At one point, Herman was the only live-in slave Michaëla had. The other service slaves came and went, strictly according to schedule, but Herman had always been there—a constant in her carefully ordered life.
That was precisely why she noticed immediately when he changed. It started subtly. A slight hesitation when rising from a kneeling position. A hand resting against the wall for just a moment too long. But soon, he could no longer hide it. His face would sometimes contort with pain, no matter how hard he tried to maintain an upright, dignified posture.
“Herman,” Michaëla said one evening, her voice calm yet firm, “this is no longer just fatigue; you are going to the doctor tomorrow. ”He nodded. He knew there was no point in arguing. The diagnosis that followed cut through everything: a pancreatic tumor, metastasized.
Relentless. Time suddenly became tangible—and scarce. From that moment on, everything changed. After a grueling course of chemotherapy that left him utterly exhausted, Herman was admitted to a hospice. Michaëla arranged everything, just as she always did—efficiently, composedly, without showing any emotion.
Yet she visited every day. Without fail. One afternoon, she found him there with someone else. A man was standing by the bed, his back half-turned toward her. Taller than Herman, and younger, too. When he turned around, their eyes met. A fraction of a second passed in silence. There was something in his eyes.
Something searching… and something else. Something that did not escape her notice. “Herman,” the man said finally, “is this—?”Herman opened his eyes with effort and smiled faintly. “Yes… this is Mrs. Horváth,” he said. His voice was hoarse, yet it still held a trace of pride. “My Mistress… and employer.
”The man nodded slowly. “Martin,” he said curtly. His gaze slid back to her, less uncertain this time. More… aware. “So you are the one he always spoke of so… carefully. ”Michaëla raised an eyebrow—an almost imperceptible reaction. “Carefully?” she repeated, calmly taking off her coat and draping it over a chair. “That’s an interesting choice of words.
” Martin gave a slight shrug. “I don’t know how else to put it, ma’am. ”She let her gaze rest on him for a moment. Just long enough. “That sounds like someone who knows his place,” she said softly. The silence that followed was charged.
Herman broke it, with some difficulty. He spoke about his condition, about the chemo that was breaking him, and about his wish—if things continued this way—to decide the end for himself. His words were clear, almost matter-of-fact, yet his breathing betrayed the effort. Martin listened in silence, his jaw set.
When Herman brought up their sister, his voice suddenly grew louder, more insistent. “She mustn’t know,” he said. “Not now. Not later. Not… afterwards.”
“I understand,” Martin replied, though a note of doubt lingered in his voice. “Don’t doubt,” Herman whispered. “Promise me.”“I promise,” he said at last.Slowly, Herman drifted off. His eyes closed, and his breathing grew heavier and more irregular. The room fell silent. Martin looked at his brother, then at Michaëla.
“I… want to ask you something,” he said, his voice quieter now.
She nodded. “Not here.”
A moment later, they were walking down the corridor together. Her heels clicked staccato-style against the floor, while he stayed just half a step behind her—as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Outside, in the parking lot, she stopped and turned to face him.
“You wanted to speak to me.”
He swallowed hard. For the first time, he seemed to be struggling to find the right words. “I didn’t know what to expect,” he began. “But now that I see you… I understand better.” “Understand what?” she asked, her voice low and controlled. He held her gaze, longer than was polite. “Why he stayed.”
An almost imperceptible smile flitted across her face. “That’s a start,” she said. A silence followed—but this time, it wasn’t an awkward one. There was something in the air, something unspoken slowly taking shape between them. “I don’t have a car,” Martin said eventually. “I came by train.”
“Then I’ll take you to the station,” she replied immediately. She had noticed Martin secretly studying her throughout the visit, and now that he was sitting in the car beside her, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. As she drove, her skirt rode up slightly, revealing her garter belt and stockings; she made no effort to adjust it.
During the drive, he sat beside her, remarkably quiet. Yet, every now and then, she felt his gaze resting on her. Not fleeting. Not uncertain. Michaëla dressed rather formally for her visits to Herman; her black pleated skirt fell below the knee, and she wore black stockings and ankle boots, along with a green satin blouse under a short black leather jacket.
At a traffic light, she suddenly looked at him. “You aren’t asking any questions,” she said. He exhaled slowly. “I don’t know where to start, ma’am.”
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes briefly fixed on him. “Or perhaps you’re waiting for permission.”
His fingers tensed briefly on his knee. “Yes,” he admitted.
But the distance between them suddenly felt much smaller. The light turned green, and she drove on. The car glided silently onto the western ring road. The monotonous sound of the tires on the asphalt filled the silence between them. Martin was still turned slightly toward her, as if he couldn’t quite let go of her presence. His posture was composed, yet not relaxed.
“You’re looking at me a lot,” Michaëla said suddenly, without taking her eyes off the road. He didn’t respond immediately. “Forgive me,” he finally replied.
“That won’t do. ”She let a brief silence fall, as if giving him room to correct himself.
“What are you looking at?” she asked.
He turned his head a little further toward her. “At someone who is used to others listening.”
“And?” Her voice remained calm.
“And someone with whom you do that… automatically. ”
She smiled faintly. “There is no such thing as automatic. It’s a choice. ”
His fingers moved slightly, as if he were becoming aware of his own body. “Not always,” he said softly.
The car came to a halt at the next traffic light. She turned slowly toward him. Her gaze was sharp, searching.
“Be careful with remarks like that,” she said. “They reveal more than you might intend. ”
He held her gaze. This time, without hesitation. “Perhaps that’s exactly what I want.”
A brief silence settled over them. Not an awkward one—more of a shift. As if something invisible had moved just a fraction. She took the turn toward the station and parked the car there. Martin, however, made no move to get out immediately.
“Do you have another question?” Michaëla asked.
He took a slow breath. “What… was he to you?”
She stared straight ahead. “He told you that.”
“Not everything.”
Now she turned her head. Her gaze was calmer than before, yet more direct.“And why do you think *you* ought to know that?”
He hesitated. For the first time. “Because I want to understand what… held him.”
She studied him for a moment. As if weighing something up.
“Understanding is one thing,” she said. “Being part of it is something else.”
His breathing shifted slightly. “And if someone wants that second part?”
Her eyes remained fixed on him. “Then that person begins by obeying,” she said.
“Not by wanting; he has no right to want anything.” The words hung in the air.
He nodded slowly. “Understood, ma’am.” He opened the door but remained seated for a moment. “May I speak with you again?” She leaned back slightly, her hand resting loosely on the steering wheel. “That depends,” she said. “On whether you have something to say… or are merely looking for something.”
He smiled—a genuine smile, for the first time. “Maybe both.”
“I’ll hear about it then,” she replied. She had noticed his erection—a rather substantial one. He stepped out and tried to conceal it. But as he closed the door and walked a few paces away, he could still feel her gaze on his back. The next day, Michaëla visited Herman again; she had come over for coffee because he was due for a chemotherapy session that afternoon, though fortunately, he was having a bit of a rally.
She spoke to him sternly about his brother, stating quite bluntly that she strongly sensed Martin was clearly submissive and keenly interested in her. Herman told her the whole story: back then, Martin had worked alongside him as a driver for the same escort agency, and when Herman was let go, Martin had to leave as well because of their family ties. Herman had entered Michaëla’s service, and Martin had gone to work for another agency.
He also mentioned that his brother had acted as her chauffeur a few times and had already expressed to me how deeply impressed he was by you. When I became your permanent employee, I asked my brother not to contact you or offer you his services.
“Why wouldn’t you let him do that?” Michaëla asked.
“It was selfish of me; I was ashamed and feared his competition. I am sorry, Mistress.”
“Slave, it was not—and is not—your place to make decisions of this kind.
“I am considering making your brother my slave.”
“I would be very proud of that; I know he will serve you well, Mistress,” he said in a broken voice, tears welling in his eyes. Normally, he would have faced severe punishment, but given his physical condition, that was no longer an option.
In Herman’s presence, she called his brother and ordered him to come to her early the next morning, knowing he had to work that evening. The next morning, Martin was at the door promptly at ten o’clock. He had barely slept during the short night following his shift, unsettled by the anxiety that had taken hold of him since her call. Her voice had left no room for doubt—only for obedience.
The door was opened by Thea, the maid. Without wasting a word, she let him in and pointed to a spot in the hallway. “Wait,” she said curtly. Martin nodded immediately. His posture was naturally subdued, his gaze lowered. He felt instantly… small here.
After a few minutes, Thea returned. “Come with me.” She led him to a room where the air seemed heavy with silence and control. There she sat. Mistress Michaëla. She sat back in a large wicker chair, as if the space itself molded to her form. Her attire was no accident—everything about her was a carefully constructed image of power.
The short, red-checked skirt deliberately revealed her garter belt and stockings with the slightest movement she made. The tall black boots reaching her knees gave her an air of unapproachability, heightened by the metal spurs that clicked softly against each other whenever she shifted a leg. Her upper body was clad in black—form-fitting and revealing just enough to emphasize her presence without giving away anything she did not intend to.
Over this, she wore a short jacket that only served to make her posture more commanding. She held a riding crop in her hand—not threateningly, but resting it there, as if it were a natural extension of herself. Thea knelt without hesitation. Martin followed immediately. He felt his pulse pounding in his throat. Not just from tension—but from something profound.
A mixture of admiration, awe… and surrender. She looked at him. Not inquiringly. Not curiously. Appraisingly. As if he were an object whose value had yet to be determined. After a moment, Thea stood up and quietly left the room. Martin was left alone, kneeling, under her gaze. He could not suppress his erection; he was looking at a woman who was somewhat older, yet he was deeply captivated, fervently hoping he might serve her.
He had discussed this very thing with his brother the night before in a long phone call; his brother had even given him a few tips. The silence lasted just long enough to make him fully conscious of himself. Of his posture. Of his breathing. Of the fact that he was nothing here—except what she made of him.
“So,” Michaëla said finally, her voice cool and composed, “you want to take your brother’s place.” “Yes, Mistress. I… I will do whatever is asked of me,” he replied immediately. His voice trembled slightly, but his words were firm. A brief silence.
“Come closer.” He shuffled forward on his knees, without looking up. He felt her presence intensify as the distance closed—as if she were occupying a space that could not be measured physically. “Your brother served me well,” she said. “Not because he wanted to… but because he understood that he was nothing other than what I made of him.
”Martin nodded slowly. “I understand.”
“I doubt that,” she replied sharply. She stood up. Slowly. Deliberately. Every detail of her movement under control. Her boots clicked against the floor, her spurs making a metallic jingle as she walked in a semicircle around him. He felt her gaze on his back, on his shoulders, on his posture As if he were being inspected.
“But,” she continued, “you can learn.” She remained standing behind him. “And learning begins with obedience. Not with feelings. Not with admiration.
”A brief pause.“ Even though those… are often present.”
His breathing quickened slightly. She knew. Of course she knew.
“Stand up,” she commanded. He obeyed immediately but kept his gaze lowered.
“You think what you feel makes you special,” she said, stepping back in front of him.
“That your… adoration… has value.” She tilted her head slightly.
“But to me,” she said coldly, “you are only useful if you function.”
The words stung—and yet… they did exactly what they were meant to do. They didn’t break him down. They shaped him.
“If you stay here,” she continued, “it won’t be because you want to, but because I decide you are of use.”
He nodded.“Yes, Mistress.”
For the first time, a hint of approval appeared in her gaze. Not warm. Not soft. But enough. “Good,” she said. “Then we shall see if you can live up to that.”
Michaëla ordered him to kiss her boots, then walked to the door—her heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor—while Martin had to undress and then wait on his knees. Michaëla left the room. He had to wait endlessly—he suspected a test of obedience—as the minutes on the wall clock ticked slowly away; his knees… his body… everything stiffened and began to ache.
After an hour, Thea came to get him and took him to another room—a starkly furnished punishment chamber featuring a cross on the wall, a whipping post, and various other BDSM implements. He suspected something was in store for him. The maid shackled his hands and feet, made him kneel, and fitted him with a collar and a blindfold; then she allowed him to stand. He felt a tickling sensation beneath his testicles; she teased them with a feather duster until his cock stood rigid and hard, pointing straight out. He had to wait for the Mistress and was forbidden to move; he heard her walk away.
After what felt like an endless wait—during which his cock had already begun to go limp—he heard his Mistress’s heels approaching from behind; a moment later, he felt her skirt brush against his softening cock, causing it to stiffen once more as he sensed her standing before him.
A sharp pain shot through his now-erect cock; with a few forceful lashes of her whip, Michaëla put an end to his erection.
“Kneel, slave,” she commanded, her voice now imperious.
He knew he had no choice but to obey, though getting onto his knees while bound and blindfolded was no easy task. When Thea removed his blindfold, he saw his Mistress sitting on a high stool before him, clad in a micro-skirt; he kept his eyes lowered to avoid looking up beneath it.
Thea roughly hauled him to his feet and shackled him to the cross, facing the wall. Michaëla took a cane from a container and delivered forty strokes to his buttocks and thighs, then mercilessly lashed his back. He tried to remain stoic, but eventually, he begged for mercy; Michaëla only stopped the flogging when he had pleaded for mercy a third time. He was unchained from the cross and collapsed onto his knees before his Mistress.
“You needed this correction, slave.” Michaëla left the room. Thea ordered him to shower and then get dressed. In the shower, he saw that he was badly welted; the open welts stung painfully as the water hit them. Once dressed, he had to report back to his Mistress to accompany her on a visit to his brother.
Martin drove Michaëla in his company car to the hospice, where the staff watched as he opened the door for her, draped a long leather coat around her shoulders, and held an umbrella over her—it had started to rain. A keen observer would have seen a Mistress with her submissive slave.
It was quiet in Herman’s room. He was asleep. The machines ticked softly. Herman was in a state of deep rest. Michaëla stood at the foot of the bed; Martin remained a step behind her.
“This,” she said without turning around, “is what it’s all about: loyalty, to the very end.”
He looked at his brother. Pale, frail. “Think carefully,” she continued. “This isn’t a game.”
“I know,” he said. She turned slowly. Her gaze swept over him, taking in everything from his posture to his hands. When Michaëla turned to leave Herman’s room, Martin followed her automatically. Only then did he really notice it. The way she walked. Not exaggerated, not affected—but with a natural, confident sway of the hips that only heightened her presence.
Her outfit had been carefully chosen: a dark leather jacket that draped fluidly over her body, a pleated leather skirt ending just above the knee, and tall boots that made a soft sound against the floor with every step. She was sixty-five; he knew that. But nothing about her felt old. Quite the opposite.
There was something timeless about her appearance. Something that didn’t demand attention, yet commanded it effortlessly. She was on her way to see the head of the hospice; he was allowed to accompany her because he was Herman’s brother. They were told that Herman was declining rapidly; the doctor had visited that very morning.The morphine dosage had been increased………. It was now only a matter of days.
The man addressed them both; the nursing staff had informed him that Herman’s body bore numerous scars, a brand, and a tattoo reading “Property of Mistress Michaela.”
“What do you know about this?” he asked them both.
“I am Mistress Michaela, and he is my property,” she replied in a cool, calm voice. The answer took the man completely by surprise; he appeared shocked. Before him sat an elegant, older lady—someone who had likely spent years mercilessly thrashing the man in the bed, branding him, and having her name tattooed on his body.
He quickly composed himself; in fact, he admired her—a lady with a slave; it was rather arousing. “Thank you for the information; we at the hospice will respect the situation.”
Outside, the air was crisp. The day was slowly fading into evening. They walked to the car together—this time without her having to say so explicitly. He followed instinctively, half a pace behind, holding the umbrella over her. At the car, she turned to him and waited for him to take her coat and open the door for her.
Michaëla’s house was situated on a quiet street, unassuming from the outside. Nothing betrayed what lay behind the front door. He dropped her off in the driveway, escorted her to the entrance, and unlocked the door using her keys. As she stepped inside, she removed her coat; he—her slave—hung it up carefully, then, at her direction, retrieved a long riding crop from the umbrella stand and handed it to her. He knelt before her; there were tears in his eyes, and a whirlwind of thoughts raced through his mind: the conversation with the director, the impending loss of his brother, and his perhaps hasty decision to become this lady’s slave.
She was standing close enough now that he could almost physically feel her presence.
“This is my world,” she said softly. “If you want a place here… you have to earn it.”
She held her crop beneath his chin, forcing him to look up at her with his tear-filled eyes. His throat felt dry.“I want that.”
She studied him for a long moment, as if searching for any sign of doubt.But there was none. She pointed her crop at her left foot.
“Worship me, slave.” He obeyed. He understood her instantly and kissed her foot. “Straighten up.” He corrected his posture. She walked slowly around him. Her boots tapped softly on the floor; her movements were controlled, her gaze palpable.
“From now on,” she said, “you speak only when I permit it.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
She stopped behind him. “And you look at me only when I order you to.”
“Yes, Mistress.” A brief silence.
“Turn around.” She let a few seconds pass. He did not want to fail.
“Get to work now and report back tomorrow at 10:00 a.m.,” she said.