Young Man's Bra and Panty Fetish

A semi-autobiographical bra and panty fetish

Alex had always been a quiet, introspective guy. At 24, he lived in a small apartment on the edge of the city, working a steady job as a graphic designer for a mid-sized marketing firm. His days were filled with pixels and palettes, but his nights—well, those were reserved for something far more personal. Something that had started innocently enough, back when he was just a kid navigating the awkward maze of puberty.

It was a summer afternoon, the kind where the heat clung to everything like a second skin. Alex was 13, home from school early because of a half-day. His older sister, Emily, was 17 and already blossoming into the confident young woman she'd become. She was in her room, door slightly ajar—probably assuming the house was empty. Alex, in his haste to grab a snack from the kitchen, pushed the door open without knocking. There she was, standing in front of her mirror, adjusting the straps of a simple white bra that cupped her developing breasts. Below, matching cotton panties hugged her hips, the fabric smooth and unassuming yet somehow mesmerizing in its simplicity.

Time froze. Emily shrieked, grabbing a towel to cover herself, her face flushing crimson. "Get out, you idiot!" she yelled, slamming the door in his face. Alex stumbled back, heart pounding, a mix of embarrassment and something else stirring in him—something he couldn't quite name. He apologized profusely through the door, but the image lingered. The way the bra lifted and shaped, the delicate lace trim on the panties. It wasn't about his sister, per se; it was the garments themselves. They represented a world of femininity that was both forbidden and alluring. From that day on, bras and panties became symbols in his mind—pretty, sexy things that highlighted curves and whispered secrets.

Years passed, and the memory faded into the background, but it had planted a seed. In high school, Alex was the shy type, more comfortable behind a sketchbook than at parties. That's where Sarah came in. She was his crush, a slim girl with a runner's build—skinny everywhere except her chest, where she was unexpectedly busty. Her shirts always seemed a size too small, straining against her figure in a way that made Alex's cheeks heat up whenever she leaned forward.

It happened in biology class during their junior year. They were partnered for a lab, dissecting frogs under the harsh fluorescent lights. Sarah bent over the tray, her V-neck tee dipping low as she reached for a scalpel. For a split second, Alex caught a glimpse: the edge of a pink lace bra, the fabric cupping her ample breasts, the underwire peeking out like a hidden treasure. She didn't notice, too focused on the task, but Alex's mind raced. His pulse quickened, and he fumbled with his notes, pretending to be engrossed in the textbook. That flash of lace ignited something deeper. It wasn't just about the body; it was the bra itself—the way it framed and accentuated, turning the ordinary into the erotic.

After that, the fetish took root. Alex started noticing lingerie in catalogs that slipped through the mail, in ads that popped up online. He fantasized about the designs, the fabrics, the way they symbolized everything feminine and seductive. By college, he was exploring Reddit, lurking in subreddits where women sold their used undergarments. It started small: a pair of basic bikini panties from a user in California. The thrill of receiving the package, discreetly wrapped, was intoxicating. He admired them, felt the softness against his skin, and yes, wore them. Men's boxers felt rough and utilitarian in comparison; women's panties were silky, hugging in all the right ways. The taboo of it all—the secrecy, the femininity—amplified everything. Masturbating in them brought orgasms that were intense, waves crashing harder because of the soft material gliding against him and the rush of doing something "wrong."

His collection grew. He bought from various sellers, always polite and anonymous. Thongs, boyshorts, lacy numbers in every color. But two items became his absolute favourites. The first was a Betsey Johnson red cotton brief with a black checkered pattern. It had delicate lace edging around the legs and waist, and scattered across the fabric were tiny pink hearts, playful and flirty. The cotton was so soft, breathable yet form-fitting. Alex loved slipping them on, feeling the lace tickle his skin as he moved. He'd stand in front of his mirror, admiring how they looked—sexy without being overt. The checkered pattern reminded him of picnic blankets, innocent yet naughty with those hearts. When he masturbated, he'd often wear them, the fabric absorbing his arousal, building to a climax that left him breathless. Sometimes he'd pull them aside, stroking onto the cotton, watching the patterns bloom with his release. It was the design that captivated him: pretty, feminine, highlighting the crotch in a way that felt empowering and erotic.

His favourite bra was an Ann Summers black lace number. It was sheer in places, with intricate floral patterns woven into the lace, underwired for support but delicate enough to feel luxurious. The cups were demi-style, perfect for imagining how they'd push up and display breasts. Alex didn't have breasts, of course, but he'd slip it on over his chest, feeling the lace against his nipples, the straps digging slightly into his shoulders. It symbolized everything he adored about bras: the way they showcased curves, framed the body like artwork. He'd admire it in the mirror, running his fingers over the lace, then masturbate onto it, the black fabric contrasting with his seed. The prettiness of it all—the sexy designs, the femininity—drove him wild.

Alex's love for bras and panties went beyond the physical. They were art pieces, each one unique in pattern and texture. He appreciated how they highlighted a woman's curves: the bra lifting and separating, creating cleavage that drew the eye; the panties outlining the hips and crotch, a tease of what's hidden. They symbolized femininity in its purest form—soft, inviting, powerful. Wearing panties instead of boxers? It was a no-brainer. The material was gentler on his skin, no chafing, just comfort. But the real magic was in the orgasms. The softness heightened every sensation, and the taboo—the knowledge that he was indulging in something society deemed "for women"—pushed him over the edge every time. It was like a secret superpower, turning solo sessions into explosions of pleasure.

He kept his collection hidden in a locked drawer under his bed, wrapped in tissue paper to preserve their scents and softness. No one knew. Not his friends, not his casual dates. It was his private world, a harmless escape that brought him joy and release.

Until one fateful weekend.

Emily was in town for a visit. At 28, she was married now, with a kid on the way, but she still treated Alex like her little brother—teasing, protective. She'd crashed at his apartment while her husband attended a conference nearby. Alex was at work when she decided to tidy up, ever the helpful sister. She vacuumed, dusted, and then—curiosity or boredom led her to poke around under the bed for stray socks or dust bunnies.

That's when she found the drawer. It wasn't locked properly; Alex had been in a rush that morning. She pulled it out, expecting junk, but instead found neatly folded bras and panties. Dozens of them. Lace, cotton, silk. Her eyes widened as she recognized brands like Victoria's Secret, Betsey Johnson, Ann Summers. What the hell? Was her brother cross-dressing? Hiding a girlfriend's stuff? Or worse?

When Alex got home, Emily was sitting on the couch, the drawer on the coffee table like evidence in a trial. Her arms were crossed, face a mix of confusion and concern. "Alex, we need to talk. Now."

His stomach dropped. He froze in the doorway, keys still in hand. "Em? What... what are you doing with that?"

"I was cleaning. Found this under your bed. Care to explain why you have a stash of women's underwear? Are you... I don't know, stealing them? Selling them? What is this?"

Alex's face burned. He closed the door, sinking into the armchair across from her. His mind raced. He couldn't tell her about that day years ago, the accidental glimpse that started it all. That would make it weird, personal. But he had to explain something. Honesty, minus that detail.

"Okay, look," he started, voice shaky. "It's not what you think. I'm not stealing or anything illegal. I... I have a thing for bras and panties. A fetish, I guess."

Emily's eyebrows shot up. "A fetish? Like, you collect them?"

He nodded, avoiding her eyes. "Yeah. It started in high school, I think. Saw a girl's bra by accident—my crush, actually. She bent over, and... yeah. It just stuck with me. The designs, the way they look. I started buying them online, from sellers on Reddit. Women who sell their used stuff. It's consensual, all above board."

She leaned back, processing. "You buy used underwear? From strangers?"

"Anonymous, yeah. Discreet shipping. I admire them, wear the panties sometimes. They're softer than guy stuff, more comfortable."

Emily blinked. "You wear them?"

He shrugged, trying to sound casual. "Panties feel better. No seams digging in. And... well, they make things more intense. Masturbating in them— the fabric, the taboo of it. It's like a boost."

She rubbed her temples. "Okay, TMI, bro. But bras? You don't exactly have boobs."

"I know. I just like looking at them, feeling the lace. They're pretty. Sexy designs. They symbolize femininity, you know? The way they highlight curves, show off the body. It's aesthetic for me."

Emily was quiet for a moment, then sighed. "So, no girlfriends involved? You're not hurting anyone?"

"No one. It's just me. Private."

She glanced at the drawer, spotting the red Betsey Johnson brief on top—the checkered one with lace and hearts. "This one's cute. Betsey Johnson, huh? Pricey."

Alex managed a weak smile. "My favourite panty. Soft cotton, fun pattern. Makes me feel... good."

"And this?" She held up the black Ann Summers bra, lace dangling.

"Favourite bra. Love the floral lace. Admire it, sometimes... you know."

Emily set it down, shaking her head but not in judgment—more like bewilderment. "I don't get it, but as long as it's not harming you or anyone else... fine. Just lock your shit better next time. And maybe talk to someone if it gets out of hand?"

"It's not. Promise."

They hugged it out, awkward but sincere. Emily left the next day, and Alex breathed a sigh of relief. His secret was out, but only partially. The origin stayed buried, a private spark that had ignited his passion.

From then on, he was more careful, but the fetish endured. Bras and panties remained his escape, pretty symbols of desire that brought comfort and ecstasy in equal measure. And in the quiet of his apartment, he'd slip on that red brief, trace the hearts, and lose himself in the softness once more.