Her Diaper Bitch: A Brutal Femdom ABDL Story of Humiliation, Leaking, foot fetish and Submission (ABDL diaper stories)

Before I Was Squishy
There was a moment—maybe five minutes into our first date—when I could’ve walked away.

Lyra was smiling, tilting her glass, watching me through lashes like velvet blades. I’d just said something stupid, probably a joke about kink, or a comment about how “everyone online is into some weird shit these days.” I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just trying to be funny. Nervous.

She didn’t laugh.

She smiled.

The kind of smile that says: Noted.

And that’s when I should’ve left. When I should’ve thanked her for the wine, fumbled some excuse about work tomorrow, and deleted the app.

But I didn’t.

Because she was beautiful. And dangerous. And calm in a way that made my stomach twist. And because I was a little desperate, if I’m being honest. One too many lonely nights. One too many late-night DMs to women who never replied. One too many dreams of being rescued from my boring, broke, nothing life by someone rich and kinky and willing to use me like a toy.

I didn’t say that part out loud.

But I think she heard it anyway.

I don’t remember falling asleep.

I remember the second drink. I remember her fingers brushing mine. I remember the cool sweetness of her lips when we kissed goodnight.

Then darkness.

Then velvet.

Then straps.

When I woke up, I was in a bed that didn’t belong to me.

My wrists were bound in soft cuffs to the headboard. My ankles parted with a spreader bar. My legs trembled with every breath. Something was deep inside me—buzzing, slow, rhythmic. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.

And the diaper…

God.

Thick. Warm. Taped tight around my waist.

I was hard.

I was soaked.

I was—God help me—moaning.

And then I saw her.

Sitting at the end of the bed.

One leg crossed over the other. Barefoot. Holding a remote. Smiling.

“Welcome back, Jules,” she said. “Or should I say… Squishy?”

This is not a story about romance.

This is not a story about consent.

This is a story about ownership.

About being stripped down, padded up, and trained to forget who you used to be.

This is how I lost my name.

How I learned to leak when told.

How I begged to kiss feet and thanked them for every step.

This is the story of how I became Her Diaper Bitch.

And if you're reading this hoping I fought back—don’t.

I didn't.

Not really.

Not once it started to feel good.