All About Cassie!
He made me rub 'it' on his nipples. Cassie testified. Diddy’s daughters walked out. It all happened in court today—read now.
Today broke me a little. Watching a pregnant mother walk into a federal courtroom to relive some of the most horrific moments of her life. Moments she probably has flashbacks about, dreams about. Its something I’ll never forget. Cassie didn’t just testify today. She stood up for every woman who’s ever had to smile through hell and stay quiet for survival. And she did it while carrying a new life inside her. That image stuck with me all day. Because while the world gawked, speculated, and tweeted, she was up there telling the truth. On record, under oath, in front of the man who spent years trying to break her.
This trial is mentally draining. I’m not even in it and still, it’s exhausting to witness. I’m grateful court ended early today, because it gave me the space to get this Substack written and go spend time with my own family. Something Cassie probably couldn’t do freely for a very long time.
Cassie Ventura took the stand for the first tim. Not as a performer, not as a muse, but as a woman unraveling years of silence. Her voice was steady. Her words weren’t theatrical. They were surgical. Devastating. Controlled. And in that stillness, the courtroom shifted.
Behind the defense table, Diddy sat stone-faced. But in the gallery, the damage was showing. His mother, Janice Combs, appeared frail, quiet, hunched, a ghost of the matriarch we’ve seen before. And his daughters, Chance, D’Lila, and Jessie, entered the courtroom composed, polished, and poised, as they always do. But when Cassie described the freak-offs, the male escorts, the degradation, the humiliation, they left the room. Again.
This was the second time Diddy’s daughters have had to leave mid-testimony due to graphic sexual content. The first was on May 12, when male dancer Daniel Phillip described ritual sex acts involving bodily fluids and Diddy watching from the shadows. Today, it was Cassie herself. This time, it was their father’s former girlfriend testifying under oath to what he allegedly made her endure. And they couldn’t stay to hear it.
And honestly? Who could blame them?
But it raises a question no one seems brave enough to ask: Why are they even in the room? Are they there to project unity? To humanize him in front of the jury? Is this optics for the defense? Because if it is, it’s a psychological disaster. These aren’t legal tools. These are his children, being exposed to the darkest corners of a man they thought they knew. And watching them leave, again, wasn't just tragic. It was telling.
This isn’t just a trial. It’s a living trauma. And it’s unfolding in real time, for everyone involved.
The Ritual of Desecration
The freak-offs weren’t parties or threesomes. They were rituals. Scripted performances built on power, degradation, and complete control. Cassie wasn’t a partner. She was the canvas. The prop. The punishment. She testified in graphic detail that Sean Combs liked to bring in male escorts and watch them ejaculate on her. “He liked to watch men finish on me.” And once it was over, he had a routine. “He would make me rub it on his nipples.” These weren’t one-off events. They were frequent. “Sometimes they would last for hours. Sometimes for days.” And she was expected to keep going, no matter what. “I didn’t want to take the drugs, but I did. To keep going.” “I didn’t always love doing the freak-offs.” “Sometimes I’d be okay with it. But not the way he wanted it. Not that often.”
He made her feel like she was the only one who could fulfill this role. “He would tell me I was the only one who could do this for him.” “He said I made him feel things no one else could.” The rooms were staged: red couches, low lighting, cameras, Astroglide, Johnson’s baby oil, condoms. “He said I needed to be glistening.” “Every five minutes someone would be applying baby oil to me.” If she looked tired or resisted, he’d get upset. “If I didn’t look happy, he would be upset.” “He’d say, ‘You’re ruining it.’”
One witness testified: “There was a man in a white robe, a bandanna covering his face, and a baseball cap. From the voice, I recognized him as Sean Combs.” And Cassie said plainly: “He had tapes. He recorded everything.” “He said if I ever betrayed him, people would see what I really was.”
The Silence Wasn’t Just Emotional. It Was Professional.
Cassie didn’t come to Bad Boy Records as a girlfriend. She came as a musician. A dancer. A visionary. She had a nine-album deal. Only one was ever released. One of her closest early collaborators, Tiffany Red, a Grammy-winning songwriter, later spoke about the emotional trauma of working under Diddy’s influence. She and Cassie were once close. And like Cassie, Tiffany also disappeared from the public eye. Silenced, used, erased. “I wasn’t allowed to be an artist anymore.” “I’d go days without speaking.” “He made me feel like I didn’t exist unless he needed something.” And then today, Cassie said it clearly: “I never got paid.” Not a cut. Not a royalty. Not a dollar.
Her manager once said trying to help her felt like fighting Diddy with one hand tied behind his back. Now we know why.
She Couldn’t Leave. Not Figuratively. Not Literally.
She wasn’t just emotionally trapped. She was literally locked down. “He had security watching me.” “I wasn’t allowed to leave the room.” “If I tried to go anywhere, someone would stop me.” “I didn’t have access to my phone.” “He paid for the house I lived in.” “He paid my bills.” She couldn’t leave because she had nowhere to go. He controlled the walls around her and the money beneath her. This wasn’t cohabitation. It was captivity. She wasn’t a girlfriend. She was an owned asset with no exit strategy.
She wasn’t just performing. She was surviving. And at one point—she cracked. Cassie, who had spoken calmly for most of her testimony, broke down in tears as she recounted the worst of it. Not dramatically. Not for effect. Not because she was fragile. Because she’s human. And because there’s no way to say “He made me rub it on his nipples” and not feel the sickness of it sink into your bones. saying the truth out loud hurts in ways survival doesn’t prepare you for.
By her side throughout it all was her attorney, Douglas Wigdor, one of the most respected civil rights attorneys in the country and no stranger to high-profile sexual abuse cases. He filed Cassie’s original lawsuit in 2023 and has been at her side through every phase of this case from the allegations of trafficking and rape to this very moment in federal court.
Wigdor didn’t need to grandstand. He let Cassie’s words speak for themselves. And they did. Every line. Every quote. Every breakdown. Her story was clear. Her body language was steady. And her legal team was locked in behind her, treating this for what it is: not just testimony, but history.
And people still ask, “Why didn’t she leave?”
Other People Saw It Too.
Philip, a male dancer brought in for one of the freak-offs, testified: “She came to me crying. She just stood there in my arms. She was slumped over.” He didn’t just confirm the ritual. He confirmed the collapse. He saw her when the performance ended. So did hotel security guard Israel Flores. Cassie came to him shaking, after Diddy beat her. Flores was offered a brown paper bag full of cash. He didn’t take it. “I can’t be bought.” Two men. Two rooms. Same story.
The Tapes. The Blackmail. The Pattern.
“He had tapes. He recorded everything.” “He said if I ever betrayed him, people would see what I really was.” That wasn’t just control. It was extortion. And it wasn’t just Cassie. Diddy offered money to a hotel guard. He kept recordings of sex acts. He held onto material to use against people. From hotel staff to dancers to artists to celebrities. No one was off-limits. It’s been whispered for years: even Jay-Z, even industry peers. Everyone was vulnerable. That’s how confident Diddy was. He didn’t care who you were. He believed he was untouchable.
And This Is Where I Step In.
As a mother. As a woman. As someone who once admired Diddy. I believe her. Even if the jury doesn’t. Even if the blogs spin it. Even if the industry covers it up again. I believe her. I believe every word. Who would make this up? Who could invent this? Multiple people. Same stories. Different places. Same blueprint. That’s not coincidence. Nothing is in that world. She didn’t get her nine albums. But she got her babies. She got her name back. And now? She’s got her voice.
Combs Confidential: Day 7 Preview
Cassie’s testimony will continue. The prosecution is expected to go deeper into the tapes, the surveillance, and the psychological warfare. Cross-examination is coming and it will be brutal. The defense will try to discredit her. Twist her. Undermine her. But they’re not ready. She’s not breaking. And she’s not alone.
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My goodness! Your writing is riveting. It reads like a book you do not want to put down. I only wish this story was fictional
I love your writing. Easy to follow and not too long.