Bruce should stay or go, and they had decided that he would stay, at least for the time being. The old house had been the man’s home for over 30 years, and while there were the bittersweet memories of Mary, it was where he was most comfortable.

And with Braxton there, the house could be maintained better. Still, Braxton had been busy arranging for a home health nurse to come see to his father every day. He had also been traveling a lot, getting re-familiarized with his new territory.

All in all, he needed a night out to unwind from the stress, so he decided to go Across the River. That was what everyone called the long row of bars, night clubs and strip joints that lined the main highway on the west side of town, just on the other side of the river from St. James College.

He was headed into one of his old haunts, the Roadside Tavern, when he finally ran into an old friend who was just walking out. Chris Mooney knew immediately who it was.

“Braxton Rogers, in the flesh, long time, no see,” Chris said.

“Good to see you, Mooney,” Braxton said. “How’s it goin’?”

“Good, brother, real good” Chris replied.

That had been their old greeting whenever they got together, and they hadn’t forgotten. They walked back in and Chris yelled to the throng inside, “this here’s hardest-hitting son of a bitch you ever saw.”

Then they sat at the bar and had a beer or three, while some old friends and acquaintances came by to greet Braxton.

Chris and Braxton had known each other since they were babies. They had grown up in the same neighborhood, had played Little League baseball and Pop Warner football together right up until high school. Then they had battled each other for four years as rivals, since Chris had gone to Palestine High, while Braxton attended Prep.

Chris Mooney had started at quarterback his last three seasons at PHS, and led the Panthers to the state championship his junior season, but his best sport was baseball. A big right-hander with a blazing fastball, a tricky curve and a wicked slider, he’d made hitters — including Braxton — look foolish throughout high school.

But Braxton had gotten his licks in on the football field. A hard-hitting, ball-hawking safety, he had leveled Chris on several red-dog blitzes in the three games they played against each other. In fact, Braxton’s most cherished athletic moment in high school had been his last game for St. James Prep against his old friend.

PHS was a big-time football power, competing in kadıköy escort the largest enrollment classification in the state. St. James competed one class down from the Panthers, and while they had had winning seasons, they hadn’t won like Palestine won.

In fact, the Jimmies hadn’t beaten the Panthers in six years when they faced off at the big old WPA stadium just off the college campus, where both teams played their home games.

That year, the Panthers were going to the playoffs, as usual, while Prep was just fighting to finish with a winning season. But the Jimmies played inspired football that cold Saturday afternoon and had upset Palestine 23-21. And it was Braxton’s pass interception with 30 seconds left in the game that sealed the victory.

Everyone said that if Braxton had been four inches taller and 30 pounds heavier, he’d have made it to the NFL, because of his speed, brains, toughness and all-around athletic ability. But he’d had no regrets. He started all four years at his college and got a quality education, which laid the groundwork for a successful career.

Chris had gone on to sign a pro baseball contract with Detroit, and had moved easily through their farm system. After three years in the minors, Chris had gotten a September call-up and had been brilliant. He’d started four games, won three of them and got a no-decision in the other, and finished with an ERA of 1.85.

He was one of the team’s bright stars of the future, but the next spring, at training camp, he’d developed a sore arm, probably from pitching through the winter in Puerto Rico. He battled arm problems another six years in a bewildering array of minor-league venues before hanging up his cleats at age 29.

Over several Rocks, Chris and Braxton talked about the old times, the glory days when they were young and had the world at their feet.

Finally, the subject turned to their respective love lives, and they commiserated over relationships past and present, which, for both men, weren’t happening at the moment.

It was Chris who brought the conversation around to getting laid.

“So how long’s it been since you got your dick wet, bro?” Chris asked.

“Too long,” Braxton said. “Not since I broke up with my last girlfriend down in Nashville. Why? You got someone in mind?”

“Well, yeah, I do as a matter of fact,” Chris said, looking like the cat that ate the canary. “I know this freaky little college chick. I’ve fucked her a few times and it’s primo. I’ll give her a call, see if she wants to party a little with a couple of Palestine’s legends.”

“You always were full of shit,” Braxton laughed.

But Chris pulled out his cell phone, made the call, and, he was all smiles when he flipped the phone shut.

“She said to come on over,” Chris said.

Braxton wasn’t too sure what he was getting into, but he recalled some of the exploits they’d gotten into in their high school days, some of the parties that had evolved into Romaneque orgies, and that was one aspect of nostalgia he was happy to relive, even if it was just one night.

Lola Williamson lived on Riverside Avenue in a little rental house across the street from the Palestine High campus. To get there, they had to drive back across the river, onto the college campus to Riverside, which was the main drag in that part of town.

Lola was 20, and going to summer school at the college. She was a little thing, maybe 5-1 and 110 pounds at the most, but she was very pretty, with mysterious brown eyes and shortish hair of some color resembling magenta. She had a compact little body; with small tits, but a firm ass.

Chris introduced Lola to Braxton, and she gave him an enigmatic smile. She was dressed in a tight tank top and shorts, and Braxton could feel his groin tightening as he saw her nipples showing nicely through her shirt.

“You guys wanna get high?” she said as she pulled out a tray with some weed and a bong pipe.

Chris was eager — too eager, Braxton thought — and he took the proffered bong, fired it up, took a big hit and passed it Braxton. It had been a long, long time since he’d smoked pot, but he was just drunk enough to shrug his shoulders and take the pipe.

The weed Lola had was good, very good, and Braxton felt it attacking his lungs with a vengeance. He managed to hold enough of it in to get the full effect before he convulsed in a coughing fit. Lola smiled wickedly as she took the pipe and took her own hit.

Quickly, the trio had a fine buzz going, then Lola put her stuff away and stood in front of Braxton and Chris.

“I know you guys didn’t just come over here to smoke a little weed, now, did you?” she purred as she pulled her tank top over her head and lowered her shorts to the floor. “I know Chris too well, and if you’re his buddy, then you’re probably just as much of a horndog as he is.”

She was staring into Braxton’s eyes as she slowly knelt on the floor in front of where they were sitting on the old sofa. Braxton was mesmerized by her brazenness and by her body, bostancı escort especially the completely clean-shaved pussy between her legs.

It was warm in the house and Lola’s body was already covered with an oily sheen that suggested that either she was hot to trot or she’d been out doing some nude sunbathing.

“It’s your lucky day, Braxton,” Lola continued as she reached up and opened Braxton’s jeans and pulled them off his butt. “I’ve done a lot of kinky stuff, but I’ve never done a threesome with two guys. Me and another girl? Yeah, I’ve done that. But two guys? Ummmm, the possibilities.”

“Didn’t I tell you she was freaky?” Chris said as he watched Lola vacuum Braxton’s cock into her hot little mouth.

Braxton just nodded his head as he wallowed in the sensation of a first-rate blowjob. He pulled off his T-shirt and sat back naked as Lola worked his cock back and forth in her mouth.

After a minute or two, she pulled away, but kept her fist wrapped around the base while she turned her attention to Chris, who had already shucked his clothes and was holding his fat cock in his hand, almost as an offering.

“Your friend’s got a nice cock,” Lola said just before she swooped onto Chris’ dick and sucked the head and about half of his cock into her mouth.

Braxton got off the sofa and knelt behind Lola. He swiped his fingers over her bald mound and slid them into her tight, juicy cunt. Lola hissed through her nose as she worked her cock-filled mouth up and down, while Chris leaned back savoring the feeling. Braxton finger-fucked Lola with two fingers, while using his thumb on her swollen clit.

Lola was ready. She pulled her mouth off Chris’ cock, looked back at Braxton and told him she wanted him in her.

Instead of just plowing his way in, though, Braxton pulled Lola off the sofa slightly and flipped her easily onto her back.

“I like to look into a woman’s eyes when I fuck her,” he said simply.

Lola just nodded and spread legs open, exposing an angry-looking hot pink gash that was shining with the dew of her arousal. Braxton brought the head of his cock up to the opening to her pussy, ran the head between her prominent labia several times then slowly pushed his way in.

“Ummmmmmmm,” Lola cooed as she felt her hot little box being filled with Braxton’s cock.

Braxton took it slow, because Lola had just about the tightest, hottest pussy he’d ever had the pleasure of fucking. He wasn’t sure he could get all of his cock in her, and wondered how on earth she’d ever take all of Chris’ significantly fatter dick.

Obviously, she could, however, because he’d already fucked her before. As he got up to a nice steady rhythm, Braxton had the idle thought that perhaps he should have asked about condoms, but it was too late for that.

Chris watched as his friend fucked Lola with a slow, steady pace, and he decided it was time to rejoin the party. He got up on his knees on the sofa, pulled Lola’s head toward him and pressed his cock to her lips.

Lola eagerly sucked the head and a good portion of the shaft into her mouth and worked him, using her tongue to maximize his pleasure. She was in cock heaven, with two nice, hard cocks filling her mouth and her pussy, and she was shimmying on the sofa as Braxton fucked her with ever harder strokes.

Braxton could feel his control slipping, as he picked up the pace, and he could tell that Lola was getting close to a climax, from the muffled squeals she was making as she frantically sucked Chris’ cock.

It was time, and Braxton was ready to let go a huge load of cum, Just about the time Lola pulled Chris’ cock from her mouth and cried out in her orgasm, Braxton felt the white heat of his own climax rush through his dick. Gasping, he filled Lola’s clenching cunt with a succession of boiling-hot cumshots, squeezing out little bursts of semen until he was momentarily sated.

As his spent cock slid out of Lola’s dilated pussy, he got a rush as he saw his silvery sperm ooze from the hole. The sight of Lola lying back, with her body gleaming with the sweat of her exertions and her fat nipples capping her slight mounds was etched on his memory.

But he didn’t have much time to contemplate the matter. Lola was caught up in a true fuck frenzy and she wanted more, much more. Panting, she maneuvered Braxton onto the sofa, swiveled around so that she was on her knees, arched her back and invited Chris to come on and fuck her hard.

Chris didn’t hesitate. It had been a long time since he’d enjoyed fucking a slut’s sloppy seconds, and he didn’t mess around. He put one hand on Lola’s hip, grasped his cock firmly in the other and slid his cock into her gooey hole.

Lola gasped hard when she felt Chris’ long fat cock scudding up her cunt. Looking up, she saw Braxton staring, and with a wicked grin, she grabbed his cock and began to lick it all over, savoring the taste of their commingled juices.

When she had him reasonably clean, she dove onto his already semi-hard dick and began to work at getting him back up again. There was a bit of dementia in her eyes as Braxton felt his cock responding. The whole scene — the buzz from the weed and the wanton slut they were using — was blowing his mind, and it didn’t take much to get him hard as nails again.

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