The Daddy Bear Files

The Hunger of The Mountain

The Leather Den, with its vintage sign barely hanging on, was an institution, nestled in an alley off the city’s main drag. Notorious and legendary, it was a world unto itself. Dimly lit and with a ceiling lost to shadows, the bar was a place of refuge for many a rugged soul, each seeking his own form of solace and connection.

Brock "The Mountain" McLaine, all 360 pounds of him, was a deity in this temple of masculinity. His sheer size and undeniable aura made him instantly recognizable, even in the Den’s murk. The musky scent of raw masculinity mingled with the familiar leather aroma. As Brock ventured deeper inside, the worn-out floorboards creaked under his weight, each step a testament to his dominating presence.

Around him, men conversed in hushed tones, their stories embedded in every crack and crevice of the bar. The seasoned patrons raised their glasses to Brock, respecting the territory of the alpha among alphas. Newcomers, however, gawked, attempting to reconcile the tales they’d heard with the behemoth before them.

Leaning into the bar, Brock ordered his usual whiskey. Jerry, the bartender who’d seen it all in his decades of service, poured him a generous glass without a word, knowing Brock’s preference down to the last drop. As he sipped, the warm embrace of the drink wrapped around him, grounding him in the here and now.

However, tonight was different. A restless energy surged through Brock, a potent mix of desire and anticipation. The Den, with all its rugged charm, felt almost stifling. He needed air, space to think. Heading towards the restroom, he pushed open the heavy door, its rusted hinges groaning in protest.

Inside, the dim light barely pierced the gloom, but Brock had been here enough times to navigate it blindfolded. The walls bore the weight of countless tales, whispered secrets inked into its very fabric. Taking his position at the urinal, Brock's stature made even this routine act seem monumental.

Releasing a deep sigh, he muttered to himself, "Every bitch here, every sub hole here... I've seen them all, mounted them all.” His stream echoed, emphasizing the solitude in his voice. “Tonight, I need something new, something that sets my world on fire."

Shaking himself off, his daddy dick’s own evident arousal made him chuckle darkly. "Tonight, something's gotta give," he murmured, the weight of his yearning and arousal mixing. The restroom’s cracked mirror reflected back a man of immense power, yet with eyes searching for something elusive.

Exiting the confines of the restroom, Brock's senses were immediately assaulted by a change in the bar’s undercurrent. An unfamiliar, tantalizing scent, the vibrant color of fresh ginger, and a youthful innocence caught him off guard. There, amid the hardened warriors of the Den, stood Owen, like a beacon in the darkness.

Owen's lean form seemed to sway to an inner rhythm, making Brock’s pulse quicken. Their gazes locked, the world paused, and for a heartbeat, the Leather Den was witness to an electric charge, an unspoken promise of things to come. Brock's hunter instincts roared to life. Tonight, the game had indeed changed; and Brock "The Mountain" McLaine was all in.