Demonstration day
Metek slouched dejectedly behind a stage curtain, swaying back and forth with the thick fabric screen as it flowed like the silk of a gown, never quite getting used to the breadth of the snowy white diaper with two tapes and a charmander print strapped around his waist, his only garment. Peeking around the corner as stealthily as a sixteen year old drake could manage, Metek saw the gathered audience, Frumae, the vixen in the white lab coat he had run afoul of the preceding week, and the dining table sized, glowing opaque surface that was the worst thing to happen to him since invention of homework. 
   One week earlier Metek had made the mistake of breaking into a modern technology exhibit on a dare, and had been rudely punished for his courage by being restrained, diapered, further restrained, swaddled, and all the while in full view of the patrons of the museum. To make a bad situation worse, Frumae had threatened to sue for tampering, and had used that as leverage to force the dragon into being her personal mannequin for a public demonstration of the machine, the day of which had finally come. 
His humiliation at the whim of this machine had, in all, been witnessed by twelve classmates, two teachers, two museum directors, and ten total strangers, and had not, surprisingly, resulted in serious backlash, at least not to his face. What was said behind closed doors, he had no idea, but, in less than a week, the event had deescalated from the status of epic spectacle to, hey, remember that time? Metek was, after all, a dragon, and a large copper, at that. Bullies hadn’t bothered him in years, and, between him and the labors of the school staff, he had only suffered the stigmatic nickname of piddle pants for a grand total of four days before it was stamped out by the power of the weekend to erase the minds of high school students.   
Now he would have to go through with it all over again. 
He had been, by the end of his ordeal the week before, reduced to a sobbing infant. He refused to allow that to happen again, whatever torments that conniving fox had in mind.
Metek had had, only half an hour before, been briefed on the demonstration by Frumae, “There will be seven potential sponsors in the audience, all female. You’re going to be wearing this,” she handed him the white diaper adorned with the charmander print, “when you go on. I’ve planned it so the audience will see none of your private parts. You made quite the controversy last week, dragonhood hanging out and all. Also, you will be pacified from the time you step on stage, until the time you leave. I trust you to keep it there without a muzzle, alright? Good. Keep in mind that one word out of your mouth and our deal is null and void, understand? Right. Finally, you will present me a sixteen year old hatchling at its cutest. Act shy, act embarrassed. Not that you should have any problem with the latter, I think.” She went on and on about how he could best benefit her chances of being sponsored, the phrase, act exactly as though you were nothing more than an overgrown infant, came up more than once.
 Peeking slightly more ambitiously around the curtain, Metek got his first decent view of the adults who would be witness to his degradation on behalf of a scheming vixen. From left to right: another vixen, an owlette, two she-wolves, one with a female cub on her lap, an otter, a raccoon, and, “oh, hell, one of them is a dragoness,” he cursed in a whisper. She was, in fact, a dragoness. Younger than the rest, and a stark, bleach white beauty to Metek’s eyes, the kind he would kill to have the chance to court. He unconsciously took a step back, half considering backing out of the whole thing, the thought better of it.
The scantily clad dragon barely had time to slip the bright pink pacifier, hanging on a band around his neck, into his mouth as a furry paw shot out from in front of the curtains, seized him by the wrist, and dragged him out into the limelight. Metek’s tail unconsciously curled around his leg in shame as he felt a wave of sudden embarrassment flood over him, the first of many to come. He hunkered down, trying, and failing, to cover his thick, disposable undergarment with his paws, tail, hips, anything he could put between the grinning audiences’ eye and his one piece of clothing, if it could even be called that. When the unanimous and echoing D’awwwww from the assembled, fully suited individuals started to die down, Frumae raised the hand not occupied in keeping Metek from running away to silence the remaining banter.
“Ladies, meet the hatchling of the hour. He’ll be helping me today as I display what small fraction of my machine’s capabilities I can. Please give Metek here a warm welcome!” Laughter ensued, and a good deal of delighted clapping, “Come on hatchie, they’re all here to see you. The least you can do is wave.” Frumea accented this last comment by administering a full, open palm slap on his diapered behind, just enough to send him front stage and center with no way to conceal himself. He crossed his legs nervously, looking away from the audience, and tried to make himself as small as possible, waving for a second before scurrying back behind the relative cover the vixen provided, “See, my dragonet here doesn’t talk much,” she tapped on the shield of his pacifier in explanation, “but, enough banter. If your Excellencies will permit, I will escort my little prince, here, to his throne.” More jostling ensued, a good natured camaraderie exhibited by the judges, all but by the white and brown barn owl, her face remained flat and serious, though whether that was out of disagreement or species the dragon knew not. 
Frumae led him by the wrist to the surface of her automatic baby-upkeep machine, directing him to lay down in the middle of it. When he had done as much, she leaned down next to his ear and whispered, “Just remember what I told you, and try to stay calm.”
She walked with a purpose over to a command consol at the head of the machine, a bright light, like a surgical lamp, hangs from the ceiling. Metek squints, his almond shaped pupils narrowing to slits, his head turning to the side instinctually. What he saw, as his head turned, scared him nearly half to death. From the edges of the table had emerged the same mechanical tendrils which had so tormented him the previous week. His heart rate tripled in all of four seconds. Forcing himself to focus, he controlled his breathing, chocking down the panic that had risen in his throat, and attempting to maintain an air of calm indifference, even as the tendrils wormed their way under him. Two grasped him at the wrists, far more gently than before, and two more at the ankles. Like the previous week, the first degradations to be applied were what the machine’s ominous voice called standard restraints, a pair of bulky wool mittens that restricted his fingers into a fist, and matching booties that kept him from gripping anything with his feet, or using his supple hind claws to mount any resistance, or, as Frumae put it, “to keep our hatchie here out of any trouble,” In spite of the sly grin of the fox hovering over him, Metek slighted the additional restraints with calm indifference, rolling over and adopting the fetal position and suckling on the rubber nipple in his mouth. A handful of comments on his adorableness graced his ears from the audience. He could do this, no big deal, really. I’m adorable, this’ll be a cake walk!
Or not. For just as that thought glanced through his head, the tendrils that had squirmed under him lifted him a foot off the table and, to their credit, he hardly felt the tension on any one part of his body. Frumae knew her work well. The tendrils, grasping him at the wrists, forced his arms up in the traditional manner of a baby being dressed and pulled a cloth garment over his head. Pink, of course it was pink, and indeed it was, crotch fold snapping into place around his waist, he was, in fact, now clothed in a frilly, pink onesie fit for a toddler beauty pageant. He squirmed a bit after the tentacles released him, trying knowingly in vain to undo the snaps with his padded, immobile hands. It was just for show, he knew full well he was effectively helpless to act with autonomy until the mittens were removed, but the act won him another D’awwwww and some giggles from the viewers, so it was worth the exertion.
A minute passed. Two minutes. Nothing happened for so long that Metek rolled over, sitting up to better examine the panel. And what a divided panel it was. The vixen sat cross legged, paying more attention to scribbling on a clipboard than to him, he felt his cheeks burn red with anger that he was up here, on stage, humiliating himself for what he assumed was little more than their entertainment, and she couldn’t even be decent enough to watch! The owl retained her stony, black eyed stare, the two she-wolves and the cub were doing most of the giggling and D’awwing, poking and prodding each other happily, the otter and raccoon were watching intently, making notes when appropriate, but otherwise commenting amiably on the subject at hand, him. Ironically, the least engaged of them all was the one he was most interested in. The dragoness paid almost no attention at all, seeming to look straight past him to a point six feet behind his head. He didn’t understand females well enough at the best of times to understand whether her gestures should be interpreted as, I’m bored, I’m interested, but trying to look like I’m not, or yeah, that’s one drake that needs to get laid, big time.
Metek was brought back to reality after the nipple of an unnecessarily large feeding bottle was shoved in his face, causing him to overbalance and fall on his padded behind. The crinkle would have been audible in Brooklyn. The vixen addressed the audience, “I know this is supposed to be a demonstration of my machine’s capacity, but I can’t help but feel a little audience participation is in order,” Frumae waved the bottle back and forth in front of him, “who wants to feed my hatchie?” It was a serious question, by all accounts, and hardly exhibited as much giggling as it did. Even the stonewall owl cracked a smile, “anyone? Anyone? Well, I guess we’ll just have to…”
“I would be happy to feed him, Miss. Frumae, if you wouldn’t mind,” the speaker was, of all people, the owl, dressed in the formal robes that their kind wore to accommodate their substantial wings and tail feathers. At a smile from the fox, she rose, ascended the stage confidently, and walked over to where Metek sat on the edge of the platform, swallowing hard. He hadn’t been fed in, well, ever. Dragons are reptiles, reptiles don’t drink milk. Nevertheless, a silent complaint to his taskmaster fell on deaf ears. The owl had already offered an open wing for him to lay upon. When he didn’t move, only looked timidly away, she stood and, supporting him at the knees and back like a baby, lifted him with as little effort as though he weighed merely as much as the hatchling he was dressed as. Flight muscles, he assumed, knowing full well that his own would be coming in soon enough. Too taken aback to struggle, Metek allowed himself to be carried childlike to a reclining chair that had been set up nearby. It was only after the owl had sat, the dragon sprawled limply in her lap, that he realized how incredibly soft owl feathers really were. He had heard stories, of course, everyone had. But even they failed to live up to the mind clouding abyss that Metek experienced as the masterfully gentle touch of her feathers glided up and down his unscaled belly as she caressed him. It was only after the remaining judges worked the ecstatic glee out of their systems that the dragon realized he was, amazingly enough, purring, deep and catwise as the owl lovingly rubbed his belly.
After what felt to Metek as an eternity of paradise, under the she-owl’s spell as he was, Frumae handed her the milk bottle and removed his pacifier. The sudden emptiness in his mouth was enough to bring him back to planet earth, though the nipple of the feeding bottle was a fair enough replacement. He took it into his mouth with no struggle, “Drink up, little one,” said his caretaker, smiling, despite the beak. Metek soon fell back into the miasma of pleasure as the owl resumed her snuggling, now with the addition of a deep, warm feeling as the hot milk started to flow down his gullet and into his belly as he suckled, admirably well for one who had never done so before. It was a thick, substantial formula, even without knowing for sure he could feel that the milk was doing him all manner of good, like he was slipping away into some dream world. He was, in fact, fully asleep by the time his forced feeding was done. Drowsing copiously, his head resting against the owl’s humming chest, one wing closed over him affectionately. 
“Well, looks like you went and put our lil’ hatchling straight to sleep! Come, come now. Let’s get him back up, there’s still things to do.” The owl looked hesitant, glancing affectionately down at the sleeping newborn in her arms, then eventually nodded, gently prodding him with a primary. 
“Wake up, little one, there are things that must be done,” Metek stirred immediately aware of the transfixed eyes of the entire room, his bulging belly, and the feeling of intense fullness that came from ingesting what might have been a half gallon of dairy in one feeding. He groaned audibly before Frumae could pop his pacifier back into his mouth, silencing him.
“Well, well, well. I think it’s time we got our little one here into something more, let’s say, appropriate, shall we?” The unanimous nods of agreement from the audience spurred her conviction and Frumae led the dragon, waddling, back toward her instrument of shame. Sighing through his nose, Metek climbed back onto the table, laying down as he was instructed. 
More appropriate, in the vixen’s words, meant precisely one thing when regarding Metek: a diaper. But not just any diaper, no, this one was filly, much like the onesie he was doomed to wear overtop of it. It was thick, too, thicker even than the one he had had inflicted upon him the previous week. So colossal was it that, as it was being laid out mechanically, and the dragon set upon it, the base four inches of his tail disappeared into the plastic coated cubby, crinkly, cuddly padding that adorned his pampered rear, so thick that the rest of his back was lifted off the surface as though a folded comforter lay between the two. As it was being taped snugly around his waist, the flap on his onesie was closed and snapped into place, leaving him diapered, delightful, and helpless to escape either. A ripe, high throated giggling emanated from the audience. It was the one she-wolf’s cub, maybe three years old. She was pointing one finger at the diapered dragon and laughing hysterically.
“She’s a cutie!” said the toddler, dressed not unlike Metek. She yipped loudly in complaint as her mother silenced her with a swat on the nose, whispering something in her ear. The young girl didn’t wait to make her opinion known, instead she shouted, “That’s a boy?!” in as loud a voice as a young girl can manage, and received another disciplinary swat.
“No, no, no,” came the vixen’s laughing voice, “let her speak, we don’t mind, do we, Metek?” he shook his head, not daring to contradict her, “see? Why don’t you let your big wolfess come up on stage, darling? I’m sure she’ll have fun.”
“Ya! Mommy, can I go, please?” the mother raised a hand to swat her again, then realized it was futile. She rolled her eyes, shook her head, and handed the young wolf up to the vixen on stage. She beamed with excitement and passion as she sat the pup down on the lounge chair, kneeling down to talk to her.
“So, how old are you?”
“I’ma four!”
“Awww, such a big number! Are you still in diapers, Cara?” If it were possible, Cara would have beamed even brighter, the fuel of pride being heaped on by the bucketload.
“Nope! I haven’t had an accident in, uh this many months!” she held up three fingers, “now I just wears pull ups at night.” 
Frumae nodded, waving over Metek who approached bashfully, barely able to walk for the mass of absorbent material between his legs and blushing that he was now wearing more pink than a four year old girl. The vixen gave the dragon a playful swat on the rear, the crinkling of his diaper was matched only by the giggling of the two girls, “That’s so good, I’m impressed. Metek here is sixteen, and just take a look at what he’s still wearing!” she unbuttoned the flap of his onesie, revealing the diaper underneath with its heart shaped paw-print pattern. “Come on, Metek, let’s get you wrapped up like a baby, I had a special blanket made just for you.”
“Wait! I wana hug!” The outburst took them both by surprise, just as they were about to return to the table.
Frumae smiled, prodding Metek forward by the diapered bottom, “Well of course, dear. Metek, darling, sit down with the nice she-wolf,” the dragon groaned as the young wolf scooted over to make room for him. Seeing no alternative, he swallowed his pride, and sat down, Cara happily crawling up onto his cushioned lap. She was soft, if nothing else. It finally struck him that the little wolf was dressed in nearly the exact same manner as he was. Same pink onesie, same fluffy diaper, same pacifier strung around her neck, “Awwww, look at them. So cute,” the vixen patted him on the head, moving to rub the toddler in his lap, she finally made the comment he was dreading, “well, Cara, how do you like your little sister?” 
Metek could only hug his fashion double closer, half to conceal what he could of his humiliating costume, and half to comfort himself as though she were a plushy. The little girl squirmed as his grip tightened, lightly nuzzling the back of her head, as though she were the one who needed soothing.
“I think he could use some, uh, bows?” came the response of the struggling toddler to unanimous agreement, Metek notwithstanding. The dragon’s heart sank as he saw the vixen remove two small satin ribbons and a third, massive one, even as the wolf simpered out of Metek’s grip.   
“You mean like these? And does our big girl know how to tie a bow?” when she nodded proudly, the vixen continued, “then would she like to show us all how to tie a bow? You’d like that, right Metek?”
The dragon’s head drooped as she had him kneel down to give the giggling wolf access to his tail, that she might tie it around the base. She went through a preschool rhyme as she did so, tying the large ribbon in wide arcs and leaving him with a bright red looping bow accenting the bulge of his diaper, and the frills of his onesie.
“Down! I wana put these on his horns!” she waved the two smaller ribbons in front of his face. Rolling his eyes, he submitted to the toddler once again, kneeling down lower and tolerating her as she crawled up onto his back.
“Honey, be careful of those horns!” her mother shouted, unheeded. The wolf took her deliberate time tying the bows, making sure to tie them further up, then slide them down to the base so they would be tighter. At one point, during the delay between one bow and the other, she leaned down next to his ear and whispered.
“I don’t envy you, draggy,” then finished, giggled, and darted over to the edge of the stage, back into her mother’s arms before he even had a chance to contemplate the words. He had little time to think after that, either, as the vixen chose that moment to seize him by the tail and wave it, all the better to show off his new, rosy decoration. The crowd giggled and a blush further cemented itself as his default expression.   
The dragon groaned, trying to hide the crinkly garment and its new adornments as best as he could, failing as miserably as if he had tried to dam a river with a pencil. The vixen drew him over at a cruel pace, nearly falling on his face as he tried to waddle along beside her, as opposed to behind her. In their absence the machine had lain out another of the large cotton blankets which he had been wrapped in once before. This one, however, was clearly made specifically for him. He could tell because it had, well, him on it. Or a hatchling version of him, anyway, still half in the shell, eyes wide and looking out on the world. She had gotten the color of his eyes wrong. They were green, not blue. In any case, he crawled up onto the blanket and lay diagonally on it as the machine starts to roll him up like a carpet, happy his ordeal is almost over. Within ten seconds he had been fully swaddled, arms bound uselessly at their sides, legs immobile, as snug as he had been since he had broken the shell. The vixen walked over, eyeing the three elastic straps that kept the whole thing from unraveling, and picked him up, rocking him side to side and cooing in his ears to the full appraise of all.
When the two had reached the front of the stage, the vixen using one paw to rub his belly affectionately, that sly grin forever chiseled into her face, she leaned down next to him and whispered in his ear once more, “I hope this won’t come as a surprise to you, but I put laxative in that milk you drank earlier. I sincerely hope you don’t mind,” Metek could only feel his eyes go wide, a ball of fear working its way up from his belly. He had never feared anything quite like this before, stomach churning, belly full of milk, a crowd of attractive females in view and earshot. He could feel the eyes on him as he rocked back and forth, bladder at full capacity, bowels starting to move. The squirming started before he even knew what he was doing, thrashing out in all directions, with all four limbs, trying to push the pacifier out of his mouth to scream. All failed. He felt the pressure in his extremities start to build beyond his capacity to resist. 
Finally it occurred to him: he was helpless. Completely and utterly powerless. Here he was, swaddled tighter than sardines in a can, mittens restraining his hands and feet, mouth occupied with a pacifier that might as well have been a gag, what with the nipple the size of a jawbreaker. He could do nothing, nothing at all to resist the needs of his body. The hatchling sighed, stopped thrashing, closed his eyes, and relaxed every muscle in his body. A faint hissing sound was the first thing he heard, followed by the inflating sensation of his diaper nearly doubling in size, warming to his not inconsiderable body temperature as it did, pressing his thighs firmly between his diaper on one side, and the folds of his cocoon on the other. No sooner did the contents of his bowels release than he wanted them to. It was a surprisingly quiet affair, he squirmed a bit, making a whining noise, and felt the seat of his diaper fill with warm, squishy mush. This last part was the end for him.
He had, without knowing it, held the audience in an almost hypnotic trance since he had released his bladder. The rhythmic rocking of his fabric wrappings and their contents had transfixed their gaze solely on him. They had, until that point, assumed him to be some highly paid, or highly dedicated, actor. The very idea of a sixteen year old dragon full of pride of place from an upper middle class family swaddled, restrained, diapered, humiliated, and forced to use their choice garment for its intended purpose. The vixen had planned that plot twist, and the audience had played straight into her hands. That’s when the sobbing started.
Metek had cried the first time he had been taken by that machine. Degraded as he was, it seemed the only recourse, but now was something entirely different. This was humiliation as the dragon could never have imagined. It was only on the realization that the vixen had, in fact, masterminded this from the moment she had met him, that had broken the dragon. The pacifier fell from his mouth as he started to wail, tears, a torrent from his eyes, sniveling became the dominant sound in the room, had he been one tenth the size nobody would have found anything to object to in this scene. Eventually, broken in both his own mind, and those of the others, Metek cried himself to sleep, having failed at his one goal for the endeavor: to keep his eyes dry.

“Well, you put on quite the show tonight, you should be proud,” Metek shot awake, sitting up from off the surface of the table. He was unbound, now, the mittens, booties, onesie and swaddling had all been removed. She had not, however, taken the moment to remove his diaper, and when he sat up the entire day’s events came back to him after he felt himself sit in an inch of his own waste. The theater was empty, now. All the entrepreneurs had long since left, “like honestly, I was expecting you to do well, but damn, what a finale. Oops, what kind of person am I, using language like that in front of a baby.” She giggled, an honest giggle this time, not the fake one she used to humiliate him earlier.
Metek finally posed the question, after working up the nerve, “did you, uh, ever get your contract?” the deal had been that if the failure was his fault, it would be on him to do this again, and again, and again until he succeeded.
His heart lept with relief when she nodded, “yeah, most of them hadn’t a word to say. Just here’s your contract, you’ve earned it. Weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, honestly.” 
“Umm, hello? Is anyone still here?” came a voice from the back of the theater. The speaker was, of all people, the owl from earlier.
“Oh, Mrs. Acheron, what an unusual surprise. Whatever are you doing back, I thought you had all left.”
“Well, uh, I had,” she giggled nervously in that throaty way that avians laugh, “but I couldn’t keep this – this dragon out of my head.” 
Metek scratched his head, first trying to conceal his one remaining garment, then thinking better of it and just laying back, damning the expense. She came up to join him on the stage, she hugged him. If owl feathers felt great through fabric, the sensation on bare scale was indescribable. 
“You’re adorable, you know that?” she asked.
“So I’m told,” he replied.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” said the fox with a laugh, marching off stage right.
The owl released him, looking embarrassed. She was younger than he first took her, maybe mid twenties, “Oh, damn it. Look, when I was feeding you today, I just – I don’t know. I’ve never felt that peaceful. I just had to know, did you feel the same way?”
Metek’s first answer would have been, What the hell kind of question is that, then he thought better of it, his second was, No, but then he thought better of that, too. He found he was thinking on the quandary for a quite a while, and, despite all that had happened to him, he blamed all his sufferings on the vixen. The owl, on the other hand, had fed him, comforted him, and lulled him to the most peaceful sleep he had known in decades. Despite his inclinations, despite his bias and better judgment, it soon became clear that, lying aside, there was only one possible answer. He said it.
“I – I just – yes, I just felt so…” the two embraced, Metek nuzzling the owl with his head, one more in a day of firsts. He looked into her deep, black eyes, like they could lead to outer-space and back.
“You really mean that?”
“I, just, yes. I…” his rear bumped up against the side of the machine, with a squish, Metek felt what remained of his dignity melt away into the sand. The copper dragon crossed his legs cutely, rubbing the back of his head and smiling an embarrassed smile, and giggled, “I… need a diaper change.”