I don’t know when it started, but somewhere along the way, I began to feel like something was missing. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Jane—my wife, plain Jane, as I sometimes jokingly call her—but there was a quiet voice inside me that needed something more than the ordinary life we led. I don’t think Jane ever understood it, or maybe she just didn’t need to. For her, a simple life, the kind we built together, was enough.
We had a strong marriage. We communicated. We laughed, we fought, we made love. But somewhere in between the daily routines, the sweetness of her smile, and the comfort of knowing she was there, I began to feel… incomplete.
The thing is, I’m not like most men. For years, I hid it—this need that I couldn’t explain, not even to myself. There’s a darkness in me that craves humiliation, the kind that pulls me deeper into myself and forces me to confront the things I’ve been too afraid to face. I can’t pinpoint exactly when I realized I was a masochist, only that I had these moments when everything inside me screamed for something else, something darker.
I don’t think Jane ever saw it coming. She loved me for who I was, the good parts, the funny parts, the reliable, loving parts. But there were things about me, things I couldn’t talk about, that she just didn’t understand. At first, I was ashamed of it—ashamed of this part of me that didn’t fit the image of the man she married.
But then, I talked to her about it. Slowly. Carefully. She listened, and though I could see the hesitation in her eyes, she didn’t judge. She asked questions. And, after some time, she agreed to something that I thought I’d never have the courage to ask: I could visit a dominatrix.
I think Jane saw it as therapy. For me, it was more than that—it was a release. Once a month, I’d go to see someone else. She would take control of me in ways I could never ask Jane to do, because, well, Jane wasn’t interested in that kind of thing. And I knew it. The irony was that Jane, in her own way, was helping me by allowing me this outlet. She didn’t ask for details; she only asked if I felt better afterward. And I did. I’d return home more centered, calm, like I had exorcised a part of myself I didn’t fully understand.
The first time I walked into that place, I didn’t know what to expect. The building was tucked away on a quiet street, discreet, almost unnoticeable. It was nothing like what I had imagined. The air inside felt thick with an intoxicating mixture of leather, incense, and something darker—a palpable energy, a quiet control that seemed to coat everything. The walls were lined with tools, not for decoration, but for purpose. The room itself felt sterile, almost clinical in its precision, yet there was a strange, deliberate warmth to the way everything was arranged.
Her name was Mistress Selene, and from the moment I laid eyes on her, I understood that I was not in control. There were no extravagant displays, no leather outfits or exaggerated costumes. She was dressed in a tank top, jeans, and work boots. Despite her pedestrian outfit, he was elegant, poised, and carried herself with a presence that made my stomach tighten. She moved with purpose, her every step asserting her authority in a way that felt both calming and unnerving.
She held a wooden staff in her hand, which seemed out-of-place. Later, the significance of the staff would become apparent … it was a shepherd’s crook, and she would use it on me from time to time.
She looked at me, and I felt as though she could see straight through me, past the carefully constructed walls I had built, right into the center of the man I had spent years trying to hide.
Tapping her staff on the wooden floor, she said, “Take off your clothes,” her voice soft, but there was an undeniable command in it.
I hesitated for only a moment. I was nervous—terrified, even. But I obeyed. Slowly, I undressed, stripping myself of the layers I had built around me over the years. I could feel the cold air on my bare skin, the chill of vulnerability creeping in as I stood before her. But then she spoke again.
“Wait,” she said. Her voice was like silk. “There is something you need.” She walked over to a closet and returned with a rubber piggy mask. The eyes were wide and blank, like a toy from some forgotten childhood. “Put this on,” she commanded.
My hands trembled slightly as I pulled the mask over my head. It felt alien, uncomfortable, but there was something about it that made my heart race. I slid it over my head, and the world blurred. I was no longer me. I was something else. A filthy, nameless thing.
“You’re here to learn what it means to be nothing,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. “You are a filthy creature, and I’m going to make you remember that. Now get on your knees.”
As I fell to the floor, the words stung, but they also unlocked something deep within me. This was what I needed—this brutal honesty, this stripping away of pretense. The humiliation, the control—it wasn’t about pleasure. It was about something deeper, something raw. It was about release.
Tapping my ass with her crook, she herded me to the back of the building, out into the backyard. And that’s when I saw it. The pigsty.
It wasn’t just a metaphor. Mistress Selene had created a physical space, a pit of filth and mud, for me to surrender myself fully. The pigsty was enclosed by a wooden fence, hidden away from the rest of the world. It was an intimate space, but one that made my heart race with a combination of dread and anticipation.
The ground was slick with mud, wet and cold. The air smelled of earth, animal musk, and something darker—a tang of degradation that twisted in my gut. It wasn’t just the dirt; it was what the dirt represented. The filth wasn’t only physical—it was symbolic. It was my submission, my surrender to the parts of myself that I had tried to bury.
The thick scent of wet earth mixed with the acrid tang of rotting leaves and stale water assaulted my senses. Each breath felt like I was sucking in the very essence of degradation, as though the atmosphere was saturated with a deep, consuming shame that pressed against my chest. The mud clung to my skin as I stepped into the pigsty, cold and slimy, coating me with a slick, sticky layer that sent a shiver up my spine. I could taste the metallic bitterness of the muck in my mouth as it splashed up, thick and uninviting.
“Crawl,” Mistress Selene commanded, her voice sharp, cutting through the heavy air. “You’re nothing more than a pig. Now act like it. Wallow for me.”
I didn’t argue. I crawled into the pigsty, my hands slipping on the wet earth, the muck splashing against my skin. The thick mud sank into every crevice of my body, coating me in layers of filth. The smell of it was nauseating—sour and pungent, but oddly intoxicating in its own way. Every scrape of my skin against the rough ground made me feel more exposed, more raw. The taste of the dirt, gritty and foul, lingered on my lips.
Mistress Selene stood above me, watching with quiet approval. “This is where you belong,” she said, her gaze cold and calculating. “In the muck. In the filth. You’re not a man here. You’re nothing.”
The humiliation was overwhelming. It was all I could do to breathe through it, to let go of the urge to fight back. But that’s when I realized—it wasn’t about resisting. It was about embracing it. Embracing the degradation, the loss of control, the feeling of being nothing.
“You’ll stay here until I say otherwise,” Mistress Selene added, her words like a final sentence. “You’ll stay here and wallow in your own filth because this is what you need. This is who you are.”
I lay there in the muck, the weight of her words settling over me like the mud itself. The filth clung to me, soaking into my skin, my hair. I could feel it everywhere—the dirt, the humiliation, the weight of my own desires. But for the first time in as long as I could remember, I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t trying to be something I wasn’t. I was exactly where I needed to be, doing exactly what I needed to do.
The cold air stung against my exposed flesh, but the warmth of submission, of giving in, suffused me like a strange kind of comfort. I could hear the distant hum of the wind, the rustling of leaves in the trees, the soft rhythm of Mistress Selene’s boots as she paced the perimeter of my degradation. It was a quiet sound, but one that echoed inside me, each step reverberating with the finality of my place in this space.
Time seemed irrelevant in that space. All I could focus on was the sensation of the muck, the weight of Mistress Selene’s words, and the overwhelming sense of submission that had taken over me.
After what was probably hours, Mistress Selene returned with a bucket of slop, which she poured into a trough. The smell of it made my stomach turn—greasy, sour, and pungent. I felt a stinging blow to my backside as she used her crook to drive me towards the gruel. The metallic taste of the air was thick with the stench of rot as she pressed her crook into the small of my back, forcing my face into the trough.
“Eat piggy,” she commanded.
The taste was revolting, bitter and foul. The mush was barely recognizable—bits of discarded food, scraps of unidentifiable remnants of meals long past, swimming in a disgusting broth. My stomach turned as I tried to swallow, the texture slimy and rank against my tongue. I felt the heat of humiliation flood my face, the sharp sting of my submission as I obeyed her every word.
This treatment lasted several hours. When she finally addressed me again, she didn’t speak immediately. She simply looked down at me, her eyes appraising. Then, with a nod, she spoke.
“You’ve learned your place,” she said softly. “Now, it’s time to clean you off.”
After herding me on my hands and knees from the pigsty to the grass lawn, she started spraying me down with a garden hose. The cold water hit my skin with force, and I flinched at the sudden shock of it. The stinging, icy spray felt as though it were stripping away layers of my humiliation, washing away the filth, but leaving me raw in a way I had never been before. I could feel the mud slipping off me in thick, heavy clumps, running down in dark rivulets. Each drop of water seemed to cleanse me of the layers I had been hiding behind, but in doing so, I realized how exposed I had become, how broken open I felt.
The sensation of the hose was almost surreal. As the water cascaded over me, I couldn’t help but wonder if it would ever truly wash away what had been done, if I could ever return to the man I was before. I didn’t think I would.
Eventually, Mistress Selene stopped the spray and allowed me to stand. I was weak, exhausted, trembling, but I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or something deeper inside me. As I looked up at her, she gave me a small, satisfied smile.
“Go,” she said simply, dismissing me so I might return to my normal life.
I stumbled back to my car, still covered in grime. The drive home felt like a lifetime. As I entered the house, Jane looked up from the couch, her eyes soft with concern. She didn’t need to ask what had happened.
“I’m home,” I said, my voice hoarse. I didn’t need to explain. She understood.
As the months passed, I continued my sessions with Mistress Selene. Each time, it was a return to the related rituals: the humiliation, the degradation, the sense of being washed clean. But they would never be the same. Each session was different, unpredictable. Mistress Selene always found new ways to push me, to strip me further of my pride, my self-worth, and my humanity. The only common elements were the humiliation and the pain.
Sometimes, I found myself in a different setting—a cold, sterile room with concrete walls, the air thick with the scent of latex and metal. Other times, the pain would come in unexpected forms: sharp, stinging whips, rough ropes that dug into my skin, or even the threat of abandonment, the feeling of being left alone in my own filth, unsure of when I would be allowed to clean myself.
But no matter what she did, no matter how far she pushed me, I knew I was where I belonged. I was nothing more than a filthy, submissive creature, and every moment with her solidified that truth in a way I could never have imagined before.
And when I returned home, after every session, I was the man Jane knew. She didn’t ask about the details. She didn’t need to. She only asked if I was okay, and I always said I was. Because, in some twisted way, I was.