The Porn Chase Pt. 01

OK, I'll admit it. I became a porn addict. Not that I was some unemployed bloke who spent all his waking hours looking at it, but still .....

I'm a male nurse practitioner, that midway position between nurse and doctor. Make good money. But this whole story takes place during the COVID 19 pandemic when I began working 14-hour shifts, except for two days off here and there. I'm lucky I didn't catch the disease; I took all the precautions. But I worked in the thick of things, and I saw things I'd rather not remember.

All I had to do was make it through the day, go home, eat, watch some TV, sleep and return to work.

It was during one of those two days off when I finally roused myself at 10 a.m., got up, had a really slothful breakfast, and went to browse email on my laptop. Then I remembered a friend telling me I should check out a free photo- and video-sharing website called Flyrr.

So, still a little drowsy, I typed in the search word "pandemic." That was stupid. All the photos of lost loved ones and so on totally depressed me. So I typed in the next word that came to me.

Sex.

Just that one little word that led me down the rabbit hole. One image led to another which led to another, and soon I was viewing lots of fucking, people endlessly eating cocks or cunts, and engaging in all manner of BDSM. There were long videos of lesbians kissing, of crossdressers dressing, of people being whipped, and of some people endlessly climaxing as their video clips kept replaying.

At first I was just wonderstruck, like I'd gone into a sexual superstore where everything was free. My shopping cart was filled to overflowing. I guess my jaded brain from work needed some sort of reboot to give it some life again. Plus, I had broken up with my live-in girlfriend three months prior and I was living alone.

So, Flyrr became my new girlfriend. She didn't mind where I went with my sexual interests. She was extremely supportive. My searches began to narrow down; my mind began to focus on ... corsets. Even before Flyrr, I had been very attracted to women in satin corsets or bustiers -- their breasts held tightly in at the top and their waists narrowed by tight lacing. Soon, I began to refine my tastes, and I could spend a good hour or two just pursuing the one perfect photo of a corseted woman, perhaps in a red number with black trim. When I found that photo, or several of them, I'd save them to my hard drive. It didn't take too long to accumulate 25 quite-stimulating photos.

I also found images of men in corsets, which I thought was strange. Then I remembered that Elvis in his later years used to wear girdles under his show costumes.

During my searches, whenever I found a stimulating photo, I'd play with my nipples through my T-shirt, which gradually got my juices going. When I finally found the photo that matched my fantasies perfectly, it didn't take a hand job long to deliver a happy ending. After that, my work stress dissipated and I could sleep better.

But the nature of porn is that one's attention and fantasies gradually shift. So, I began to take an erotic interest in long-line girdles, or corselettes. I guessed they were mostly popular during the 1950s.

They had to be white, and open bottomed, nicely holding up dark nylons. It got so that I'd only look at corselettes from the Bonne Auberge brand. What excited me was the way the skin-tight garments clung to women's bodies and hips, and the way the nicely filled-in cups jutted out aggressively, with sensuous seams and stitching, and satin panels. I liked photos taken from below, which had me looking upward to those looming cups, like they were dominating me.

It was even sexier if the women looked dangerous or menacing, or held a whip. Yes indeed.

After a while, my hard disk's porn collection held 200 images. And counting.

I took this to another whole level when I decided I wanted to wear one myself. Bring my girlfriend home, so to speak. So I ordered two 38Bs on Ebay, plus some silicone breast forms and nylons. Pulling the girdle on for the first time was intense. I had an erection that wouldn't subside -- it kept poking out from underneath. Slipping into the nylons and figuring out how to secure them to the garters was exquisite. Looking at myself in the mirror, I saw either a sex goddess or one of those kinky men on YouTube videos posing for the camera in maids' outfits. But enough of those thoughts -- my masturbations were wonderful. I was, in a funny way, impregnating my corselettes .....

Then, another tectonic shift -- from white to black corselettes. They seemed more exotic yet, more stimulating, more arousing. I ended up buying two of those, too. Once in a while I'd sleep with one on, or carefully wear it under clothing to work. The girdles would make me feel blissfully contained and tightly held. The secret of wearing it hidden offered its own little twinge of excitement.

And now, I had 700 images. Just about the time I would think I'd hit the bottom of the Flyrr well, and I was just seeing the same old images over and over, I'd think of some new search word and find another page or two with stimulating image archives. This ate up untold hours of my free time.

Then I catapulted again. I needed to have my sex prescription changed to keep the thrill going, like my old drug had begun to lose its potency. Now I began a new appreciation for bras, which are like corselettes reduced to their bare minimum -- the cups and straps. My libido responded to these new enticements. I became the world's premier connoisseur of brassieres.

I absolutely loved the varieties: strapless, push-up, transparent, demi, thin straps, AAA size ranging out to double D and beyond. There was the sexiness of straps and the back band, and the strategic boning. Even the little satin label in back had its allure. Perfect breasts into perfect lacy cups always held my attention, and my nipples demanded attention too. Again, I settled into an appreciation for one brand only, and they were always white or near-white. Like before, I kept ordering them t until I had a baker's dozen to chose from.

Now I had 1200 pictures on my computer, ready to feed a fantasy. While wearing a bra, I'd flirt with an image, jerk, and spurt. Almost as good as a real woman, I thought.

About this time, my mind had become so attuned to the nuances of sexual images, my searches transferred to real life. In my rounds around the hospital I'd look for evidences of women's bras under their clothing. My perception was so keen that it only took the slightest little bump or crease on a woman's shirt or sweater or dress to figure out what was underneath. Because more and more women were now displaying bra straps, that enterprise became easier.

One time I was consulting with a woman of Indian descent whom we called Doctor Alicia. She was good looking, with black hair, on the short side, with a ready smile, a positive attitude and a nice figure -- as much as she revealed, anyway. She had that lovely Indian accent.

With women such as her, I had difficulty keeping my eyes from wondering south to their bosoms and bras. It was difficult.

Doctor Alicia broke my train of thought with, "Are you looking at my tits?"

Caught in the act. What I could've said, was, "Yeah, sure. I could just see the top fringes of your black bra above your bodice and wanted to see more."

But instead, I apologized for being distracted and thinking of too many things at once. She seemed to accept that, and we went our separate ways. By the way, the male, 49-year-old patient we were talking about lived.

But that was not to be the end of Alicia.