.
After the conductor had said goodbye to her at Sloterdijk, placed her small suitcase on the platform, and returned to the train, she buttoned up her coat; while doing so, she was approached by the older gentleman who had tried to help her on the train—he was offering his services once again.
She told him he could carry her suitcase and asked him—casually, as if it were the most natural question in the world—if he wanted to serve her. The man, slightly taken aback, asked exactly what she meant by that. Michaela said, “I get the impression you’d like to be of service to me—or am I mistaken?” “No, I would be happy to be of service to you,” the man replied.
“You see, I am looking for a servant who will serve me for the long term; are you that servant?” Michaela asked. “Perhaps,” he said. “The answer has to be yes or no,” she snapped at him. Startled by her reaction and realizing he had said the wrong thing—and that if he didn’t quickly answer “yes,” the interaction would end—he replied very quickly, “Yes, I would very much like to be your servant.”
Michaela had him give her his phone number and told him she would contact him—that very same day. She knew from experience that the man had reached out to her on impulse, and she wanted to capitalize on that. When she stepped outside, she saw the person she was meeting: a young student.
She had the older man hand her suitcase to the student and reminded the older man once more that he needed to be available for the call she would be making to him. “Yes, Madam, I will,” he said; then, after saying goodbye, he left. Michaela turned to the student and made him kneel; to bystanders, it might have looked as though he were simply picking something up off the ground.
Naturally, someone with an interest in BDSM saw what he wanted to see in this—and that was, of course, Michaela’s intention as well. A woman dressed in leather naturally draws the attention of that demographic. The older man who had just walked away caught a glimpse of this little scene; despite his age, it aroused him so intensely that he felt an erection rising—something that hadn’t happened to him in ages—and he hoped this mysterious woman would call him later that day.
The young student had stood up again and led the way to the taxi rank; this surprised Michaela, as she had expected him to pick her up by car. “Don’t you have a car?” she asked. “No, Mistress, I don’t have a driver’s license.”
It was rare these days for a young man not to have a license, she thought as she climbed into the back of the taxi; the young student, who had held the door open for her, got into the front seat with the small case on his lap. Stanley—for that was the young man’s name—gave the driver the address, and soon they were on their way to a location on Planciusstraat, a fifteen-minute drive.
The Moroccan driver kept glancing at her in his rearview mirror throughout the journey; Michaela certainly noticed this but completely ignored the man. They stopped at a café on Zoutkeetsgracht; the driver quickly got out, opened the door for her, and asked if he could be of further service.
“Just give me your card, and I’ll call you if I need you.” He quickly handed her a card and then accepted payment from Stanley, who had also stepped out of the car. Stanley walked to a house next to the café, opened the door, and ushered Michaela inside; the taxi driver watched them go and then sped off, his tires screeching.
“Shall I lead the way to my apartment?” the young man said. Michaela nodded and followed him up three flights of stairs, arriving in a beautiful apartment that turned out to extend over the café; both buildings—including the café—belonged to his mother, who lived there with her son, Stanley. His father had left years ago following a divorce. Michaela was familiar with the situation; the student had visited her a few times, and she already had his details on her computer.
His mother was away abroad for work for a week, and Michaela decided to conduct the tutoring sessions at his home; she wanted to test this slave’s dedication, as she desired for her slaves to serve her in their own homes as well. She checked to see if the home was overlooked by neighbors, then let herself be shown around the apartment, which turned out to be remarkably spacious; afterwards, she ordered Stanley to close the curtains, undress, and kneel before her.
Michaela sat in an armchair, and within five minutes, a young man was kneeling at her feet—190 cm tall, well-built, with blond hair and blue eyes—his rock-hard cock, some 20 cm long, jutting out prominently. The session went well; Michaela treated her young slave very cruelly while having him pleasure her twice. At the end of the session, Stanley was allowed to masturbate; Michaela loved those hard, young slave cocks and the heavy spurting—knowing she was the cause of it turned her on.
Stanley was in the middle of doing just that when the door behind him opened and a woman of about forty walked in, took in the scene, and loudly demanded to know from Michaela what was going on. Meanwhile, Stanley had fled with his clothes to dress quickly; when he returned to the room, he saw his mother sitting opposite his Mistress.
Michaela had told the woman she would explain everything, but that they needed to sit down to do so. Michaela explained to the woman that she was her son’s Mistress—that this was a matter between her and Stanley, and one he could decide on for himself since he was an adult.
The woman facing her was completely flustered—partly out of anger and partly out of shame regarding her son—and insisted that he was only seventeen, not an adult, and that she would not tolerate such filth in her home. Shocked to learn the boy was only seventeen, Michaela realized she needed to defuse the situation immediately; she counted herself lucky that the woman hadn’t called the police right away, knowing she had to leave as soon as possible.
Michaela told the woman she was leaving now but would be willing to discuss the situation later, adding that she wanted a brief moment alone with her son first. The woman looked at her son and asked if that was what he wanted too; when he nodded, she left the apartment. Michaela told Stanley not to mention the sex to his mother, reminding him that she was his Mistress and that this was simply who he was.
Afterward, she had him pay the 200 euros, packed her case, let Stanley help her into her coat, and walked toward the door; just before leaving, she made the poor boy kneel before her one last time. Outside on the landing, the mother was waiting for her son, who naturally had a lot of explaining to do.
Michaela walked past the woman, looking her straight in the eye—the woman lowered her gaze, intimidated—and said, “I’ll call you,” before heading down the stairs, leaving the building, and walking briskly toward Haarlemmerplein. On the way, she called the driver who had brought her there, then phoned the older man from the train to tell him she was coming to visit him and ask for his address.