She has No Other Choice

A week passed. Seven days of lectures, cafeteria trays, and the water stain on my ceiling that I studied each night before sleep. When Thursday came, I put on the same blouse and the same jeans. My hands trembled as I buttoned the front.

I knocked at his door at eight.

Mr Dewitt opened it, glasses perched low on his nose. A book rested in one hand, fingers marking the page. “Right on time.” He stepped aside.

The apartment smelled different tonight—lemon polish, old paper, something clean. He led me past the bedroom hallway, past the living room, to a door I hadn’t noticed before. His study.

A heavy oak desk dominated the room. Bookshelves lined two walls. A tall mirror hung on the wall behind the desk, its gold frame ornate, reflecting the lamp on the corner. The glass was spotless.

“I thought we’d try something new tonight,” he said, setting the book on the desk. He turned to face me. “You’ll bend over the desk for me. There’s a mirror so you can watch.”

My throat tightened. I looked at the mirror, at my own reflection—pale face, red hair pulled back. Then at the polished wood of the desk.

“Undress,” he said. “Everything this time.”

I moved slowly, unbuttoning the blouse with fingers that remembered the motion. The fabric fell. I unhooked my bra and let it drop. My jeans slid down my hips. I stepped out of my panties last, standing naked in the warm lamplight.

He watched from the side of the desk. “Good. Now bend over. Hands flat on the surface.”

I walked to the desk and felt the cool wood against my palms. I bent at the waist, my breasts pressing against the polished surface. The mirror reflected everything—my flushed face, my parted lips, and the curve of my spine leading to my bare ass. Behind me, Mr Dewitt stood, still fully clothed.

He reached into his trousers and pulled out his cock. It was already hard; the foreskin retracted, the head glistening. I watched in the mirror.

“Look at yourself,” he said softly. “Look at what you’re offering me.”

My eyes stayed locked on the reflection. I saw the flush creeping across my chest, the way my fingers spread wide on the wood. Behind me, he stepped closer. His hands found my hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above my ass.

“This desk has been in my family for sixty years,” he said. “My father wrote contracts on it. I read books on it. Now I’ll fuck you on it.”

The words hung in the air. Coarse. Unexpected from his calm voice.

He guided himself to my entrance, the tip nudging against me. I was already wet—I didn’t know when that happened. The week of replaying his touch in my mind, of lying awake and remembering, had done something to my body.

He pushed in.

The stretch was familiar now but still sharp. I gasped, my palms sliding an inch across the wood. He went slowly, sinking deeper by degrees. The mirror showed me my own eyes widening, my mouth forming an O.

When he was fully inside, he paused. The fullness pressed against something deep, a pressure that made my toes curl.

“You’re tighter than last week,” he said. “Nervous?”

I nodded, unable to speak.

“Watch yourself in the mirror,” he said. “Watch what I do to you.”

He began to move. Long, slow strokes that pulled almost entirely out before sliding back in. Each thrust pushed my body forward, rocking me against the desk. The wood creaked beneath my weight.

I watched in the mirror. Watched his hips press against my ass, watched my own body take him. My face was flushed, lips parted, eyes half-lidded. I looked like a stranger. Like someone who wanted this.

His rhythm quickened. The sounds of his hips slapping against my skin filled the study, wet and rhythmic. I gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white.

“Reach back,” he said. “Touch yourself.”

My hand moved behind me, fingers finding my clit. They were already slick. I circled, matching his pace. The sensation doubled, the pressure building in my core like a bell being rung.

“That’s it,” he said, his breath hitching. “Feel yourself. Feel me inside you.”

The mirror showed everything. My fingers working between my legs, his body driving into mine, the sheen of sweat on my lower back. The image was obscene. And I couldn’t look away.

The orgasm crept up slowly, then crashed. My back arched, a moan tearing from my throat. I saw my reflection convulse, saw my hand press harder, saw his hips stutter as he felt me clench around him.

He didn’t stop. He kept thrusting through the aftershocks, each one sending a fresh jolt through my overstimulated nerves. I whimpered, my forehead pressing into the cool wood.

“One more,” he said, his voice strained. “I want you to come again before I do.”

“I can’t,” I breathed.

“You can.” His hand replaced mine, fingers finding my clit with practised precision. He rubbed in tight circles, hard, while his cock drove into me at a new angle. The pressure built again, faster this time, fed by the image in the mirror—the old man taking me from behind, his silver hair dishevelled, his eyes fixed on where our bodies joined.

The second orgasm hit like a punch. My vision blurred. I heard myself cry out, a broken sound. My legs trembled, threatening to give. He held me up, one hand on my hip, the other still working my clit.

“Now I’m going to come inside you,” he said. “I want to feel it.”

His thrusts became erratic and deeper. I felt him pulse, felt the warmth flood me, a series of hot spurts that seemed to go on and on. He pressed deep and held, his breath ragged in the quiet room.

We stayed like that for a long moment. His weight against me, his cock softening inside me. I stared at my reflection in the mirror—at the girl who had just come twice on her landlord’s desk, filled with his seed.

He pulled out slowly. I felt the wetness trickle down my thigh.

“Stand up,” he said, his voice recovering its calm.

I straightened, legs shaky. The mirror showed my flushed body, my wet thighs, and the red marks on my breasts from the desk’s edge.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and handed it to me. “For the walk home.”

I took it and pressed it between my legs. The fabric soaked through immediately.

He was already tucking himself back into his trousers, adjusting his glasses. “Same time next week. But I’ll expect you to stay the night after.”

I nodded. Couldn’t find words.

He held my gaze in the mirror—my reflection, staring back at me.

“You’re getting better at this,” he said. “Much better.”