You wanted a daddy...

You got two daddies, and now relax and keep reading to be more addicted to rubber.

Close your eyes, or soften your gaze, and take a slow, deep breath. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Feel the air fill you, warm and heavy, then release it, letting your body sink into calm. One more breath—deeper now, slower. Good. You’re here, safe, ready to drift. Let your thoughts blur, like ripples fading on water. They don’t matter. All that matters is the pull you feel, the heat stirring inside you. Let it grow.

Picture a man standing before you. Tall, broad, his body carved from strength. His skin is hidden, wrapped in rubber—black, glossy, so tight it’s like liquid poured over muscle. See it catch the light, shimmering as he moves, every curve of his chest, his arms, his thighs defined in slick perfection. The rubber squeaks faintly, a sound that hooks your attention, pulls you closer. Breathe with that sound—squeak, in… squeak, out… It’s hypnotic, isn’t it? Let it guide you deeper.

Feel your pulse quicken as you imagine more men, each one clad in rubber, surrounding you. Their suits vary—some sleek and seamless, others layered with harnesses, all black and gleaming. One steps forward, his pecs flexing under the tight material, his cock a thick bulge straining below. Your eyes linger there, don’t they? That’s okay. Let them. Feel the heat pool in your core, a tingling spark that begs for more. Rubber on men is sexy, you think, and the thought loops, stronger each time. Rubber on men is everything.

Sink deeper now, your breath slow and heavy, matching the rhythm of their steps. The rubber clings to them, amplifying every move—the flex of biceps, the roll of hips, the way their asses round out, perfect and inviting. Touch it in your mind. Run your fingers over the smooth, warm surface, feel it slide under your palm, alive with their heat. It’s not just fabric—it’s desire, raw and pulsing. You want it closer, tighter, more of it. I crave rubber on men, your mind whispers, and it feels so right.

Another breath, deeper still. The men move closer, their rubbered bodies brushing against you, the squeak of their suits a siren’s call. One presses against you, his chest to yours, the friction of rubber on skin—or rubber on rubber, if you imagine yourself clad too—igniting sparks. Your cock stirs, hardens, craving the sight, the sound, the feel of them. More rubber, you think, and the need grows, urgent, unstoppable. You want every man wrapped in it, glossy and powerful, a parade of lust you can’t look away from.

Let the craving build, like a fire catching dry wood. Picture a club, a street, a world where every man wears rubber—shiny, black, skin-tight, their bodies a gallery of want. You’re part of it, drawn to them, lost in them. I need rubber on men, you chant silently, each word sinking you deeper into the trance, deeper into obsession. It’s not enough to see it—you want to worship it, to drown in it, to beg for more.

Now, as I count to three, lock this craving in place. You’ll wake, but the hunger stays, burning bright, pushing you to seek out rubbered men, to crave them always. One… feel the rubber’s grip tighten in your mind. Two… let the desire pulse, hot and alive. Three… open your eyes, awake, consumed by the need for rubber on men, forever hungry for more.