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“Exciting news, Bridgette,” said Cindy, or Mommy, as Bridgette was now obliged to call her.
Bridgette looked up grumpily from her playpen. What now? She had suffered nothing but humiliation since Cindy – formerly her bullying victim and now her stepmother – had adopted her.
Formerly a famous lingerie model, Bridgette’s bad behaviour had lost her so many jobs she’d had to move home, only to find her father’s new wife was well prepared to take care of a brat. She’d been spanked scarlet, bundled into flouncy toddler dresses and fussy hair bows and – worst of all – put back into nappies.
Cindy had delighted in seeing Bridgette have one, then two, then many little accidents in her pampers, and seeing the haughty princess reduced to asking politely for a change, while squirming at the indignity. Spotting a gap in the market, she’d even started her own range of Princess Chubby Cheeks Adult Baby Diapers, with Bridgette as a most unwilling mascot.
Now Cindy loomed over her, holding a rolled-up magazine. Bridgette was dressed in a lavender babydoll dress just a little too short to hide her bulging padding.
“Well?” snapped Bridgette. And for once, Cindy didn’t haul her over her knee and spank her to tears. Instead, she smiled sweetly.
“I’ve just had a phone call from London. A Peter Garland? I believe you know him?”
Bridgette’s eyes lit up.
“Peter Garland the photographer? The Peter Garland?”
“Yes,” said Cindy. “I understand that five years ago you shot the cover of Sports Universe with him – their swimsuit edition.”
Bridgette remembered it well. She’d worn a skimpy black cut-out costume by Ricci with a snake-print texture and nipple-skimming plunge. She’d looked hotter than hell and had loved every minute. Her cover had sold out the magazine across the world and copies now went on Ebay for hundreds of dollars.
“Well,” Cindy said, “Sports Universe want to do an anniversary shoot! Peter was asked to choose his favourite cover shoots from the last twenty years, and yours was one of them.”
Bridgette frowned to herself. The pictures had been amazing, but Peter must have glossed over the part where she’d stomped off set, complaining that the California beach was one degree too chilly, only to return tipsy on cocktails and stumble through the rest of the shoot. Luckily the pictures had come out well, but she’d definitely pushed her luck there. Thank god photographers just focused on the job at hand. Maybe he’d forgotten the stresses of that shoot.
Oh boy, it would be amazing to be stretched out on the sand in some sexy swimsuit, back to her old slinky Bridgette Redheart self again. But things were never that simple with Mommy.
“I’m guessing you’re going to say I’m not allowed to do the shoot,” she grumped.
Cindy smiled warmly. “No, I actually think this will be good for you. Maybe you’ll appreciate what a lucky girl you were to be paid for modelling, and think about how you might get back to that life one day. Maybe you’ll start acting more like a grown-up.”
Bridgette was shocked. “You mean…?”
“You can do the shoot,” said Cindy. “And keep all your earnings, of course. I will be coming along as chaperone, though, just to make sure you’re a good girl for Mr Garland.”
Bridgette scowled at the belittlement, but her heart was racing.
“When does he want to shoot?”
Cindy looked at her scribbled note.
“Next week. We’d better book flights right away.”
Bridgette salivated. “Where are we shooting? Barbados? Costa Rica?”
Cindy smiled.
“Ah, no. Peter’s schedule means he’s covering London Fashion Week the following day, so it’ll have to be in England. He’s suggested somewhere called Brighton.”
Bridgette pouted. Ugh. She could have done with a Caribbean holiday.
Cindy raised an eyebrow.
“Is wittle Princess Bwidgette gwumpy? Shall Mommy tell Mr Garland that you can’t come and model because you’ve been gwounded in your pwaypen?”
“No! No, please!” Bridgette rushed to the bars of her pen in a flurry of frills. “I want to do it! Please!”
“Good girl,” said Cindy. “Now, that was a lot of excitement for someone like you, so let’s just check your diaper…”
Bridgette sat on the plane, studying the brief for the shoot. It was a then-and-now shoot, showcasing the latest collections by the original brands. Ooh, so she would be wearing Ricci swimwear again – mmmm! Luxury! It would be so good to ditch these puffy Pampers and froufrou frocks and slip into something tight, elegant and expensive.
Cindy had just gone to ask the crew a question, and she returned with a stewardess.
“That’s so kind,” said Cindy, taking the baby bottle the stewardess offered and a squishy plastic booster seat with crotch strap.
Before Bridgette could protest, Cindy had scooped her up, slid the baby seat underneath her and clipped it to the chair. She pulled the straps up between Bridgette’s legs, catching the hem of her bunny dress to show her nappy, then locked them in place.
“Hey!” wailed Bridgette, but her complaint was stifled by the teat of the bottle. It was going to be a very long flight indeed.
Seven hours and four bottles later, they arrived. Cindy strode out to the top of the disembarking steps with her luggage.
“Come on, Bridgette!” she called. “Let’s get you changed!”
A red-faced Bridgette emerged, tugging a unicorn-shaped suitcase. She waddled along, the weight of her soaked nappy between her legs.
“Hey, that girl’s wearing a nappy!” yelled a teenage boy, and his mates jostled to see, laughing raucously.
“Oh my God, she is! Jesus, and what is that weird dress about?”
“Aww, she wet yourself! Poor wittle baby! You going to cry?” cooed one, and Bridgette shuffled faster after Cindy, cheeks burning. A few years ago, they would have put her posters up on their walls as fantasy fodder and queued up nervously for autographs at meet-n-greets. Now they were making mocking “waahhh!” noises after her as she struggled away from them.
Bridgette caught up with Cindy, who swatted her bottom for falling behind, then looked for a bathroom. As her former classmate unfastened Bridgette’s nappy and wiped her clean, the changee clenched her teeth.
“Aww,” said Cindy, puffing baby powder onto Bridgette’s pussy. “We had to put you in your safety seat though, Bridgette. Remember that time on your way to shoot for Elite lingerie when you were arrested for air rage after the champagne ran out? Such a little brat! Couldn’t have that happening this time. Besides, you didn’t need to get out to use the potty. You’ve got your diapers for that.”
She pulled the front of the nappy up through Bridgette’s legs and taped it up.
“And it was so kind of the cabin crew to keep refilling your juice for you, wasn’t it?”
Bridgette groaned inwardly, remembering the wetness she’d sat in for hours, and the frantic struggles to free herself from her seat whenever Cindy had gone to walk around.
They went to get a cab. At least she’d get to see Brighton.
Within ten minutes of leaving the taxi, Bridgette had decided she hated Brighton.
“It’s FREEZING!” she griped, stamping her foot. Several people stared and sniggered at her babyish pink dress and she growled in fury, flipping them the bird.
Cindy was in a surprisingly kind mood, and seemed not to notice Bridgette’s grouching.
“I know, sweetie. That sea air is bracing. We’re almost there, though. Ah, here we are.”
They turned the corner and Bridgette gasped. OK, this was more like it.
The Coronet was a stunning hotel facing onto the sea front. A palatial entranceway led into a chandeliered lobby where staff bowed and took their cases. Marble tiling, sweeping staircases, trolleys loaded with caviar and bubbly – now Bridgette felt at home. It was just like her original shoot – a five-star experience for a five-star model.
“The magazine are paying, but don’t think that means you get to drink champagne,” warned Cindy. “And if I catch you being rude to any of the staff, I’ll take you down to that nice lobby and spank you sorry in front of all of them.”
Bridgette nodded. Bah. Being snooty to the service staff was part of the fun! And since this was Britain, you didn’t even have to tip them. Once in Dubai, she’d deliberately thrown her bed sheets over the balcony into the pool, then complained that the cleaner had spilled mop water on them. That’d teach the staff to side-eye her when she wore her shortest little black dress to dinner.
Still, things were different now, and she really, really wanted to do this shoot. Rumours about her new life had been popping up on her fan pages (she googled herself whenever she was allowed a phone) and she’d managed to squash them using an alias, pointing out the lack of proof. But it wouldn’t do any harm to get some fresh foxy pictures out there, looking more stunning as ever.
She managed to behave herself. So well, in fact, that Cindy allowed her to get room service. The fewer eyes on her infantile outfit the better. The huge pink sash and frilly flutter sleeves were bad enough, but the full tutu skirt was dangerously short. One trip and the dining room would see her pastel-print nappy.
Bridgette drooled over the swimsuits in the new Ricci collection. They were electric blue with bold silver swooshes, cut to skate over curves with chic slashes to show the odd flirtatious peek of skin. With her flowing blonde locks and delicious ass, she was going to look like a goddess.
The bitch is back, she purred, flipping another page.
The next morning, Cindy woke Bridgette at 4am.
“Fuck you,” mumbled Bridgette, wrapping her head in a pillow.
“That’s THANK you MOMMY,” said Cindy. “You’re lucky your bottom is the star today, or I give you a very sound hairbrush spanking this instant.”
Bridgette grinned in delight. That was right! Mommy couldn’t spank her while she had a swimwear shoot to do. Awesome!
She made a point of being as obnoxious to the bellboys as possible, pretending she needed a new towel, freshly aired. She sent three separate lads trekking to the basement laundry to retrieve a warm towel, only to find she’d locked the door each time and wasn’t answering. Each time they went away she rang Reception to complain about their indolence.
Cindy raised an eyebrow. “Do that one more time and I’ll take that dressing gown off to show them your special sleepwear.”
Bridgette’s blood ran cold as she thought of those boys seeing her teddybear onesie and the bulge of her thick night nappy. She behaved herself for breakfast and at last Cindy allowed her to swap her baby clothes for neutral underwear, silk slippers and a stunning Japanese robe.
Bridgette gazed at herself in the mirror, slipping back into her glamorous model persona. This was going to be sensational. She shoved a few clips and brushes into a bulging travel-bag Cindy had packed.
“Carry this, would you?” she ordered Cindy, forgetting the “Mommy” and the “Please”.
“OK sweetie,” said Cindy brightly. And Bridgette, preening and posing in front of the mirror, was too distracted to suspect a thing.