Office Hours: Unbuttoning Pants, Not Morals

The sterile fluorescent lights cast an eerie glow on the man's feverishly moving hand, his grip tightening as he pictures the secretary next door, her tight skirt and blouse, the way her lips purse in concentration. His hips buck, a silent cry escaping as he paints the wall with his pent-up desire, the warm, sticky evidence of his transgression sliding down the cold, unyielding surface. He quickly cleans up, buttoning his shirt, a secret smile playing on his lips as he returns to his desk, the scent of his sin still clinging to him like a badge of honor.

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