Commission for  thelostone in which the lion character from Modern Times once again encounters a babying machine.

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Story Text: (Download for better formatting)
Grandpa's House:
“I had better be getting laid for this…” Mark, a late adolescent lion said under his breath, grunting as he hefted the overly heavy cardboard box onto his shoulder and started up the old fashioned pull down staircase to the attic. Mark normally wouldn’t have allowed himself to be roped into helping someone move boxes under any circumstances, even if financial reward was offered. He considered himself above menial brute labor, as many lions did, and only agreed to help out his girlfriend with her long derelict late grandfather’s estate when she promised, along with a fair bit of hinting towards one of her college friends, Jordan, who would be helping out as well, that his reward would be something of a far more pleasurable variety than simple money. He grinned at the thought. Sarah had a hot, feminine figure, but Jordan, a panther, was well by the grape vine, especially in bed. Mark always liked girls with a bit of experience.
The lion dropped the box up into the stack in the attic, then sat upon it, taking one of his ever so frequent breaks. “Don’t wander around, she says,” Mark said, sarcastically. Sarah had lectured him at length on the ride over about not messing with any of the boxes, not going anywhere she didn’t tell him, and a plethora of other commands that he didn’t even bother listening to. She liked to fancy herself as wearing the pants in their relationship, and Mark eagerly awaited the day where he got to show her otherwise. Rising against the protest of his muscles, Mark began to wander the vast expanse of the attic. The mansion that Sarah’s grandfather had lived in was massive, that aforementioned man having made a fortune off his patents before going spectacularly mad in his old age. Sarah never liked to talk about him, and wouldn’t even say why. Not that Mark really cared, of course, in fact the primary thing on his mind at that moment was to see if there was anything worth making disappear lying around. Sarah had opted to donate the whole place to a local museum as opposed to selling it, so he was sure that anything he took wouldn’t be missed.
In his wandering, little of value to be discovered, Mark looked up to find himself looking at what appeared to be a reinforced door, old corroded wooden beams nailed in place to keep it from opening. The lion couldn’t suppress the most lively curiosity. The old man’s inventions in his later days had been bought primarily as novelties, and anything that was so bad as to invite being barred up behind locked doors would have to fetch a decent price, wouldn’t it?
With little effort, Mark pried the wooden planks off the door, totally happy to ignore the ‘requests’ of his girlfriend, and opened the door without a further thought, stepping into the room beyond and getting the first clue that something was off as the door shut, and locked, behind him.
“What the hell?” Mark said, feeling the floor compress a bit beneath him. He turned on a dime and shook the knob, which didn’t give an inch in any direction. As though a harbinger of doom was necessary, the lion could both hear and feel the hum and buzz of machines roaring to life all around him. Inhaling deeply, Mark reassured himself that whatever it was had to be decades old, and couldn’t hurt him in the least. Calmed slightly, the big dominant male pawed around for a light switch, promptly found one attached to the cool, glassy wall. With a brief hum, the many overhead lights flickered on, and Mark gasped. The door led out onto some kind of conveyer belt, eight feet wide and with a neck high glass wall on either side, evenly spaced holes about the width of his arm having been drilled into it all along the considerable length of the belt. It was huge! Easily stretching from one side of the mansion to the other. Shivering all over at the realization of how truly tenuous his position was, Mark turned and started desperately pawing at the doorknob again, the humming of the machines growing louder in his ears.
“Now, don’t panic Sarah. I know I tricked you in here but you don’t worry about a thing. My new machine will get you all nice and proper, just see if it doesn’t,” the sound of an old, geizerish voice rang out, a slight hiss giving away the message’s pre-recorded nature. It must have been logged before the old man died.
“W-what the hell’s going on?” Mark said, swallowing hard as the conveyer belt started to move forward, the door swiftly moving out of his reach. The lion gasped as the belt stopped suddenly, throwing him from his feet and onto his face before resuming its relentless onward push. The lion tried to pull himself to his feet, but the uneven belt and constant motion, about the speed of a light jog made that impossible.
Something clamped around Mark’s right ankle and pulled it to the side, the belt coming to a total stop instantly. He pulled with all his might, but even the considerable strength of an athletic, adult lion wasn’t enough to pull the machine from its socket. He turned his head to stare at the elbowed clamp-arm that had stuck out of the ceiling and locked around his leg. Panicking, Mark grabbed at the unbreakable hydraulic grip with his paws, trying to pull it away by sheer force, but was only playing right into the machine’s metal hands. A half dozen more of the arms popped out of the ceiling and the holes in the walls to snap shut like viper jaws around the lion’s wrists, free ankle, and neck, a single large tendril wrapping around his waist to totally immobilize him.
“N-no! Stop!” Mark shouted, thrashing about in his full half inch range of motion in any direction, the arms holding him fast to the belt as two more arms, these ones armed with pairs of what looked like safety scissors took up position on the outsides of his feet.
“Back in my day, little girls like you dressed properly… Gah, we’ll see just how much better you look when my machine is done with you!” the mechanical voice of Sarah’s grandfather blared, Mark wiggling as best he could in the machine’s grasp. Without even the slightest hesitation, the scissors started to buzz horrendously, snapping open and closed two or three times a second so close to Mark’s fur that he could feel the wind. With horrific efficiency, the two arms with the scissors shot up the seams on Mark’s clothes, shredding them from the cuff of his ankle to the collar of his shirt. The lion winced, whimpering as his designer clothing was destroyed, then burst out cursing and struggling in his restraints as what little remained of his clothing was torn away, pants, shirt, underwear, all, leaving him totally nude and helpless on the cool seatbelt material that made up the conveyer belt.
The belt started to move again, Mark’s restraints moving along in kind, the lion shivering with the indignity of being stripped naked by the machine. He swore, when he got out of here he would burn this whole crap hole to the ground and cell the machine for scrap, Sarah’s deal with the museum be damned.
The machine gave Mark little more time to think, however, his thoughts interrupted as he was forced into a spread-eagled position, arms and legs out at his sides, when a pair of wet, soapy fur brushes attached to a pair of tendrils snaked their way out of the holes in the glass and began scrubbing him down from head to toe. Mark laughed hysterically, one or both of the brushes kept constantly somewhere it would tickle him. He screamed and tried to protest, to kick, to resist, anything! But found himself entirely within the machine’s control, just as it was intended. It didn’t help that the soap was scented like fresh lilac, and that the smell seemed to cling to him even after he was yanked off the table by his restraints and a pair of bright pink towels descended to scrub him dry. It was shameful to be handled in that way, and he hadn’t allowed himself to be washed even as a cub, yet no amount of struggling, biting, clawing or anything else Mark could do would free him, so he was left with little choice but to endure the humiliations and pray for a quick end.
The lion was forced into a sitting position, head slumping low towards his naked loins, blushing furiously. There was the buzzing of the scissors again behind him, but the brace around his neck was too tight for him to turn and look. Mark’s blood went cold as he felt it snip at his mane.
“N-NOOOO!” Mark shouted, full throated, then a string out increasingly innovative expletives exited his mouth as he thrashed what little he could in his bonds, the machine not hesitating for an instant to cut away at his mane. It took a full five minutes to finish, the lion driven nearly to tears as his proud masculine mane was shredded, the bits of hair being sucked away through a vacuum as they fell, but, to Mark’s surprise it didn’t clear-cut him, leaving a light bit of long wavy hair on top of his head that fell off to one side. He looked like a girl! All of Mark’s begging and pleading fell upon deaf mechanical ears, the humming of the conveyer belt starting up again as he was whisked away to the next station. His automated torturer plucked Mark up off the belt before dropping him all too lightly onto a laminated plastic surface, cool and textured under his fur when he saw something that made his heart skip a half dozen beats. Above his head, hanging like some specter of the apocalypse, was something he recognized for what it was at once: a triple thick terry toweled sleep diaper, the kind that people used to put on babies before the disposable kind were invented. Mark started to shout again, even as the machine hoisted his legs up off the changing table, the lion totally powerless to resist as the cloth diaper was pushed under him, and his rear dropped down onto the four inches of padded bulk. He couldn’t stifle a whimper as the arms pinned him, the two that had brought the diaper and forced him upon it no picking up bottles of the old fashioned talcum powder and lotion before powdering the squirming lion down with them. With that done, each took up one of the wings of the stuffed and padded diaper and stretched it between the lion’s forced wide legs, pulling it taught against his belly before securing it in place with a pair of bobby pins, one on each side.
Mark’s legs splayed out to either side uncomfortably, and not just because of the restraints. The diaper he had been forced into was literally too thick for him to bring his knees together, a fact which served to turn the lion’s cheeks and the bridge of his muzzle a bright crimson. As though this wasn’t enough, a pair of frilly red panties with a bow were snapped around the diaper, Mark, like a man possessed could only watch out as these things were being done to his body, shattering his masculine ego, while simultaneously being helpless to prevent them. To add insult to injury, the panties were accented by a pair of silky white stockings, which were pulled up his leg and snapped in place around the legs of the panties. Their skintight snugness only served to accentuate the huge bulk of his diaper, and draw the eye to his humiliating babyish undergarments. If anyone ever saw him like this… he shivered at the very thought. Almost as an afterthought the machine pulled a pair of hard, clacky plastic shoes, the kind favored by mothers from the 1950s, out of the ceiling and buckled them onto him, too, the lion now looking full well the part of a year old toddler from the waist down.
Mark was then unceremoniously manhandled back onto the conveyer belt and hurried along his way, not even giving him the time to get his barring before he reached what seemed like the end of the belt. The lion’s restraints went lax, moving with him, though remained taught in case he might try to escape his new pretty clothing or diaper. After a moment of getting his barrings, Mark tried to rise to his feet, instantly realizing that the deed was almost impossible, what with the bulk around his crotch, spreading his legs like those of a baby and the gripless hard soled shoes, which provided no purchase, even on the gritted surface of the conveyer belt. Wobbling tremendously, and almost falling on his padded derriere more than once, Mark finally got awkwardly to his feet, whimpering down at his shaking knees as he took one stiff-legged step off the conveyer belt and onto the rubberized platform at the end. It had several of those big, full body mirrors one would expect to find in a fashion studio, and a rack of Lolita dresses on the side.
By this point Mark was almost at the point of tears, and had to keep sniffling to prevent them from making a true baby out of him. Nevertheless, his dominant masculine ego couldn’t endure this… He had a sinking feeling that he wasn’t even near the end, and that he would be forced into one of those dresses before it was over. Waddling precariously, falls averted only by relying on the metal arms that restrained his wrists for balance, Mark made his way over to the center of the mirror circle. It was the only place to go, even though it boded ill for what little remained of his self-esteem. No sooner than had the lion reached it than did exactly what he most feared occur. His wrist restraints disengaged suddenly and, like some kind of flying predator from above, a pair of the mechanical arms forced a pink, frilly dress made of intermingling satin and bright white silk, tickling is belly and sides as it passed over him, with a big white heart on the chest over his head and held it there until he obediently put his arms through the right holes. Another pair swiftly tied a sash around his waist, then tightened it to the point that it almost hurt. With the sash in place, it gave him the waistline of chubby little girl, the diaper puffing out from underneath the dress’s many petticoats with its red panty coverings to draw the eye. It was humiliating. Beyond humiliating. He might have been a dick, sure, but nobody deserved this…
With mirrors all around, the lion, or, judging by his looks, lioness, had nowhere to look but at himself. He could barely be recognized, his muscular, masculine body all covered up by the layers of puffy fabric, silk and satin, the padded belly and sash of the dress puffing out his midsection, giving him the air of a chubby baby with a clinched waist, his unnecessarily puffy diaper peeking out from under the flowing petticoats. To make matters worse, the entire thing was uncomfortable in the extreme. Spread as they were by the thickness of the diaper, Mark couldn’t help but waddle precariously, the bulk keeping him constantly on his hard soled shoe covered toes, constantly reminding him of the shameful, downright humiliating position he was in, the sash tightened just enough to make sure he couldn’t put it out of his mind, clinching his waist like that of a little girl from a half century ago, parents trying to prepare her for her inevitable corseted future, the shoes almost impossible to walk in, adding yet further problems to his already overtly waddling stride.
Without the loss of a moment, the restraints on Mark’s wrists re-engaged, locking fast before maneuvering him puppet-like into the middle of the circle of mirrors, where a big barber chair looking thing had risen right out of the floor to meet him. The arms with their unbreakable grip forced the sissy lion despite his protests down into the leather chair and kept him there, the arms moving out of the way before going hydraulically taught, unmovable. Mark squirmed and writhed in their grip, trying desperately to restrain himself from thinking of what might be coming next, what humiliation that this machine would torment him with this time. His answer, however, was quick in the coming. A pair of old buzzing hair trimmers descended from the ceiling, suspended at the end of two tendrils, and Mark’s heart stopped. He could get out of the clothes on his own, and getting the scent of powder and baby lotion out of his fur wouldn’t take more than a day or two, but if that thing so much as touched a hair on his head…
“My my my, Sarah, you have certainly gotten your hair all long and messy. Here, let me fix that for you!” came the mechanical voice of Sarah’s grandfather, and the humming, vibrating cutters plunged into Mark’s proud mane, now about the only thing which signified him as male. His shouts and hollers of terror and protest turned to petty whimpers as they made their way around his head, the first, bigger cutter tearing off the bulk of his hair, then the second, finer one shearing over the excess. By the end he had expected them to leave him completely bald, with the bare head of a cub, but clearly these were more insidious than that, programmed to leave just enough hair at the top of his head that it might be manipulated, styled into a girlishly pretty pair of pigtails bound by bows at the back of his head while something resembling a playful, upbeat nursery song played in the background. The worst part about all of it was the view. Covered on all sides by mirrors, and unable to look away, Mark was forced by and large to watch every action that the machine took upon his once proud mane, shearing long lines of his hair up before sucking the refuse away with a vacuum. By the end, Mark’s struggling and screaming turned to sniffling and the occasional wiggle, his pride broken.
To add insult to injury, two more of the hands descended, picking up something each from the tray next to the chair. One of them took a piece of lipstick, the second took a tin of blush. Mark couldn’t even struggle as they applied the makeup to him, that was small potatoes compared to what they had done to his mane. The lipstick was bright pink and glittery, applied in thick, broad strokes to his unwilling, but unresisting lips until they puffed up, drawing the eye to that part of his face. A pair of bright white powder puffs covered in decades old blush from a time where it was common practice to put makeup on children powdered his nose, cheeks, muzzle and forehead, the blush seeping into his fur and giving the frilly adorned lion cub the look of a full faced pout, puffy lips and blush completing the gesture. Without any regard for his consent or comfort, one of the hands jumped in and held Mark’s eyes open as the other applied a few layers of thick, heavy mascara, making his otherwise unremarkable eyelashes grow long and flowing. Looking in the mirror, there was now nothing left of Mark’s masculinity, every inch of his body now covered from head to toe with babyish, girly fluffy stuff. He almost felt pity for the centuries of girls and women that had to endure crap like this. Almost.
Almost as an afterthought the machine moved his restraints up his arm to the elbow, the free mechanical hands pulling a pair of elbow length mittens without fingers, triple stitched and nearly the thickness of a notebook onto his hand. They were heavy, and, with the force of the machine’s hydraulic motors behind them, pressed them all the way up to Mark’s bicep, his fingers turning into a fist with the pressure. He couldn’t even move them, let alone try to grasp something. Finally, to complete the image in the mirror as nothing more than an overgrown baby girl, a heavily adorned and padded frilly bonnet, rising almost a foot from the forehead, was pushed down and around Mark’s face, the elastic chinstrap pushing up his cheeks into a permanent chubby, babyish grin. Shortly after the keystone was put into place, Mark not even resisting as an oversized pacifier with a bulb about the size of a small plum was forced into his mouth and strapped behind his head. The baby lion didn’t even resist, only hanging his head in shame and begging for the horrible torment to be over.
Mark reluctantly nursed on the great bulb in his mouth, pressing between his teeth and sitting immovably in his maw, spreading it open slightly and gagging him. The arms which were fastened around his wrists, ankles, neck and waist all loosened their grips, again giving him relative freedom of movement. A quick glance around showed that the circle of mirrors was now complete, the place where he had entered having been sealed. With nowhere to go, Mark simply stood with all caution, barely able to stand, let alone walk in the ridiculously impractical getup he had been forced into, but then there was a sound like air being released from vents, and the mirror wall parted in front of him, still wobbling precariously with a spread-legged stance, the equivalent of a mattress folded up between his legs in terms of bulk.
The sissy lion wasn’t surprised in the least to find that, on the other side of the parting, there was a room that was very obviously intended to act as a little girl’s playroom. There was a napping crib with high bars in the corner, a changing table, stacks of cloth diapers next to it, a locked door on one side, a window opposite it, a high chair, an old fationed play pen with a plastic box of toys, lavender and white checkerboard shag carpet, rosy pink wallpaper with royal insignias, and no obvious way out. All the gloved hands that the machine had used to restrain him disengaged suddenly, but Mark didn’t remain free for long. In their place, a pair of tendril looking arms with big white-gloved hands came upon him from behind, the hands wrapping around his armpits to steady him as though he were a baby learning to walk and guided him across the room. Mark was almost glad for the help, considering it probably saved him the humiliation of having either to endure fall after fall onto his padded posterior, plagued by the frustration of having been reduced in stature to the level of a two year old, or the shame of having to crawl, butt in the air, like a baby. He could scarcely imagine which was worse.
All thoughts of escape gone, Mark simply suffered through as he was led over to the play pen and lifted effortlessly into it. Without the aid of the tendrils, which quickly retracted into their receptacles in the ceiling, Mark swiftly lost his balance and fell backward, his tumble cushioned by the three inches of fabric padding which swaddled his rear. Somehow it was worse than pain, and, broken and routed, Mark let out a long, exasperated sigh, eyeing the box of toys. There was no way he was going to be able to climb the pen in this outfit, and, so far as he knew, he could be in here for an hour. Might as well see if there was anything in the box that might help him escape. The mittens that his paws had been forced into made any complex play or manipulation, even of the simple latch which kept the door to his pen closed, out of the question. Instead, he simply sufficed to spill them all over the ground, the only consolation of his situation being that nobody was here to see him in his sad, sad state.
There was a creaking like old wood straining as the bar which sealed the nursery door was lifted. Mark went stern, his blood going cold. Terrifyingly, the reinforced fire door which opened into the nursery inched open, the door swinging inward so as to keep Mark out of the know for a few seconds more, though, in the back of his head, he knew it could only be one person.
“Well, well, well. Look what we’ve got, here!” Sarah said in a gaily over the top voice, grinning ferociously as she waltzed into the room, Jordan, Sara’s female panther friend from college, following close.
“Oh. My. God,” Jordan said, briefly talking in a valley girl-esque tone, “you weren’t kidding! He looks like a baby!”
Mark’s face burned with real shame as they stood and laughed at him, the lion doing whatever he could, which was very little, to cover himself, but anything he covered simply revealed something elsewhere. They laughed down at him, Sarah leaning against the door, Jordan hopping over the fence to get a closer look at him.
“Awww, is the widdle baby feeling playful?” Sarah said, flipping up an archaic control panel with actual dials and levers next to the door. She hit a few buttons, and Mark’s eyes went wide, suddenly feeling like washer brushes were dancing over his belly and sides. Left sensitive by whatever soap had been used on him during the washing, Mark fell backwards, instantly squirming ab out on the ground as whatever insidious mechanisms had been built into his dress tickled him silly. To make matters worse, he had been using soda breaks as a way to shirk work all day, and his full bladder fought him tooth and nail for release. The little lion in the dress’s cries of alarm and pleas for mercy turned to whimpers as his bladder gave way spazmatically, the heavy padding on the front of his diaper absorbing the hot urine, every movement squishing it around, contained only by his frilly plastic panties, making him feel just how soaked it really was. The tickling gradually ground to a halt as Sarah realized what he had done, and, after a few moments had passed, climbed into the pen and knelt next to her boyfriend, who was sobbing, and looked mere seconds from bursting out into full throated tears. “Sucks, doesn’t it?” she said, gently moving Mark’s quivering face so he looked at her, “now you know what I had to go through every day my mother left me here,” she laughed, and pulled up Mark’s petticoats, both the feline girls giggling at his discolored and clearly soaked diaper.
“I see princess Mila needs a diaper change,” Jordan said, actually going so far as to put one finger down the front, as though the state of his diaper wasn’t clearly obvious. Mark wiggled, helpless to prevent her.
“Jordan,” Sarah said, as though reminding her of something. Jordan stood, and left the pen, leaving Mark and Sarah alone. “Before you start crying, know that I’ve been exactly where you are, and I know all about how small and frustrated you feel right now,” she said, grinning a bit, “but don’t pretend you don’t deserve it. I know you hit on other girls, I know you deliberately go out of your way to frustrate me…” she shrugged, “that ends today.”
For the first time, Mark saw past Sarah, and what Jordan was doing. She had pulled out her cellphone camera and the recording light was on. That was too much for the little lion, who gasped, pushing backward from Sarah a few paces before finding himself in the corner with nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide. Then the tears came, running like a torrent down his face, followed by a quiet sobbing. It completed the final stroke, leaving Mark little more than a frustrated, displeased little baby, but Sarah wasn’t merciless, and sat down next to him, hefting the bawling lion’s wet head into her lap and stroking what little remained of his mane.
“It’s okay…. It’s okay…” she cooed in his ear, letting the comfort of her words sink in, then whispered, “from now on, you’re going to be the most perfect, loving, obedient boyfriend a girl could imagine.” Sarah felt Mark shiver, but didn’t stop stroking, “all the smugness, all the arrogance, all that stops today… you wouldn’t want this to wind up on the internet, would you?”
Mark whimpered sucking his pacifier for all the comfort it would give, and felt himself sink. She had him by the balls with this, and there was nothing he could possibly do.
“But you don’t have to worry,” Sarah said, keeping her calming baby voice, and nuzzled her sissy boyfriend’s ear, “I’m not going to use this to be mean… just to keep our relationship fair, alright?” There was a long silence as Mark sobbed out the rest of his sadness into his girlfriend’s lap, shivering with shame and the knowledge that he had been cornered… Mark would do anything to keep this from getting out. As he regained some posture, sitting up against the wall in his dress, Jordan and Sarah stood, “you’re going to be staying here for the weekend,” she said, looking very matter of fact, “Jordan and I will check in on you occasionally, but I’ve set the room to take good care of you,” the Jaguar bent over, and kissed her terrified boyfriend on the forehead, then the two girls, heavy with a total victory, left the room, and its occupant, locking the door behind them. Even before the door had fully shut, the nursery seemed to sense the sad state of Mark’s diaper, and, as his girlfriend left him to his punishment, the lion felt strong hands picking him up under the arms, carrying him to the first of many diaper changes over the weekend.