In the quiet, sterile office, a lone man, driven by primal urges, unzips his pants, unleashing a colossal, throbbing cock. He grasps it, feeling the pulse of life, as he begins to stroke. The rhythm builds, his breath hitching, the scent of pre-cum filling the air. His mind races with taboo thoughts, his hand a poor substitute for the ass he craves. He fucks his fist, the slapping sound echoing, his orgasm building, until he erupts, painting his desk with ropes of cum, panting, spent, in the aftermath of his solitary indulgence.