His first thoughts were innocent, as they always were. He just logged on to chat a little. Check the e-mail. Surf the web. But, as always, his mind drifted. Slowly, as it always did, the immense freedom that the internet provided him became apparent, and not-so-innocent thoughts began to creep in his head. Thoughts of his own creation entered his head, fantasies and desires unfolding before his mind's eye. Erotic images came to him, images that would satiate any adolescent's desire. These images however, did not satisfy him. He brought up a blank window, an empty searchbar. He searched for something first that was only slightly questionable; he was just peeking out his head into the sensual. His lust was not satiated by this. In varying degrees of boldness, he slowly found what his selfish mind and hormones craved. Women paraded across his screen like marionnette puppets, going along with the young man's every desire. He began to touch himself, trying to unleash his sinful passion. He did it. He accomplished his goal. His appetite was held at bay, at least for the moment. As soon as the act was over, he regretted it, as he always did. He quickly closed all windows, and tried to erase all evidence of his passage through the smut and filth of the world. No one would find out. His tracks were covered. He was safe. But the problem was that he knew. He knew full well that the images were just another addiction that had to be fed, the compulsion overwhelming. He knew about the girls that suffered for his pleasure, doing things they detested for money or other things to feed other addictions. He felt sick to his stomach thinking about it. He simultaneous felt the need to stop and the need to never stop, the schism between his morals and his desires unbearable. He knew that this mirage would never fully satisfy. He knew that only one woman could ever do that for him, and he couldn't stand the wait. His tragicfault was a lack of self-discipline. He knew to stop but never could keep himself from it. The most frustrating aspect of this was his faith. Every time he commited the act, he was defying his Father. He willfully disobeyed every time, and every time was ashamed. But this could not stop his insatiabe appetite for the perverse and twisted. The terrible aftertaste never stopped him. He was a slave to an addiction, like any other junkie or addict, knowing how terrible the things he did were, while always struggling to find that perfect harmony and pleasure in his perverted practise. He knew about the terribly hollow highs and the dregs of the lows, yet he still chose the fake over the eventual perfection.