The moment the possession locked in, it hit me like the hardest orgasm I’d ever chased—my old consciousness slamming into Rubberscotty’s body with a wet, electric surge that made his cock twitch violently inside the tight leather race suit. I gasped inside the helmet, the tinted visor fogging instantly with my hot breath, and for a split second the world tilted as his memories flooded me: the smell of fresh Dainese leather, the burn of track days, the endless hours edging in full gear for his followers. All of it was mine now.
I flexed my new gloved fingers, feeling the thick leather creak, the knuckles stiff and armored. The suit hugged every inch of me like a second skin—chest plates pressing against pecs I’d only ever jerked off to on my phone screen, the codpiece cupping a heavy, half-hard bulge that was already leaking pre into the liner. I could feel the sweat trapped inside from his ride earlier, slick and warm, making the leather slide deliciously against my skin whenever I shifted.
I was in an elevator—his elevator—mirror walls reflecting the anonymous geared figure I’d become. Black and yellow AGV Pista helmet sealed over my head, visor down, no face visible, just the Italian flag sticker and the faint reflection of my hungry eyes behind the dark tint. The Dainese suit was scuffed in all the right places, worn-in and lived-in, the black logo stretched tight across my chest. Knee pucks still dusty from the last session, gloves gripping the phone like they were made for it.
I raised the phone with his gloved hand—my gloved hand—and snapped the mirror selfie, thumb brushing the screen through the thick leather. The click of the shutter sent another jolt straight to my dick. I was Rubberscotty now. Every follower who’d ever begged for more gear pics, every comment calling him “god in leather,” every DM sliding into his inbox asking to worship the suit—they were all talking to me.
My free hand dropped to the bulge, pressing the palm of the glove firmly against the swollen ridge trapped in the suit. The pressure was perfect—firm, unyielding, the leather creaking as I ground into it. A low moan echoed inside the helmet, muffled and private. I could feel the heat building, the slickness spreading, the suit starting to cling even tighter as my cock throbbed for release.
The elevator doors slid open to an empty hallway, and I stepped out with that same gloved hand still pressed against my bulge, not giving a single fuck who might see. The building was quiet—his building—and I knew from the stolen memories that the underground garage was just a short walk away. But the need was already clawing at me, hot and urgent, the suit’s tight grip on my cock turning every step into delicious torture. I couldn’t wait until I got home.
I took the stairs down, boots thudding heavily, the leather creaking with each movement. By the time I pushed through the side exit into the little park behind the building, my dick was fully hard, straining against the codpiece, pre-cum soaking the inside of the suit in a slick, warm patch. The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, but the place was deserted—just me, the red bench, and the thick summer air.
I dropped onto the bench hard, legs spread wide like I owned the fucking world. The AGV Pista stayed sealed on my head, visor down, blue-tinted and mirrored—nobody could see my face, nobody would ever know it wasn’t really him. Just a geared-up biker taking a break. Anonymous. Untouchable.
Both gloved hands went straight to my thighs, palms sliding up the slick leather, feeling the heat radiating off the suit. I groaned inside the helmet, the sound echoing in the tight space. The gloves were thick, textured—perfect friction. I dragged them inward until my thumbs met at the bulge, pressing hard, outlining the thick ridge of my cock through the layers.
“Fuuuck,” I hissed to myself, grinding up into my own hands. The suit didn’t give much, but that was the point—every stroke was muffled, restrained, forcing the pleasure to build slow and filthy. I unzipped the jacket just enough to slip one hand inside, fingers finding the thin base layer clinging to sweat-slick skin, then lower, cupping the heavy swell of my balls through the liner. The other hand stayed outside, rubbing firmly along the shaft, the leather creaking rhythmically.
I could feel the wet spot spreading, pre leaking freely now, making the inside of the suit glide even smoother. My hips rocked forward involuntarily, fucking into the grip of my own gloved palm. Faster. Harder. The bench creaked under me, boots planted wide, knee sliders digging into the wood. Anyone walking by would just see a geared rider adjusting himself—nothing unusual for Rubberscotty’s followers, they’d probably cream their pants at the sight.
But inside the helmet, I was losing it. Breath fogging the visor, heart pounding against the chest protector, cock throbbing so hard it hurt. I squeezed tighter, thumb circling the head through the suit, imagining every thirsty comment I’d ever left on his posts now aimed at me. I was him. I was the fantasy.
The orgasm hit like a crash—sudden, brutal, perfect. Cum pulsed hot and thick into the liner, flooding the crotch of the suit, soaking everything in a sticky mess that cooled slowly against my skin. I kept stroking through it, milking every last drop, hips jerking, low moans muffled by the helmet.
When it finally faded, I just sat there, legs still spread, gloves resting on my thighs again, the suit now clinging even tighter with the fresh load trapped inside. I could smell it faintly—sweat, leather, cum. My new signature scent.
I lifted the phone with a shaking hand, snapped another pic for the story—geared god on his throne, spent and satisfied—and grinned behind the visor.
I finally dragged myself off that bench, the cooling cum in the suit making every step a slick, filthy reminder of what I'd just done. The walk to the garage was short—his bike was waiting, a sleek black monster that roared to life under my grip like it recognized its new master. I rode home hard, helmet sealed, visor down, the vibration of the engine buzzing straight through the soaked crotch of the suit and keeping me half-hard the whole way.
By the time I killed the engine in his private garage and climbed the stairs to the apartment, my balls were aching for round two. The place was exactly like his Insta stories—minimalist, gear everywhere, the faint smell of leather and rubber hanging in the air like perfume. But there was a package on the table, fresh delivery sticker still on it. His memories told me everything: he'd ordered these weeks ago, custom red Alpinestars Supertech R boots, the brightest, sluttiest colorway. Limited edition. He'd been teasing his followers about them for days.
I ripped the box open like a kid on Christmas, tissue paper crinkling as I pulled one boot free. Fuck, it was beautiful—glossy red leather, white logos popping, the inner bootie tight and ventilated, the sole aggressive and ready to grip pegs. I could already feel how they'd hug my calves, lock my ankles, make every shift on the bike feel like the gear was fucking my legs.
I didn't even bother taking off the Dainese suit yet. Still helmeted, still anonymous, I dropped into the chair right there, legs spread wide on the wooden floor. The black suit was crusty now, cum drying sticky against my skin, but that only made me harder. I held the new boot up, thumb tracing the Alpinestars star, then pressed the cool leather against my bulge. The contrast—black suit, red boot—sent a fresh surge of blood to my cock.
One gloved hand unzipped the suit just enough to fish my dick out, still slick with the last load. I wrapped the boot's shaft around it like a sleeve, the stiff new leather creaking as I stroked slow and deliberate. The smell hit me—fresh out of the box, that virgin leather scent mixing with the musky funk trapped in my suit. I groaned loud inside the helmet, hips thrusting up into the boot, pre leaking over the red surface and making it shine.
The other boot stayed in the box, waiting, but I couldn't stop. I fucked into the first one harder, imagining posting pics in full gear with these on—black suit, red boots screaming against it, followers losing their minds begging for more. My free hand yanked the suit open wider, exposing sweat-slick abs, pinching a nipple through the base layer until it hurt so good.
It didn't take long. The second orgasm ripped through me, cum shooting in thick ropes over the boot's instep, dripping down the white lettering, marking it as mine. I milked myself dry, rubbing the head against the soiled leather, smearing it in until the boot glistened wet and used.
Panting, spent, I finally slid my foot into it—still in the sock for now, but the fit was perfect, tight, possessive. The other one would get the same treatment soon.
Tomorrow I'd wear them on the bike. Tonight? I had all the time in the world to break them in properly.
The red boots were still warm and sticky when I finally peeled off the black Dainese suit, the dried cum cracking along the liner as I stripped it away. The apartment smelled like a gear whore’s paradise—leather, sweat, fresh rubber from the boots—and I wasn’t done. Not even close. His memories guided me straight to the closet, a fucking treasure trove of suits, helmets, gloves, and deeper in the back… the rubber stash.
I pulled out the full Alpinestars red one-piece—bright, aggressive, the kind of color that screams on the track and makes followers drool in DMs. GP Pro or some custom variant, perforated in all the right places, tight as sin. But what really made my cock jump was the black rubber hood tucked in the same shelf, thick shiny latex with only a mouth opening, no eyes, no identity. Full anonymity. Perfect for the real Rubberscotty content—the posts he teased but rarely showed.
I slid into the red suit slowly, savoring every inch. The leather was softer than the Dainese, broken in from hard rides, hugging my thighs and ass like it was painted on. Zipped it up to the neck, the Alpinestars stars stretching across my chest. Gloves next—red and black, grippy palms. Then the new red Supertech boots, still glistening from my load earlier, sliding over my feet with that perfect tight squeeze, the inner bootie gripping my ankles like a mouth.
Finally, the hood. I stretched the latex wide, rolled it down over my head, the rubber snapping into place with a wet smack. Instant darkness except for the faint glow through the mouth hole, the world muffled, my breath echoing hot and humid inside. No face. No eyes. Just a blank, shiny rubber drone in screaming red leather.
I stumbled to the full-length mirror in the hallway, phone already in my gloved hand. The reflection was pure filth—a faceless geared figure, red suit gleaming under the lights, black rubber head reflecting everything like a void. My cock was rock hard again, trapped in the tight codpiece, pre already soaking through.
One gloved hand pressed the phone to the mirror for the selfie, the other dropped straight to the bulge, rubbing hard through the leather. The hood amplified everything—every breath a rasp, every creak of the suit loud in my ears, the latex clinging to my skull, sweat building instantly. I ground into my palm, hips thrusting, imagining posting this faceless shot with a caption like “Who wants to worship the rubber slave?”
The friction was brutal, the suit not giving an inch, forcing the pleasure to build slow and torturous. I unzipped just enough to pull my dick free, hot and slick, and started stroking with the gloved hand—thick leather gripping tight, the other hand holding the phone steady as I recorded a short video, just the sound of my muffled moans and the rhythmic creak of gear.
I didn’t last long. The anonymity, the tightness, the smell of rubber and leather overwhelming me—cum shot hard against the mirror, splattering the glass in thick ropes, dripping down over the reflection of my blank rubber face. I kept pumping, milking it, smearing the head against the cooling mess until I was shaking.
Panting inside the hood, I snapped the pic anyway—faceless, geared, spent. Posted it to stories with no caption. Let the followers go insane guessing.
The rubber hood came off eventually, peeled away with a wet suck, leaving my face flushed and slick with sweat. But the hunger didn't stop—it only grew. His memories pulled me deeper into the closet, past the leather suits to the heavy rubber gear he'd kept for special nights. The full black latex catsuit, custom-made, thick and shiny, with attached gloves and feet, rear zip for access, and that glorious front crotch zip that teased in every photo he'd ever posted.
I stripped the red Alpinestars off slow, letting the leather pool at my feet, cock already throbbing again from the friction. The latex was colder, heavier—talced inside for that perfect slide. I stepped in, pulling it up inch by inch, the rubber snapping tight over my calves, thighs, ass, sealing me in like a second skin. The attached gloves flexed as I zipped the back with the pull cord, then the neck, every movement creaking and shining under the apartment lights.
I dropped into the chair by the window, legs spread wide, the rubber warming instantly to my body heat. The bulge was obscene—thick outline of my hard cock trapped behind the zipper, balls heavy and outlined perfectly. I grabbed the phone with one rubbered hand, the material squeaking as I angled the mirror selfie, hiding just enough of my face like he always did—teasing the followers, making them beg for more.
But I wasn't teasing anymore. The free hand went straight to the crotch zip, pulling it down slow, the teeth parting with a loud rasp. My cock sprang free, slick with pre, veins pulsing, head already dripping. The rubber framed it perfectly, tight ring around the base like a built-in cockring. I wrapped the gloved hand around it—latex on skin, slippery and unrelenting—and started stroking hard, no warm-up, no mercy.
"Fuuuck yes," I growled, voice echoing in the empty apartment. The suit creaked with every pump, rubber sliding against rubber, the shine catching the light as my hips bucked up into my fist. Sweat built fast inside the latex, making everything hotter, tighter, the encasement turning my whole body into one throbbing erogenous zone. I pinched a nipple through the rubber with the other hand, twisting hard, imagining every follower jerking to this exact view—Rubberscotty finally giving them the full show.
Faster. Harder. The chair groaned under me, rubber squeaking loud, pre leaking down my shaft and over the gloved fingers. I edged once—stopped right at the brink, balls drawing up tight, cock twitching angrily—then dove back in, stroking brutal and relentless. The climax built like a storm, every muscle in this stolen body tensing under the latex prison.
It exploded—cum shooting in long, thick ropes, splattering the shiny chest of the suit, dripping down over the abs, pooling in the creases. I kept pumping, milking it, wave after wave, moaning loud and filthy until I was drained, shaking, spent. The rubber held everything in—sweat, cum, heat—sealing me in my own mess.
I snapped the pic anyway, cock still out, zipper open, load glistening on black latex. Posted it without a word.
This was it. The peak. The body was mine forever now—every suit, every load, every filthy fantasy. Rubberscotty's life, upgraded. And I was never leaving.
P.S Special thanks to @rubberscotty on insta !! for letting me use his pics GO FOLLOW HIM THERE
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