Daddy Bear Gets Cub Lover Son

As soon as he walked in Woody’s, the most popular bar in Toronto’s Village, I knew he would be mine. Why? Because I immediately got a mild hard-on. This guy seemed like in his middle thirties, and was sporting a nicely trimmed dark brown beard. He ordered a beer, and stood next to me at the counter, brushing his leg against mine. You can’t get more direct than that.

Rewind. My name is Jed, I’m 59-years-old, I measure 6-foot-three, and I weigh 238 pounds. Yes, I’m a bear, a handsome one too. I like cubs at least twenty years younger than me. The last one I picked up at Woody’s was weighing over 300 pounds, had a ginger beard, blue eyes, and a smile that triggered a bulge in my faded blue jeans. I would later find out that his ass was also covered with a reddish brown down.

He invited me to his place, barely three blocks away. As soon as we kissed, I was thrilled by the cigar smell. I find that so virile. When I started to suck his nipples, he moaned like a dog in rut. His dick was a twig, but he had a master’s degree in Fellatio; my cock never got that hard! And a Ph.D. in Annulingus: his tongue fucked my tight hairy ass like he wanted to tickle my prostate. I’ve been rimmed many times, but this guy had a unique twist, and a style worthy of a Russian choreographer. If I knew that he enjoyed a partner farting in his face, I would have eaten two cans of pork & beans before heading for the bar scene. Did I mention that this hunk was wearing a jockstrap? It’s my preferred fetish. And it had a musky smell that made me sniff his groin with intoxicating pleasure.

But I digress. Back to the guy in his mid-thirties, who brushed his leg against mine at Woody’s. He introduced himself in a punchy way: Brad, 37, 6 feet, 251 pounds, can top or bottom. Excellent report card. On our way to my place – yes, I invited him in less that ten minutes –, he added that he loved older men, and that he was into a lot of kissing, nipple and ass play. Brad had married the neighbour’s daughter to please his parents, but this cub obviously preferred daddy bears.

At the bar, I had noticed that a dark bush of hair was peeking out of his unbuttoned plaid shirt. That was only the tip of the iceberg. As I would find out overnight, his entire body was furry. You could comb the dark brown hair on his arms, pits, chest, thighs, legs, back, ass, and balls. Before we showered together, I invited Brad to join me for a glass of wine, a tasty Merlot Pays d’Oc, Baron Philippe de Rothschild. We cuddled on the sofa, caressed and kissed for almost an hour. Between two sips, I buried my nose in his armpits to sniff the sweaty and divinely virile smell.

When I meat a new dude, I like to have him put on one of my nine jockstraps, and then wrestle with him to end up in a 69 position, of course. A study indicates that 35% of men say they buy their underwear in order to show off the brand peeking out from the waist of their pants. Calvin Klein, Fruit of the Loom, Tommy Hilfiger and Hugo Boss are well-known names. There are other brands that I discovered in writing this story, namely: Fabletics, Franck And Oak, Public Rec.

It’s the same thing for jockstraps. Forty or fifty years ago, you would probably just have found Bike and Gym. Now the selection is pretty wide, but some of the popular jockstrap brands include Box, Pump, Nasty Pig, CellBlock 13 and Baskit, plus the 100% leather jocks, of course. Both utilitarian and stylish, useful and sexy, ubiquitous and precious, the jockstrap has proven itself a prime example of when substance and style merge into one iconoclastic item.

I guided Brad to the wrestling room downstairs and invited him to chose a jockstrap. I had already removed the Nasty Pig one for myself. He put on the Pump jockstrap, a direct invitation for me to pump his man juice. Two bears were now face to face on the mat. I pulled and pinched Brad’s nipples, he massaged my pouch, we both got hard in seconds, frotted our baskets. Energy was in the air. I started to grab and land just about everywhere on Brad’s body, as if we were engaging in oil wrestling. My cock bursted out of the pouch; it was so hard and long that I used it to slap Brad’s ass.

His hairy body excited me so much that I wanted to be part of it. I tossed him all over to lick his pecs, thighs and back. He offered me his ass on a golden plate. I had never seen such a furry double watermelon. I kissed and bit it freely as he moaned with pleasure. I brushed my short beard in Brad’s crack, sniffed his asshole aroma, licked from the balls to the shaft and knob, back and forth, then started to poke his arse hole with my hard pointed tongue, twisting my way inside to reach a succulent HUGE rosebud.

I swear that I could have rimmed Brad non-stop for thirty minutes. But we were both anxious to reach the next step of the well-thought choreography. Without saying a word, Dad Jed and Cub Brad naturally ended in a 69 position and started licking, sucking and pumping while grabbing and kneading each other’s butt. As chance or luck would have it, we both had similar dicks: cut, thick and 8 inches. Rhythm increased in synchronisation, so did the moaning, and we ended up unleashing ropes of man juice, swallowing a bit to taste the creamy nectar, but keeping as much as possible for snowballing and French-kissing.

Brad slept over. I often used his hairy belly as a pillow, well positioned to lick the tip of his cock. As he is very ticklish, I made him laugh, rolled over him to feel his warmth and smell his virility. He had to leave around 10 am to change clothes for his afternoon-evening shift in one of the city’s community centres, but promised to come back around 9 pm. Meanwhile, I prepared the basement for Yagli Gures, the Turkish name for oil wrestling. For this national sport, men douche their bodies in olive oil and then attempt to mount and pin down their opponents. There are no penalties for holding. While mounting a lubed lad is typically an easy job, it’s much harder when your partner is trying to mount and pin you at the same time. According to the rules of Turkish Wrestling, the first fighter to have their “umbilicus exposed to heaven” loses the match. To win, you must keep your umbilicus (belly button) facing the ground at all times.

The entire competition is based on contenders battling to shove their hands down their opponent’s leather pants, which are called kispet. There are rules to the game. For example, wrestlers are not allowed to take hold of their opponent’s nether region (ass, balls, cock), but it was obvious that Brad and I had no intention to respect that rule, on the contrary. If you watch muscle worship videos, you most often see hairless bodybuilders; some of them enjoy getting their pecs and biceps massaged with oil. It can be arousing, but not as much as shiny hairy bears, in my opinion. Brad had never experienced this thrilling sport and he engaged into it with passion and fury.

Instead of wearing leather pants, we put on faded blue jeans, no shirt, no shoes, no underwear. The game started by grabbing, pushing, tossing, striking, and rolling on top of each other. We got hard in no time, frotted our bulges with firmness, kissed passionately, and ended up stripping off each other’s jeans. Brad said that he had won the match and that the reward was fucking my ass. I agreed wholeheartedly, but to one condition: “You first have to eat it.” Fuck! I’ve never had such a hungry tongue in my rosebud. It made me moan with pleasure and relaxed my back entrance for his thick rod. There was no need for lubrification as oil and saliva had done the job. He shoved his cock with energy and rhythm, calling me “Yummy Daddy”, and saying how “Brad and Dad are so fucking hot together”.

He was right, and I was ready to have him become my cub, my lover, my son.