I absolutely depend on bras to get sexual arousal, indulge my fantasies and reach orgasm.
Somehow, my fascination with this female undergarment triggers a wild desire of submitting to the women who wear it, not implying their approval, tolerance or even awareness.
This transgression -- (ab)using a bra when you're not supposed to -- boosts the native sensuality of the undergarment, taking it to a higher level: the blissful depravity of profaning something intimate with the 'sinful' purposes you can guess.
I started my bra collection very early and, in a short time, I managed to gather a dozen of those beauties, carefully picked from among those of my wife, the guests that passed by the house and the ones I stole in the neighborhood.
Over time, I became more daring and my fascination with bras became increasingly difficult to hide, making my fetish too obvious.
On one occasion, I received a package with a beautiful lace bra, offered by a woman who somehow became aware of my fetish. Someone took the trouble to wrap it in a scented packet and drop it in my mailbox. The signature was unreadable, but it certainly belonged to a woman who realized the value of my fetish and cherished the opportunity to indulge it. The inscription was very suggestive and implied that the woman who offered me her delicate piece of lingerie was aware of the use that would be given to it.
I regard my bra collection as a kind of shrine through which I worship the women who wore them. In doing so -- the time I dedicate to them is a ritual that goes way beyond a simple masturbation session -- I can achieve an intimacy degree I'd never dare with those women, whose favors I don't deserve.
I remember my early obsession with lingerie catalogs, which provided me countless opportunities to masturbate that I took with all devotion. Soon I'd be peeking around drawers and laundry hampers, whenever there was a chance of well-endowed women being around.
For a while, I believed this could be a teenage thing, related to the permanent arousal condition of boys and their little chance (or anxiety) to achieve the sexual benefits of girls. Laying hands on a piece of women's lingerie used to be the greatest thrill a guy would dare. In addition, it meant a safe improve, free from the risks of an ever-distressing rejection.
Later, however, as the fascination deepened, I realized that it was becoming an obsessive behavior, beyond the mere excitement resulting from the association between the sensual piece of garment and the body who wears it. Soon I would learn that there is a psychological label for this kind of sexual deviation: I had a bra fetish. And a severe one.
I was weirdly fascinated by my girlfriends' bras and even more attracted to the bras worn by their friends. The more inaccessible the women, the more appealing their bras and the greater the temptation to get my hands on them.
Until today, bras are irreplaceable items in my masturbation routine and make sure that every wank ends with a rewarding orgasm. They are crucial in long edging sessions that usually last for hours.
But in a short time, the presence of bras in my masturbation sessions became mandatory, going from a stimulating optional item to a requirement to reach orgasm.
At present, I'd rather get involved in my fetish deeds than in any other sexual activity. They have become far more rewarding than regular sex with no harm done. Apart from the burgled ladies, no one is harmed. It's a small loss compared to the returned pleasure and I like to believe that, after all, the damage is largely offset by the flattery of knowing that I will be idolizing those women while masturbating to their bras.
Over time, my ex-wife has become intolerant towards my fetish, considering it disgusting and immoral, although she allowed it (maybe even encouraged it, for a while, in a subtle manner), while her bras (and she herself, through them) were being honored in my furtive sessions, which in fact she was aware of. I think her intolerance started when she found an unknown bra among my stuff, stolen from some clothesline in the backyards of our neighborhood.
A few days after the discovery, she burst into my office, accompanied by the stolen bra owner (that I prefer to ignore how she was able to locate) and forced me to admit my fault, before my shame and the poor woman's awe. Meanwhile, she revealed my fetish to her, describing in detail my worship ritual. I can't tell which one of us felt more embarrassed, at the moment, but I must admit that the situation became quite arousing. In the end, the bra my neighbor left behind (and never retrieved) would become the most treasured item in the collection, for a while.
I suppose my ex-wife felt jealous because my collection, formerly consisting of her own bras and others she knew I bought, was now including bras belonging to other women. She even bought me some, purposely for me to use in my sessions. She must have felt betrayed when she found out I was rather focusing on the competition. And she was right. By jerking-off to 'foreign' lingerie, in some twisted way (eventually, a more perverted one) I was cheating on her. Somehow, she considered it alike to have sex with those women, through interposed brassieres.
To be honest, the complicity fainted when our intense sex life was gradually replaced by my solitary addiction, eventually becoming my only sexual activity. In the end, I admit it ruined our marriage. But, what to do when we face such an unbalanced competition?
I remember that exact day she came home from a work meeting, that ended sooner than expected, and caught me red handed, with my bra collection scattered all over our bed, a few mirrors on the walls and the camcorder on the tripod, recording all the action going on. I was kneeling by the bed, wearing one of her lace panties and stroking my face with the bras, one by one. In my trance, I didn't realize her arrival until she froze by the bedroom door, horrified, leaving me with no explanation whatsoever for what was going on.
At that time, our sex life had not yet resented my fetishist exploits. In fact, for a while, I managed to match it up with my nasty behavior. But at some point, the appeal of my fetish became so strong and uncontrollable that nothing else mattered to me, nothing else existed outside of my world of bras and the irrepressible urge to tribute them constantly.
Yet she never forgave me and, sometime later, she started to get back at me, never missing a chance to make humiliating innuendo about my obsession, when our friends were around. And lately, she insisted on bringing the subject, recurrently and regardless of its relevance or the presence of others.
On one occasion, we were visiting her sister and, as we talked, I couldn't help setting my gaze in the bra she was wearing. Two buttons undone in her shirt revealed a generous portion of a beautiful lace bra through the opening. Unexpectedly, my wife interrupted the conversation and shouted: "we both know you will masturbate later to my sister's bra, tucked away in the privacy of her bathroom. You'd better do it here and let us witness your pathetic performance. At least, everyone got to know what a sad loser you are". And, addressing her sister, she warned: "watch your bras in the laundry basket while he's around, because he'll spread his goo all over the place".
The last time she humiliated me before strangers, I was mowing the lawn in our backyard when she shouted to our next-door neighbor that I was on the hunt for bras, warning her to keep an eye on the clothesline.
As far as my ex-wife was concerned, all the women I met were feared as potential bra suppliers to indulge my fetish. This situation worsened our married life beyond the bearable, making it almost impossible to live with friends and relatives, and soon would end our marriage.
Sometime later she left me for a younger stud, a few years ago, and over time she reconciled with the past. Then, the former bitter jealousy gave way to a mixed feeling of mockery and disdain, and for the past three years or so, she started mailing me regularly (once or twice a year) packages with her worn panties and bras, always adding spicy messages ridiculing my fetish, never forgetting to push the buttons that recall past episodes of humiliation, a bond that will connect us forever, beyond physical separation.
Still, I cherish those precious gifts and always pay them my best tribute, recurrently masturbating to them with the utmost devotion, until the next parcel arrives. I always return the 'kindness' by sending her pictorial evidence of my gratitude and keep wanking to the very idea of her feeling aroused looking at the pictures and taking advantage of my weakness, disclosing it to others, as she used to do before. What turns me on the most is imagining her, making fun of my perversion while her new stud fucks her as I never was able to.
At present, no one is aware of this obsession of mine. I got divorced and moved out of town. As an atheist, I have no religious inhibitions or other moral restraints about my addiction, which I keep practicing with renewed enthusiasm and devotion. On absolute exemption, because no one here suspects or restrains my 'activity', until now.
Although I have been able to keep my fetish undisclosed all this time, I believe that one day I will not endure the pressure and, sooner or later, I will end up giving in to the inevitable admission of my fetish to the women who involuntarily feed it. This will be my next step: surrender to this growing urge to unveil my secret addiction to the women who indulge it, making them fully aware and accomplice of my obsession. But first I must work up on the guts to do so.
My emotional balance and basic requirements for daily living strongly depend on the regular indulgence of my fetish. I can't figure life without it.
Somehow, my fascination with this female undergarment triggers a wild desire of submitting to the women who wear it, not implying their approval, tolerance or even awareness.
This transgression -- (ab)using a bra when you're not supposed to -- boosts the native sensuality of the undergarment, taking it to a higher level: the blissful depravity of profaning something intimate with the 'sinful' purposes you can guess.
I started my bra collection very early and, in a short time, I managed to gather a dozen of those beauties, carefully picked from among those of my wife, the guests that passed by the house and the ones I stole in the neighborhood.
Over time, I became more daring and my fascination with bras became increasingly difficult to hide, making my fetish too obvious.
On one occasion, I received a package with a beautiful lace bra, offered by a woman who somehow became aware of my fetish. Someone took the trouble to wrap it in a scented packet and drop it in my mailbox. The signature was unreadable, but it certainly belonged to a woman who realized the value of my fetish and cherished the opportunity to indulge it. The inscription was very suggestive and implied that the woman who offered me her delicate piece of lingerie was aware of the use that would be given to it.
I regard my bra collection as a kind of shrine through which I worship the women who wore them. In doing so -- the time I dedicate to them is a ritual that goes way beyond a simple masturbation session -- I can achieve an intimacy degree I'd never dare with those women, whose favors I don't deserve.
I remember my early obsession with lingerie catalogs, which provided me countless opportunities to masturbate that I took with all devotion. Soon I'd be peeking around drawers and laundry hampers, whenever there was a chance of well-endowed women being around.
For a while, I believed this could be a teenage thing, related to the permanent arousal condition of boys and their little chance (or anxiety) to achieve the sexual benefits of girls. Laying hands on a piece of women's lingerie used to be the greatest thrill a guy would dare. In addition, it meant a safe improve, free from the risks of an ever-distressing rejection.
Later, however, as the fascination deepened, I realized that it was becoming an obsessive behavior, beyond the mere excitement resulting from the association between the sensual piece of garment and the body who wears it. Soon I would learn that there is a psychological label for this kind of sexual deviation: I had a bra fetish. And a severe one.
I was weirdly fascinated by my girlfriends' bras and even more attracted to the bras worn by their friends. The more inaccessible the women, the more appealing their bras and the greater the temptation to get my hands on them.
Until today, bras are irreplaceable items in my masturbation routine and make sure that every wank ends with a rewarding orgasm. They are crucial in long edging sessions that usually last for hours.
But in a short time, the presence of bras in my masturbation sessions became mandatory, going from a stimulating optional item to a requirement to reach orgasm.
At present, I'd rather get involved in my fetish deeds than in any other sexual activity. They have become far more rewarding than regular sex with no harm done. Apart from the burgled ladies, no one is harmed. It's a small loss compared to the returned pleasure and I like to believe that, after all, the damage is largely offset by the flattery of knowing that I will be idolizing those women while masturbating to their bras.
Over time, my ex-wife has become intolerant towards my fetish, considering it disgusting and immoral, although she allowed it (maybe even encouraged it, for a while, in a subtle manner), while her bras (and she herself, through them) were being honored in my furtive sessions, which in fact she was aware of. I think her intolerance started when she found an unknown bra among my stuff, stolen from some clothesline in the backyards of our neighborhood.
A few days after the discovery, she burst into my office, accompanied by the stolen bra owner (that I prefer to ignore how she was able to locate) and forced me to admit my fault, before my shame and the poor woman's awe. Meanwhile, she revealed my fetish to her, describing in detail my worship ritual. I can't tell which one of us felt more embarrassed, at the moment, but I must admit that the situation became quite arousing. In the end, the bra my neighbor left behind (and never retrieved) would become the most treasured item in the collection, for a while.
I suppose my ex-wife felt jealous because my collection, formerly consisting of her own bras and others she knew I bought, was now including bras belonging to other women. She even bought me some, purposely for me to use in my sessions. She must have felt betrayed when she found out I was rather focusing on the competition. And she was right. By jerking-off to 'foreign' lingerie, in some twisted way (eventually, a more perverted one) I was cheating on her. Somehow, she considered it alike to have sex with those women, through interposed brassieres.
To be honest, the complicity fainted when our intense sex life was gradually replaced by my solitary addiction, eventually becoming my only sexual activity. In the end, I admit it ruined our marriage. But, what to do when we face such an unbalanced competition?
I remember that exact day she came home from a work meeting, that ended sooner than expected, and caught me red handed, with my bra collection scattered all over our bed, a few mirrors on the walls and the camcorder on the tripod, recording all the action going on. I was kneeling by the bed, wearing one of her lace panties and stroking my face with the bras, one by one. In my trance, I didn't realize her arrival until she froze by the bedroom door, horrified, leaving me with no explanation whatsoever for what was going on.
At that time, our sex life had not yet resented my fetishist exploits. In fact, for a while, I managed to match it up with my nasty behavior. But at some point, the appeal of my fetish became so strong and uncontrollable that nothing else mattered to me, nothing else existed outside of my world of bras and the irrepressible urge to tribute them constantly.
Yet she never forgave me and, sometime later, she started to get back at me, never missing a chance to make humiliating innuendo about my obsession, when our friends were around. And lately, she insisted on bringing the subject, recurrently and regardless of its relevance or the presence of others.
On one occasion, we were visiting her sister and, as we talked, I couldn't help setting my gaze in the bra she was wearing. Two buttons undone in her shirt revealed a generous portion of a beautiful lace bra through the opening. Unexpectedly, my wife interrupted the conversation and shouted: "we both know you will masturbate later to my sister's bra, tucked away in the privacy of her bathroom. You'd better do it here and let us witness your pathetic performance. At least, everyone got to know what a sad loser you are". And, addressing her sister, she warned: "watch your bras in the laundry basket while he's around, because he'll spread his goo all over the place".
The last time she humiliated me before strangers, I was mowing the lawn in our backyard when she shouted to our next-door neighbor that I was on the hunt for bras, warning her to keep an eye on the clothesline.
As far as my ex-wife was concerned, all the women I met were feared as potential bra suppliers to indulge my fetish. This situation worsened our married life beyond the bearable, making it almost impossible to live with friends and relatives, and soon would end our marriage.
Sometime later she left me for a younger stud, a few years ago, and over time she reconciled with the past. Then, the former bitter jealousy gave way to a mixed feeling of mockery and disdain, and for the past three years or so, she started mailing me regularly (once or twice a year) packages with her worn panties and bras, always adding spicy messages ridiculing my fetish, never forgetting to push the buttons that recall past episodes of humiliation, a bond that will connect us forever, beyond physical separation.
Still, I cherish those precious gifts and always pay them my best tribute, recurrently masturbating to them with the utmost devotion, until the next parcel arrives. I always return the 'kindness' by sending her pictorial evidence of my gratitude and keep wanking to the very idea of her feeling aroused looking at the pictures and taking advantage of my weakness, disclosing it to others, as she used to do before. What turns me on the most is imagining her, making fun of my perversion while her new stud fucks her as I never was able to.
At present, no one is aware of this obsession of mine. I got divorced and moved out of town. As an atheist, I have no religious inhibitions or other moral restraints about my addiction, which I keep practicing with renewed enthusiasm and devotion. On absolute exemption, because no one here suspects or restrains my 'activity', until now.
Although I have been able to keep my fetish undisclosed all this time, I believe that one day I will not endure the pressure and, sooner or later, I will end up giving in to the inevitable admission of my fetish to the women who involuntarily feed it. This will be my next step: surrender to this growing urge to unveil my secret addiction to the women who indulge it, making them fully aware and accomplice of my obsession. But first I must work up on the guts to do so.
My emotional balance and basic requirements for daily living strongly depend on the regular indulgence of my fetish. I can't figure life without it.