A Day in the Life of a Bratags Collector (fiction)

The Surgeon, The Engineer, and The Secret Buyer: Three Paths into the Same Obsession

Rich

Dr. Richard Crowley always checked his email first thing in the morning—not anymore. His surgical coordinator could wait, his patients could wait. What couldn’t wait was the Bratags listing page. That glowing page had become the first pulse of his day, more vital than his run, his coffee, or even the quiet moment of stretching before scrubbing in.

And this morning, the pulse spiked.

There she was. The same woman he’d noticed months ago in another corner of the internet—an image, a comment, a flash of presence that had lingered in his mind far too long. Now she was here, not just another Model in the listings but the Model he’d been watching for, and she was offering her very first 32JJ bra. A trophy, yes. But also something else: a thread of connection, a private thrill he had no language for.

For most surgeons, the morning held lab results, consult notes, a wall of patient histories. For Crowley, it held this: the rush of discovery, the countdown before a drop, the anticipation of a conquest that had nothing to do with scalpels or sutures. Buying the bra would not change his standing at the hospital, nor repair the irritation he carried toward his colleagues who spent their careers butchering what he worshipped. But it would bring him closer to her, this woman he’d never met, closer in a way that made the day’s first breath feel sharper, more alive.

He closed his eyes, trying to imagine how he’d time it. His surgeries were stacked, consults woven between. Precision wasn’t the issue—he was a surgeon, after all—but timing was everything. One misstep and the bra would be gone to another collector. Not today, he thought. Not this one.

The Engineer

Hundreds of miles away, Richard’s morning urgency had nothing to do with operating rooms or countdowns. The desert had its own rhythm, and he had learned to match it. By the time the sun threatened to crest the jagged horizon, he was already back from his walk—a slow, steady ritual across the stone paths he’d laid himself when the house was new.

The house was still a marvel, even five years on: poured concrete walls, floor-to-ceiling glass, a fortress both brutal and elegant. From inside, he could watch the desert unfold like a living painting. Outside, it was silence and space, forty acres of solitude... some might say, all he needed was the mule, but an animal person he was not. For a man who had spent his life behind keyboards and deadlines, there was no greater wealth than quiet.

He set down his water bottle, thumbed the sweat from his brow, and tapped awake his phone. The desert was timeless, but the world beyond it was not, and he had a collector’s schedule to keep. Bratags was as much a fixture of his mornings as the desert walk. The others called it “the hunt,” but to Richard, it was closer to meditation: scanning new listings, gauging the rarity, deciding who belonged in his carefully curated collection.

Today, the news struck him differently. A new Model, yes, but more than that—a rarer listing for a 32JJ, a size as commanding as it was uncommon. He felt the faint tug of competition, knowing others would be circling too. He smiled into his coffee, alone in his desert fortress, and thought let them circle. Patience had always been his strength, and retired as he was, he had all the time in the world.

Zoë

Across the country, in a city where the morning rush sounded like delivery trucks and espresso machines, Zoë was already awake. She wasn’t a collector in the usual sense—not in the way the men circling rare sizes and chasing Models were. For her, the hunt was personal.

Bras had always been complicated. Stores never carried her size, and when they did, the designs were bland, almost apologetic. Too wide, too stiff, too utilitarian. Zoë wanted beauty and drama, fabric that celebrated rather than concealed. She found it in the least likely place—Bratags.

At first, she came for practicality: used bras that actually fit. But soon, she discovered the other pull, one she kept to herself. Slipping into bras that had belonged to other women wasn’t just about size or style; it was about sensation. A secret echo of someone else’s life pressed close against her skin.

Her mornings began with coffee and quiet scrolling, the pleasure of searching as sharp as the pleasure of finding. Today’s listings were sparse in her band-small, cup-deep category, but she lingered anyway, eyes catching on the new Model. A 32JJ, freshly listed. She smiled faintly. Not her exact size, but close enough that she considered it. She didn’t need to buy today. But she might.

Midday Adventures – The Hunt

By mid-morning, all three of them were circling the same point without knowing it.

Richard, the surgeon, was glancing at his phone between scrub-ins, the operating theater still humming around him. The engineer was back at his concrete desk, desert sun climbing higher, coffee cooling beside his tablet. And Zoë was curled on her apartment sofa, knees tucked under, a second cup of coffee warming her palms.

Each of them had seen the same listing. Each felt its tug in a different way—desire, patience, curiosity. None of them knew the others existed, yet their lives were briefly knotted together by one Model, one bra, one timed release.

The drop was still hours away. The surgeon rehearsed his strategy: quick exit between procedures, phone in hand, fingers fast. The engineer leaned back, confident that timing was on his side. He’d missed nothing in years, and he trusted his steadiness over the frenzy of others. Zoë, meanwhile, wasn’t sure she’d even try for it—but she stayed logged in anyway, studying the listing. The photos weren’t just low res snapshots; they were deliberate, detailed, and impossibly sharp. Every curve of the cup, each contour of the band, the faint stitching along the seams—all laid out in ultra-high resolution. It was as if the bra had been lifted from someone’s drawer and set under gallery lights.

Her eyes lingered. She could zoom in, shift angles, study fabric and wear as though it were sitting in her hands. The imagery itself was half the thrill: not only proof of authenticity, but an intimacy, an almost tactile closeness that turned a digital listing into a physical experience.

The clock moved forward.

The Anxiety of Anticipation

The hours between listing and release stretched thin, each collector feeling them differently.

For Richard, the surgeon, it was a distraction pulsing beneath his day. He stitched, he consulted, he smiled at patients—yet his mind kept leaping back to the clock, to the certainty that he couldn’t let this one slip. He rehearsed the rhythm in his head: gloves off, phone out, swipe, tap, secure.

The engineer sat in his fortress of concrete and glass, unmoved by the rush of urgency. He had built entire systems that ran on precision and timing. What was a timed drop but another circuit to complete? He paced himself, sipping slowly at his coffee, patient as stone. His mind did, however, wander into less serious places from time to time—into the kink dungeon. Even though one did not physically exist in his desert fortress, one very much did in his thoughts. He tingled with excitement at the thought of owning the bra.

And Zoë, alone on her sofa, let the photos loop before her eyes again and again. She knew she might not bid, but the possibility pulled at her anyway. The listing didn’t just tempt—it invited. Each image a whisper: you could own this, you could wear this, you could feel what she felt.

As noon approached, three sets of hands—steady, restless, uncertain—hovered over the same invisible moment, waiting for it to arrive.

Thrill of the Acquisition

And then it happened.

The listing went live. The previews and speculation of the morning were replaced by the full gallery—detailed, ultra-high-resolution photos of the 32JJ bra. Every seam, every curve, every contour was on display, each image a study in precision and intimacy.

Richard, the surgeon, was the first to react, fingers dancing over the screen with surgical precision. Between scheduled consultations, he navigated the interface like an extension of his own reflexes. The thrill of speed, of being first, sent a jolt through him. The bra was within reach, and every second counted.

The engineer, Richard, moved differently. He didn’t panic; he didn’t rush. His eyes scanned, calculated, and verified. Every image, every detail, had already been committed to memory during his morning perusal, but now the full listing confirmed his earlier assessments. He made his move with the confidence of someone who trusted timing and patience over frantic reflexes.

Zoë leaned forward, breath shallow, tracing her finger along the full gallery as if the bra were tangible beneath her touch. Every seam, every curve, every stitch glimmered in high-definition. She could imagine the fabric yielding in her hands, the sensation of it draped against skin. The digital listing became tactile, intimate, irresistible. She hesitated only a fraction before deciding—this one, maybe, would be hers.

Three collectors. Three approaches. One prize, shimmering in pixels yet heavy with anticipation, drawing them together without ever meeting.

The Tension of Victory and Missed Chances

The dust settled almost immediately, though each of them experienced it differently.

Zoë’s finger had hovered, hesitant, almost too long—but in the end, decisiveness won. The 32JJ bra was hers. Confirmation flashed on her screen, and a thrill unlike any she had imagined pulsed through her. The intimacy of the images, the tactile fantasy, the victory of actually claiming it—it all collided in a heady rush. She let herself smile, leaning back and savoring the moment, already imagining receiving another black box in the mail, carefully opening it to reveal her prize, and taking the bra first into her hands and then onto her body, her own breasts.

Richard, the surgeon, stared at his screen, disbelief pinching his chest. Every calculation, every careful timing, had been perfect—or so he thought. But the bra had slipped away in the final seconds. The rush, the thrill of the chase, had ended in frustration. He clenched his jaw, masking the sting, already planning his next attempt.

The engineer, Richard, exhaled slowly, a quiet disappointment settling over him. Patience had always been his strength, but this time it had not been enough. Even with every detail memorized and every calculation precise, the prize had eluded him. His mind still wandered to the imagined kink dungeon, tingling at the thought—but the loss was undeniable, sharpening his resolve for the next hunt.

Three collectors. One victor. One morning that would be remembered, for very different reasons, by all three.

Afternoon Triumphs and Rituals

Weeks had passed since that high-stakes morning, but Zoë’s excitement hadn’t waned. The 32JJ bra had been carefully stored, handled, and cataloged, each time she revisited it reminding her of the thrill of winning. Unboxing it for the first time had been a ritual unto itself: the subtle scent of fabric, the faint warmth of storage, the way the cups held their shape even after transit. Fingers traced every contour, marveling at the precision of the stitching, the exact curve of the cups.

Step by step, she logged the acquisition into her collection. Tags were added, notes jotted on fit, fabric, and wear, and a small gallery of personal photos documented her victory. Over the weeks, her collection had grown, not just in size but in meaning. Each item was a memory, a thrill, a quiet mastery of her own world.

Meanwhile, Richard, the surgeon, had moved on but not forgotten. Weeks of browsing, calculations, and timing exercises had sharpened his obsession. The thrill of pursuit remained, now mingled with strategies and anticipatory rituals for future drops.

The engineer, Richard, also reflected on his own collection. He revisited past acquisitions, noting which pieces had brought satisfaction and which had merely been trophies. The ritual itself—studying listings, anticipating drops, cataloging, and reviewing—was as much the reward as the items themselves.

Evening Reflections

Several weeks in, each collector had settled into a rhythm. Zoë reveled in her victories and the growing intimacy of her collection. The surgeon reconciled frustration with anticipation, refining his approach for the next opportunity. The engineer smiled at lessons in patience and precision, understanding that obsession was as much about pursuit as possession.

These rituals—morning hunts, weeks of anticipation, detailed reviews, and careful cataloging—offered more than desire. They were exercises in mindfulness, expertise, and personal fulfillment. Each collector found mastery in their own way, a sense of ownership and connection that stretched beyond objects.'

For those curious enough to explore this hidden world, the hunt continues quietly online, where every drop, every listing, and every discovery waits—Bratags offering the portal for collectors to chase their obsessions, one bra at a time.

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