Sorting Out The Smiths Ch. 01

Lianne's was shaven up to a point, but there was still a thin vertical line of hair above her sweet sex that Lewis had always found very attractive. Now he imagined her with no hair there, and the idea excited him.

He shook himself. He was getting aroused by porn in his son's bedroom. This was not a good start to learning anything about him. He hurriedly moved the mouse over an icon which read INBOX and clicked on it. Instantly he was taken to what seemed to be a database of free emails and downloads all from various websites. Some were hardcore, others soft, but all the same thing: porn.

Lewis began to click through the emails, now hooked once again on the sight of naked flesh. Gone were the days when you had to go to a dirty video store. Now you could access the stuff twenty four hours a day.

Overwhelmed by all of the images flashing before his eyes, Lewis forgot where he was standing. He grabbed the worn office chair in front of the computer desk and sat down heavily on it. He began to stroke and grope the bulge of his jogging bottoms. Before too long he had let it out into the open air. With his left hand he began to tug furiously away at it whilst his right clicked on picture after picture -- beautiful women tribbing, licking out other shaved pussies, taking it from behind by flesh members or rubber ones, white cream dripping from around their faces, but most exciting of all always, always in the throng of ecstasy, always looking as if they had hit paradise's peak and were never going to come back down again.

Lewis grunted and felt a familiar throb. Relaxing back into the chair, occasionally tugging gently again for an extra fragment of pleasure, he felt his lap become warm, wet and sticky.

It was only then, as with many other times before, that a wave of guilt hit Lewis in the face. It was even greater this time around, for he slowly came back to his surroundings with a growing sense of horror.

Grabbing a half-empty box of tissues that were there, he knew now, for obvious reasons, he cleaned up the mess as best he could before stuffing the used tissues in his pockets and shutting the computer down. All the time he did this he kept his attention half on the door behind him, ready to come up with an excuse, any excuse, if he heard his son's footsteps on the stairs.

Finally the computer went black and Lewis hurried out of there. His first visit was to the bathroom where he flushed the mess in his pockets away into the Sechs City sewers, before he ran down the stairs, pulled his shoes on and strode out into the fresh, cool evening air. As the front door closed behind him, he shuddered slightly. He felt like a complete wreck. He needed a drink.

He began to jog, then run, quicker and quicker, out of West Avenue and towards the centre of the city. People passed him by on the pavements, some other joggers, some walking dogs, others waiting for buses or taxis. Lewis didn't know any one of them at all, and yet he was sure that each one were staring, glaring at him accusingly. We know what you just did, they seemed to say. We know what you've been up to.

Eventually Lewis found himself outside a sports bar he had only fleetingly glanced at before on his way to work every day. For a moment he was confused. How had he ended up here? He wasn't entirely sure, but it didn't matter. He needed a beer and this was definitely a place he could get one.

He walked through the door, expecting to be met by a cacophony of sports fans and chatter, but was surprised to find relative quiet murmuring. There were a lot of people inside, and there was a football game on, yet people weren't paying much attention to it. They all seemed to be deep in conversation with each other, some light-hearted, others more serious.

Lewis closed the door and walked up to the bar. A young man of about 25 was watching the game, the only one in the room who seemed to be doing so, whilst polishing a beer glass. He turned round as he heard Lewis pull up a stool and smiled warmly.

"Evening, friend," he said in an English accent. "What can I get you?"

"Just a beer, please," replied Lewis, only just realising how out of breath he was. He must have really been running fast tonight. "I don't mind which one."

The bartender poured out a cold bottle into the freshly polished glass. "Been working out?" he asked casually as he did so.

"Jogging," replied Lewis absent-mindedly. He didn't know why but he felt strange in this bar, different. Like everything was suddenly okay, that it was a safe place to be in, away from the judging eyes of all those who he had passed on his way here.

"Jogging to somewhere or away from something?" asked the bartender, passing him the beer and starting to wipe down the bar surface with a damp cloth.

"Away from my home," Lewis replied instantly. His eyes widened and he quickly gulped down a mouthful of cold beer. Why had he just said that? To a complete stranger?

This stranger was looking at him oddly, as if he were an actor in a play waiting for Lewis to give him his next cue line. He obviously wanted more information, and for some reason, Lewis' brain decided to give it to him.

"Let me ask you something," he began. "If you've got it all -- the dream house, the dream job, the dream family -- yet your wife won't talk to you anymore about things that are important to her, and your son is addicted to pornography and sleeping around, would you be worried?"

The bartender thought for a moment. "Well, technically I've not got any of those things, so I can't give a fair answer. But I suppose, yeah, I would be worried."

Lewis nodded slowly. "I'm in trouble," he murmured finally.

The bartender reached under the bar and pulled out a large cardboard box of contact cards. "Look," he said, "I know it's none of my business but I know this person who might be able to help you and your family...where's that card gone...ah, here it is." He held it out, a small piece of card with tiny black ink printed on top of it.

Lewis took it and examined it closely. "You really think this could help, er...sorry, I don't know your..."

"Andy," the barman interrupted, holding out a hand to be shaken.

Lewis shook it. "Lewis Smith," he said, not even thinking for a second how foolish it could potentially be to give his real name when confessing that the good life was not all it was cracked up to be.

"Yeah, I think it could. Who knows? Give it a shot and thank me later!" grinned Andy.

Lewis looked at the card. The more he looked at it, the more it made sense.

"Can I use your phone?" he asked.