[Modern Emotions] Memoirs of a Materialist

"It's time to leave work!" Someone shouted in a hoarse voice, freeing me from the dizzying array of Arabic numerals on my computer screen. I glanced at the time in the bottom right corner of the screen—only 4:30. That shout must have been some bored prankster, probably eager to leave so they could go home and be with their wives. Only half an hour left.

After all, health is the foundation of everything; if I don't cherish it, who will? Even if I ruin my eyes, it won't be considered a work injury.

Oh well, I'll leave the remaining reports for tomorrow. I put down the mouse, stretched, and rubbed my eyes. They felt like they were about to cry, and a few tears rolled down my cheeks. Damn it, it's all from the computer radiation.

What era are we living in? They still make me do reports on a fluorescent monitor! It's making me look like a bloodshot mouse all day long. I've already talked to the office manager about it, but I keep getting brushed off with all sorts of excuses. The most common excuse is that the company is short of funds.

Short of funds? Why is it that everyone in this unit, from the top leader to the lowest-ranking official, even the section chiefs, has LCD monitors on their desks? They call it "work necessity."

But I don't see them using them for work! The leaders use them to speculate on stocks, and the section chiefs use them to play cards and mahjong. How can that be considered "work necessity"? Sigh! Just accept it. This is reality—only officials are allowed to set fires, while ordinary people are forbidden even to light lamps.

As the light dimmed at the doorway, I knew it was my best friend, Fatty Zhang, sneaking in. He said mysteriously, "Did you see the news?" "What?" I glanced at him sideways. "It's online, about a guy who stole hundreds of pairs of underwear from a university cafeteria cabinet. He was caught wearing a thong!" I said irritably, "Why are you telling me this?" Fatty grinned mischievously. "Dude, don't you like that kind of thing too?"

I remembered. Once, Fatty and I went to a comrade's house for drinks. When we came out, I saw a pair of lace panties hanging in the yard—coffee-colored, almost transparent, so small they barely covered my labia. Fueled by the alcohol, I thought the woman wearing those lace panties must be incredibly sexy.

As we left the yard, I jokingly suggested going back to steal them. Fatty remembered that, and today he was teasing me about it. "Get lost! Weren't you staring at those panties with your dead fish eyes the other day? You even said you'd die happy if you could have sex with a woman wearing panties like that?" Fatty Zhang scoffed when I exposed his past, and sauntered away, looking ashamed.

I felt a shiver in my pocket, followed by the sound of music from "Above the Moon"—my wife was calling. I pulled out my phone, and as soon as I pressed the answer button, my eardrums were throbbed by a soprano voice, "Don't come back today, go stay at my brother's house." "Why me?" "You live nearby." "Where am I supposed to eat?" "Go eat shit! I've never seen you starve to death." Damn it, this is truly a matriarchal society! What the hell is male chauvinism? I don't see any of that in my life! It's all just those boring "experts" spouting nonsense. Muttering to myself, I turned off my phone.

I put on my coat, grabbed my bag, and greeted my colleagues as I left the office building. I went into a small noodle shop near our workplace, greeted the owner, and went straight to my favorite table. A waitress in high heels and black stockings strode towards me like a mannequin, asking in a thick, guttural voice, "Sir, what would you like to eat?"

I casually ordered a few side dishes and a main course, along with a bottle of Snow Beer, and began to drink alone, lost in thought.

Don't be fooled by my complaints to my wife that I didn't want to go; I actually longed for this opportunity. Because I'm very fond of my brother-in-law's wife—perhaps a common trait?

We have a special relationship; we were classmates and later colleagues in other companies, so we were very close. Back then, neither of us was married, so we often flirted at work. To be honest, because I knew her so well, we never became a couple.

Why? My brother's wife was very open and flirtatious before she got married. She had sexual experience with other men very early on, and not just one. Because I knew this, I sometimes joked with her about wanting to "kill" her. She didn't react much.

Because of this, I thought she wasn't suitable to be a wife, only a friend. But men are strange creatures; they don't want their own wives to be flirtatious, but they want all the wives in the world to be flirtatious, so they can take advantage of them.

She got married earlier than me and was always trying to introduce me to potential partners, so by a twist of fate, she became my brother's wife. This brought us closer. Although we used to joke around, we never actually had any physical contact. Now, with this kind of relationship, I had to be careful not to get involved and end up getting myself into trouble—that's no joke. So I had to suppress my inner turmoil.

But this relationship also gave me, a fetishist, a perfect opportunity: even if I couldn't touch her body, I could still have intimate contact with her underwear, stockings, and the like. This was incredibly exciting for a fetishist.

It's not that Fatty Zhang is insulting me, but I am a genuine fetishist. This is a fact that outsiders can't know. Yeah, if people knew, I'd end up like that unfortunate college cook.

My fetish history goes back a long time; I can't remember the exact date, but I remember once my cousin's family had a fight, and she came to my house for refuge, bringing a bag of clothes. Later, she went to visit someone else and left the bag at my house.

With nothing to do, I curiously opened the bag and looked through it. Besides some everyday clothes, there were, of course, many dazzling, eye-opening, and arousing lingerie items. I won't laugh at you, but it was the first time I'd ever seen so many beautiful bras and panties. My cousin is a very flirtatious woman, and this family fight was caused by her affair being exposed. Maybe it's a common trait of flirtatious women; she's always buying sexy lingerie to seduce other men.

This gave me, a teenager in puberty, a chance to experience something new. Looking at the different colors and sizes of underwear and bras, including some recently worn but unwashed pairs, and the filth around the crotch, I was filled with excitement and arousal. For someone like me who usually masturbated to magazine covers, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So, for the first time, I masturbated with women's underwear and bras. The pleasure was indescribable; that period was the most memorable time of my life.

From then on, I couldn't stop. In every new place, I would try to sneakily rummage through the hostess's underwear for my own pleasure. Over time, I basically mastered the hiding places of women's underwear, and surprisingly, I was almost always successful.

One time, I even found a pair of used underwear covered in pubic hair under the bed of a restaurant owner. After playing with it for a while, I even took two pubic hairs as a souvenir.

I strongly believe that associating a woman's sexiness with liking a pair of underwear is nowhere near as stimulating, or even insane, as liking a woman's sexiness and becoming obsessed with her underwear, to the point of being only interested in her underwear, bra, and stockings.

By now, you can probably guess who this woman I'm so infatuated with is.

That's right, it's the hostess I'm going to see tonight, my sexy sister-in-law. My infatuation with her has led me to fantasize about her, along with her underwear and stockings, during sex.

To this day, I've taken advantage of the fact that no one is home at her house to find her underwear and masturbate several times. I remember the most exciting time was when she was in a hurry to go on a trip with my brother-in-law and asked me to look after their house. Because she was in such a rush, she didn't even have time to wash her underwear. When I got to her house, I easily found her underwear in the washing machine, which was still warm from her body. The underwear was still sticky with the mucus that had just flowed from her vagina. Smelling the mucus that was still warm from her body, I fantasized about her body and put her flesh-colored short stockings on my big cock, which was really exciting.

Afterwards, I threw the semen-stained stockings under her bed. When I went to her house again, I saw that the stockings had been washed and were hanging on a clothes rack. I don't know how she understood that stray, semen-stained pantyhose.

With these stimulating memories, I finished a bottle of Snow Beer, and, slightly dizzy and flushed, called the waiter for the bill. The waiter, swaying in her stockings and high heels, walked towards me like a model. After paying and getting my change, I followed the model out of the noodle shop.

It was getting dark, and in the gentle evening breeze, I set off for my destination. A few minutes' walk brought me to my brother-in-law's house, the place I'd been longing to visit. I followed a familiar neighbor into the building, took the key from under her doormat, opened the door, and changed into slippers. I took a can of Coca-Cola from the refrigerator and sat on the sofa, slowly drinking it.

No rush, there's plenty of time to play today. I put down my drink, went to the bathroom, and turned on the washing machine. As expected, at the bottom of some clothes were my brother-in-law's red lace used underwear and flesh-colored pantyhose. The underwear was crumpled into a ball, as if deliberately trying to lure me in to see what secrets

lay inside. I slowly opened the underwear and found it had been worn for a while; the crotch area had hardened into a cottage cheese-like crust. I smelled it; there was no odor, so it seemed she had a mild case of vaginitis. I took off my pants and used her used underwear to cover my large penis, comfortably fantasizing about this slut and masturbating. I left my semen at the bottom of her underwear without any hesitation. There was nothing to be afraid of, because by the time she came back, it would be completely dry, and even if there were traces, she would just think it was her vaginal fluid.

After masturbating, I wiped my penis clean with her underwear and went to their bedroom. In a corner of the closet, I discovered the secret: it was my brother-in-law's underwear stash.

This woman seems to be a bra, pantyhose, and stockings shopping maniac. Bras of all styles and colors, panties of all sizes and colors—cotton, silk, mesh—black, white, and various fabrics—stockings, pantyhose, ankle socks—countless, it's dazzling! Damn, if she changed a piece every day, she'd be wearing the same thing for a year or two. What's the point of buying so much stuff? Is it just for me? No, wait, it's probably for my brother-in-law. Is it just for looking?

No wonder my brother-in-law keeps complaining of back pain. He sees his wife changing panties every day, he'll be driven crazy one day.

I carefully examined each piece, picking up the ones I liked and examining them closely. I turned up the bottom of the panties to look and smell them. Some panties had stains from being heavily soiled and hadn't been washed properly, which was quite arousing.

I tried on her bra to see the size, and her breasts seemed too small. Do such small breasts need these pretty bras?

He picked up her pair of crystal stockings and slowly put them on his legs, feeling them as if he were touching his brother-in-law's stockinged legs. Just like that, his large penis became uncomfortably hard again, and he couldn't wait to masturbate vigorously while still wearing the stockings.

(7489 words)

[The End]

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