Becoming Mrs. Drexler’s Sissy Diaper Maid: Julian’s Humiliating Adult Baby Punishment
(Full-Length ABDL Novel | New Original Release)
Below is a free excerpt for you to enjoy, and you can find links to the full 400+ page book at the bottom of the post. As always, thank you for all your support! 💕💕💕
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(Notice: The following features mature content in an ABDL role-play setting. All characters are over the age of 18. It is entirely fictional and shared for entertainment purposes only.)
On the third day of working as Mrs. Drexler’s official live-in maid, I felt an ominous gurgle in my stomach.
My tummy had been gurgling since the first day, after the big lunch I'd been served. A thick vegetable soup. Dense brown bread. Stewed fruit. A glass of water I was required to finish before leaving the table.
But Mrs. Drexler had made it crystal clear that the bathrooms were still totally off limits.
Peeing in the diaper was bad enough. Doing anything else in it was unthinkable.
The second morning, I waited until the upstairs bathroom was on my checklist. I carried the cleaning bucket upstairs, found Mrs. Drexler in the hall, and asked if she would unlock it so I could clean.
When she unlocked the door, I felt a moment of hope as I pictured myself secretly finally using the toilet to go number two the moment she walked away.
Except the problem was, Mrs. Drexler did not walk away.
Instead, she stepped into the bathroom with me and stood there and watched while I cleaned. The whole time. With no explanation.
She watched me scrub the toilet. Watched me wipe the mirror. Watched me polish the faucet, rinse the sponge, dry the sink, and fold the hand towel exactly the way she liked it.
Once, while I was kneeling beside the tub, desperately wishing I could just use the toilet mere feet away, another cramp twisted low in my stomach. I froze with one hand on the tile, gritting my teeth.
“Is there a problem?” Mrs. Drexler asked.
“Then continue,” she said.
When I finished, she inspected the bathroom, pointed out a faint streak on the mirror, made me correct it, then ushered me into the hall and locked the bathroom behind us.
After that, I thought about asking to leave the house. Not for long. Just long enough to walk to a gas station. A coffee shop. Anywhere with a bathroom.
At the end of the second day, I stood in the front hall after changing out of my uniform and tried to make the request sound casual.
“Yes, Julian?” she replied.
“Would it be alright if I went out for a little while? Just to get some air,” I said.
She looked up from the mail she was sorting. “No,” she replied.
“Oh. I thought the rules said I could leave with permission,” I said.
“This is your first week living here,” she said. “You are on probation. During probation, you do not have permission to leave the premises unless I accompany you or specifically send you on an errand.”
“But the paper said curfew isn’t until eight,” I whined.
“The paper also said permission to leave may be revoked,” she said. “Julian, you are adjusting to structure. Structure requires consistency. Wandering the neighborhood because you feel restless does not help that process.”
That night, after lights out, I tried one more thing in my quest to relieve my bowels.
I waited in my attic room until the house went quiet. Then I got out of bed carefully, moving slowly so the floorboards would not creak.
I did not even know what my plan was. Maybe I would sneak downstairs. Maybe I would try the back door. Maybe I would find a bathroom key hanging somewhere, stupid as that hope was.
Mostly, I just knew I could not lie there with my stomach cramping and do nothing.
I crossed the attic room in the dark, turned the knob…
For a second, I thought it was stuck.
I finally realized it was locked. Locked from the outside.
I stood there in the dark with my hand on the knob, feeling the truth settle over me.
I was not just expected to stay in my room. I was being kept there, whether I liked it or not.
By the third morning, the pressure in my bowels had turned from discomfort into something urgent and constant. I woke up cramped, sweating, and afraid to move too quickly.
That was when I knew I was really in trouble.
Mrs. Drexler brought me my breakfast at seven-thirty exactly, just as the rules promised. Oatmeal. Bran stirred through it. Prunes. Half a grapefruit. Two slices of heavy toast. A tall glass of milk.
“I’m not very hungry,” I said, my tummy already churning from the moment I woke.
“Then take smaller bites,” Mrs. Drexler said coldly.
I picked up the spoon and ate a few bites while she stood over me. The oatmeal sat heavy in my mouth. Warm, thick, faintly sweet, with little pieces of prune I could not avoid no matter how carefully I stirred.
After a few minutes, I put the spoon down. “I’m full,” I said.
“Julian,” she said. “Breakfast is not optional.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I sighed, too exhausted to fight.
By the time I went downstairs in my uniform, diapered for the morning, I could feel breakfast settling into my tummy and making my bowels feel fuller than ever.
The diaper was dry then. Mostly. That was the only good thing I could say about it.
It did not stay that way for long.
Two changes a day had sounded dreadful from the moment Mrs. Drexler explained it… and it was. There was no way around that. A morning change at eight, after breakfast. An evening change at five-thirty, after dinner, before I was allowed out of the work uniform.
That left a lot of hours wearing a diaper without a change. Too many.
If I wet after breakfast, I stayed wet while I cleaned. If I wet after lunch, I stayed wetter.
By midafternoon every day, the diaper sagged heavily between my legs, swollen under the tights, forcing me into that awful padded walk Mrs. Drexler told me not to dramatize. I felt every shift. Every crinkle. Every warm reminder that I was no longer trusted with something as basic as the potty.
The nights were worse in a different way.
At five-thirty, after dinner, Mrs. Drexler changed me into a fresh diaper. Then I changed out of the uniform and was sent up to my attic room, where there was nothing to do but wait for bedtime.
No television. No wandering. No phone unless she decided I had earned it. Just the narrow bed, the slanted ceiling, the little window, and the diaper under my clothes.
On the first night, after getting sent to my room after dinner, I tried to hold my pee until morning.
By eight o’clock, with lights out still an hour away, I was sitting on the edge of the bed, restless and humiliated, needing to pee and knowing there was nowhere else for it to go.
Eventually, I gave in. Just as I learned to do every night. I would wet my diaper.
Then I would have to lie down in it. Sleep in it. Wake up in it. Eat breakfast in it while Mrs. Drexler stood over me with the tray.
Then, finally, at 8 a.m., she would take me to Zoe’s room and change me for the workday.
Morning and evening. That was the diaper changing schedule. It was utterly humiliating.
And still… that was only pee.
Now it was Thursday. I hadn’t pooped in three days. And that morning’s chore was the downstairs baseboards.
All of them. On my hands and knees.
The bending was the worst part.
Every time I leaned forward, pressure shifted inside me. Every time I crouched back on my heels, the diaper pressed up against me and my stomach cramped again. Every stretch to reach behind a table leg made my body clench in panic.
Not yet. Not here. Not in my diaper, please…
I kept telling myself that.
But my body was done listening. Halfway through the dining room, a stronger cramp rolled through me. I grabbed the edge of the baseboard and went still, breathing through my nose.
By lunch, I was sweating. Not from the work. But from holding back my massive bowel movement…
Finally, I decided I was going to have to break down and beg Mrs. Drexler to use the bathroom during lunch. I didn’t have a choice.
I just hoped she would give me this one thing…
When I entered the dining room for lunch, I was greeted by an unexpected sight.
Zoe was seated at the table. She did not look up.
She was wearing a pale yellow onesie with little white buttons up the front and ruffled trim at the sleeves. Her hair was brushed smooth and clipped back with two small barrettes. White socks covered her feet. Beneath the onesie, I could see the unmistakable bulk of a pull-up.
She sat with her hands in her lap, staring down at her plate as if she had been told not to move until spoken to.
“Zoe has the day off today from community college,” Mrs. Drexler said from behind me. “Isn’t that right, dear?”
“Yes, Mommy,” Zoe said quietly.
I took my place at the table, trying not to look at her.
The outfit made her seem younger than she was. Worse, it made her seem trained. Like this was not humiliation anymore, but routine.
Mrs. Drexler served lunch.
Thick lentil soup. Dense brown bread. Stewed apples. A heavy salad full of beans and chopped vegetables. Another tall glass of milk.
My stomach gave a low, sick gurgle before I even picked up my spoon.
I managed two bites. Then another cramp hit me.
This one was different. Lower. Heavier. A warning from my bowels I could no longer ignore.
“Mind your manners. Table talk is not permitted while food is being served,” she said curtly.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just…”
“Young man!” she scolded. “What did I just say?”
I felt Zoe looking at me now.
“I just really need to use the upstairs bathroom!” I finally blurted.
Mrs. Drexler frowned, then calmly set down her spoon.
“You have not been permitted to use the bathroom since being put back into diapers. You know that,” she said.
My face went hot. Zoe’s eyes widened.
I realized I had no idea what Zoe knew about my situation so far. But based on her expression, she had just learned the most embarrassing detail.
“I know,” I said. “But I really, really need to go.”
“Young man!” Mrs. Drexler scolded. “Not only are you asking to break the rules, I just explained to you that table talk is not permitted. Are you this desperate to earn a punishment?”
“But this is different! Please! I… I need to go number two!” I blurted.
My whole body went cold with shame.
I stared down at my lap, unable to look at either of them. I could feel sweat gathering at the back of my neck. Beneath the table, my diaper felt thicker than ever, as if it had suddenly become the only thing in the room.
At last, Mrs. Drexler said, “Oh, really?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered nervously.
“Well then,” she said, “why didn’t you say so?”
For one strange second, I felt a flicker of hope.
“You may go to the corner and do your business in your diaper. I will preserve your lunch and have it served to you in your room once your business is finished.”
Mrs. Drexler gave a small laugh. “Did you expect Zoe and me to sit here smelling your dirty pamper while we eat? I’m terribly sorry, dear, but that is not going to happen.”
Zoe looked away, her cheeks flushing this time on my behalf.
Mrs. Drexler pointed toward the corner of the dining room. “Up on your feet,” she ordered.
“And hold your skirt up so I can observe the back of your diaper from here,” she added. “I want to know when you are finished.”
“Oh, that is it,” Mrs. Drexler said, suddenly throwing her napkin down.
She stood, came around the table, and took me firmly by the arm. “You have done nothing but interrupt, argue, and make a scene. If you need to behave like a messy little child, you may do it in the corner, away from the table.”
“Mrs. Drexler, please, I can wait,” I fruitlessly begged while she marched me across the dining room.
“Nose in,” she ordered, pushing me firmly into the corner, pressing my face up against the wall.
Then she lifted the back of my skirt.
The fabric was tucked up into the waistband of my diaper, leaving the thick white padding fully exposed.
Behind me, Zoe made a tiny sound. Somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. I could feel her staring.
I stood there with my nose to the wall, dress lifted, diaper on display, stomach cramping so badly I had to clench every muscle in my body to keep from losing control of my bowels right then and there.
But I still didn’t dare let myself do it.
Not like this. Not while they ate lunch behind me. Not while Zoe watched…
I gritted my teeth and continued my epic struggle to hold my cramping bowels while the dining room returned to the quiet sounds of lunch. Spoons against bowls. A glass being lifted. Mrs. Drexler softly reminding Zoe to sit up straight.
Minutes passed. Too many. I held on until my whole body shook.
Finally, I heard Mrs. Drexler’s chair move. “I don’t smell anything,” she said.
Her footsteps approached. I closed my eyes.
Then her hand pressed against the back of my diaper, checking.
“Interesting,” she said. “Still clean.”
“I don’t have to go anymore,” I said quickly.
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Drexler said.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t actually have to go after all.”
Mrs. Drexler said nothing for a moment.
Then she said, very softly, “I see.”
My stomach dropped. It was far worse than yelling.
“So you lied to me,” she said.
“You interrupted lunch. You discussed filthy bathroom matters at the table. You made a spectacle of yourself in front of Zoe. And now you are telling me it was all based on a lie,” she charged.
I was speechless. I didn’t know what to say. It felt like there was no correct answer.
“Come here,” Mrs. Drexler said, lowering my skirt. She took my arm again and guided me back to the table, but not to my previous seat.
Instead, to the head of the table.
My face burned. Zoe stared at me from her place, thumb hovering near her mouth.
“Hands,” Mrs. Drexler repeated.
I placed them on my head.
“Zoe,” Mrs. Drexler said, “you will remain seated and watch yet another reminder of how we handle lying in this house.”
Mrs. Drexler crossed to the kitchen sink. She picked up the bar of soap from beside the faucet, ran it under the water, and turned back to me.
She ignored me, standing in front of me and holding the soap up where I could see it. I was reminded of the soap I lathered up for Zoe’s mouth just the previous week.
“I told you, this is what we do to liars in this house,” Mrs. Drexler said. “We wash out their filthy lying mouths.”
“I wasn’t lying,” I said.
“Open,” Mrs. Drexler demanded.
“Open your mouth, Julian.”
The soap pressed past my lips. The taste hit immediately.
I gagged and tried to pull back, but Mrs. Drexler held my chin with one hand and scrubbed the soap across my tongue with the other.
I made a muffled sound of protest.
“Quiet,” she said. “You may cry if you need to, but you will not fight me.”
My eyes watered. Foam gathered at the corners of my mouth. I could see Zoe watching over her untouched lunch, horrified and transfixed, her own thumb now tucked fully between her lips.
“Lying is filthy,” she said. “Hiding is filthy. Manipulating me with false emergencies is filthy.”
Another cramp hit my aching bowels.
The soap dragged across my tongue again, and I gagged so hard my whole body seized.
That was when I finally lost the fight. It happened before I could stop it.
I suddenly lost control of my bowels… and began pooping my diaper.
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