Irony Incarnate part 2/3
Creeo had never been happier. He felt so snug… snug and warm. It was a happy place, sleeping on a cloud. He wiggled a bit, trying to pull the wool sheet tighter around him. It all felt so… familiar, like some perfect place he had once been, but had forgotten. 
Whatever, it didn’t matter. All Creeo cared about, was that he was warm, he was comfortable, his diaper hadn’t leaked, and his pacifier was exactly where it belonged. Creeo had never been happier. 
…
…
…
Wait, what? The baby raccoon, or, rather, toddler raccoon dressed as a baby, snapped one eye open with enough force to shake the ground, “Whaaghha gawwaann awwwn?” he said, the bulbous nipple of his pacifier perfectly sized, Rebecca knew her way around children, was just big enough to fill his short muzzle, but not big enough to choke him, or damage his teeth. Furthermore, when he tried to spit the thing out, his mouth seemed to act nothing like normal, it felt long, fat and heavy, as though he’d never used it before. To make matters worse, when he tried to reach his arm up and pull the wet, latex bulb out of his mouth, he finally realized how hopelessly tangled he was. Creeo had always been a wiggly sleeper, but this was a different story altogether. He had been constantly grabbing at the sheets in his sleep, trying to pull them closer, rolling over, and repeating the process, cocooning himself in the sheet four layers thick. 
He gasped and wiggled, his handiwork had succeeded in producing a very tight and almost totally restrictive ball of fabric in every direction. As though his confinement wasn’t enough, Creeo’s brain seemed to find the cocoon to be the height of safety and comfort, despite his rational, adult mind’s protests that this was rather closer to the height of danger and distress. For all his squirming, he was, for the foreseeable future, completely and wholly tucked away in the little bundle. 
Despite the best intentions of his suppressive, invading emotions, Creeo was soon overcome by a sensation he had never felt before: powerlessness. Clearly enough, one cannot know what it is to be free unless they, too, have known helplessness. Now he knew, and he resented every moment of it. When wiggling yielded no results, Creeo felt his lip start to quiver, and his eyes shut tight. He sniveled a few times, then it all came out in a burst. A protracted, wailing cry, evolved specifically to be heard from long distances, and deafen anyone in close proximity, even Creeo was surprised by the level of raw emotion built into the cry, and it didn’t stop. He had intended only to call for help, now the tears were rolling and he was wailing like a newborn. What was this?
He didn’t know how long he was crying there, but, by the time he saw something towering over him, both the sheets under his face, and the ones between his legs, were soaking wet, “Oh hush, there’s nothing wrong with you,” came a voice, extremely large but comforting, despite the harsh words. 
With a deep, satisfied sense of relief, Creeo finally felt the entrapping sheets loosen. His sobbing turned to sniveling, which eventually disappeared altogether. He blinked a few times, looking up at the big figure above him, some sort of giant… it looked fifty feet tall! “Whaa whass goin on?” He managed, rubbing his eyes with his now freed hands, and felt his heart stop for a square dozen beats. 
The sound Creeo made when he saw his tiny, furry paws was as far from the crying he had elicited earlier, as dropping a pin was from ringing a church bell. For a second the great, fifty foot giant stepped back in surprise, Creeo falling into yet another crying fit.
“Oh, be quiet. What’s got you so worked up?” the giant said, and picked him up, one hand under his soggy behind and one hand supporting his head. He squirmed valiantly, desperate to escape, and almost managed to wriggle out of her grip, but the giant, Rebecca of course, knew how to handle a fussy cub, “Oh jeeze, you’re wet. What did you drink last night, buddy?” she said in full caretaker mode, still too asleep to fully take in that this was Creeo Orbis in her paws. “Oh, come on, fussy. Here, this’ll calm you down,” she cradled him in one arm and bent over to pick up his pacifier, which had fallen out during the night, and slipped it back between his quivering lips. Almost instantly he curled up around it, the fit starting to die down. 
Creeo suckled for a bit, until his eyes fell almost shut, lazy and content. For all it tried, the little raccoon, once human, couldn’t even begin to claw his way through the pleasurable haze that had descended upon his mind. Rebecca took one look at the soaked sheets, and his full diaper, and shook her head, “Looks like I’m gonna need to double you up… Creeo,” she said, head slowly shaking as she came to grips with the situation. She was fairly confident that there was no specific law forbidding the, cross species transformation and age regression of a student, but it could easily enough be called attempted murder, given the experimental nature of the serum, and Rebecca had no intention of spending the next fifteen to twenty years inside a prison cell, and giving the radical anti-therians even more political rocks to throw at the cause. No. She had to get Creeo on her side, or else… or else she would simply have to leave him the way he was. 
Rebecca sighed, “Come on, little guy. You can’t be comfortable in that thing,” she gave the front of his diaper a squeeze, and watched him squirm and look up at her, not Creeo at all… just a baby. Well, toddler, anyway. The grey husky clenched her teeth, and pulled two fresh diapers from where she had stashed them beside the couch. She hadn’t changed a diaper in a good long time, but the habit was still there. Raccoon Creeo was a heavy wetter, and, until she could get herself some thicker diapers, Rebecca was stuck with what she had. 
Rebecca set Creeo down on the coffee table, along with the two diapers and the talcum powder. The table had a glass top, but, just for safety, she slipped an old towel from the bathroom under him. Next, she tore the inch wide tape on either side of his diaper, and pulled the flooded thing out from under him, “Creeo, will you sit still and let me change you?!”
Creeo did not sit still and let her change him. The little raccoon didn’t know why, but he was angry, and he wanted to make this big, sweet smelling giant fight for every inch it got on him. Rebecca, however, knew her way around a squirmy child, and pinned his legs apart with one arm, wiping down his urine smelling loins with a cool fabric swab, then pulled up his legs, and pushed the first diaper underneath him. In a second she had powdered him, and taped the diaper snugly around his waist, but she wasn’t done. Rebecca used one of her manicured claws and cut two parallel slits along the length of the diaper’s plastic backing, and pushed the second diaper underneath him, taping it in place as well and furthering the comparison between the little raccoon’s butt and a balloon. Finally, she pulled his limp tail, still to heavy for him to move, through the hole in the back and sealed that shut, as well. 
Creeo, arms crossed and pouting, averted his eyes from Rebecca and suckled on his pacifier, “Ah duhn need diapews,” he said from behind the pacifier. The raccoon’s eyes went wide, and he slowly, ever so dramatically, turned his head back to face Rebecca, who was staring down at him with a poker face. He spat the pacifier out to one side, and a vein literally pulsed out of his forehead in a cartoonish manner. “What da fuck did you do to me?”
Rebecca couldn’t help but smile down at him, a baby, and one of the beasts that he so hated, the irony might just kill him if she wasn’t careful, “I’ll show you,” she said, her voice level, and picked up Creeo, one hand under each arm. He struggled a bit, but ultimately could do nothing, not even able to scratch through the husky’s thick fur. She carried Creeo into the bathroom, where the whole side of the room opposite the shower had been mirror plated. She purposely didn’t let him get a look at himself until she chose to, and, facing the shower, she slowly turned around, the baby raccoon, naked but for a double thick diaper, held facing away from her at about chest level.
Creeo didn’t scream, or start to cry, or even speak. Instead, Rebecca simply felt every muscle in his body go completely taught. She brought him closer to the mirror, letting him properly see himself for the first time. As though to confirm what his eyes were telling him, he stuck out a tiny little paw to touch the mirror, then looked at his reflection through blurry eyes, trying to comprehend. Creeo Orbis, flame of the insurgency, was indisputably a raccoon, a baby Therian, and all the cute eyes and puffy tails that that involves. 
Shuddering, he turned his head to face Rebecca as best he could, “D-did you do this...?” Rebecca nodded. 
“I’m not sorry, Creeo. You made me do this,” she was overcome by conflicting emotions, one part of her wanted to hold the cub close, protective, the other wanted to cast the little terror off the high rise balcony.
He sniveled a bit, trying to fight off the tears, “I… I don’t want to be an animal…” Rebecca, having mercy, shifted Creeo into a cradling position where he could lie in at least moderate comfort, “Y-you can change me back, right? Please, I’ll do anything!” 
“Not with an attitude like that,” Rebecca replied, and set Creeo down on the floor outside the bathroom, leaving him to find his balance on his own.
“H-hey!” he said, and tried to take a waddling step forward, but, thanks in part to his doubled padding, and utter greenness regarding his new, digitgraded legs, he made it a grand total of a foot before over-balancing, trying to keep his footing, and falling flat onto his hands and knees for his trouble, bubble butt held high in the air for all to see, “I c-can’t even walk… ”
“Then crawl,” Rebecca said, sitting down on her black leather couch and, with a flick of a universal remote, turned on the 7:00 AM news. Face hot with shame, Creeo moved one dark grey paw forward, and followed up with the knee on the same side, then repeated with the other side of his body. It was much easier than walking, though his ballooning diapered bottom still swayed back and forth. Creeo sighed, and continued making his steady progress across the room towards Rebecca, keeping up the guise of indifference. It was obvious that she was watching, and enjoying every cute, waddling moment of the little raccoon’s suffering, until he reached the couch. The couch and loveseat were set up around a glass coffee table, and the design was clearly intended to give maximum viewership for the 72’ flat screen LCD television that was one of Rebecca’s only vanities.  
Creeo reared up onto his wobbly hind legs, gripping the glass table for balance, and looked up at the huge television, an intimidating wall of moving light from where the young cub was looking. He spoke, “Woah, it’s like… half as big as the one in my room,” always the silver tongue. 
“Take a seat,” Rebecca replied, never taking her eyes off the screen, “they’re debating bill 294,” and gestured to the two free seats on the couch. Creeo made a hmph noise, but went silent after he realized who they were, and what bill 294 was. While refusal to serve therians at one’s business had now been deemed a civil rights violation, refusing to hire them on grounds of sanitation, or of fear for the good of one’s business, was still legal. Bill 294 was intended to void that right.
As much as Creeo hated Rebecca, and HATED bill 294, he wasn’t about to miss watching it get shot down so long as there was a color television and cable at his disposal. He wandered over to the leather couch, intent on being comfortable as he rubbed its failure in Rebecca’s face.
When the little ringtail reached the edge of the couch, however, he soon realized there was a problem. He had been put to bed about the size of a three year old, and would easily have been able to climb onto the couch. Now, however, his head barely topped the cushion. He had gotten even shorter. Shit. Sighing, Creeo looked down at his paws. He had claws, and they looked built for climbing. He put his arms over his head, little claws out, and…
“If I find one hole in my leather, you are so getting spanked,” Creeo’s arms stopped an inch from the surface, all his muscles gone rigid, he slowly looked up at Rebecca… she was so much bigger than him… Creeo very slowly retracted his claws, and sat, berated, down cross legged on the floor, looking up at the screen. Rebecca sighed, and looked down at him. Babysitting wisdom told her that she’d have one seriously unhappy baby on her hands if he sat with his neck like that, “If you ask nicely, I’ll help you up here with me.”
“Fuck you,” Creeo replied, trying to angle his head to see without having the glass table in his way.
Rebecca, clearly having expected this remark sooner or later, promptly yanked Creeo up onto the table, and gave him a firm swat on the diapered behind. The plastic backing made the not insubstantial smack resound like a thunderclap. Creeo yowled, and hissed between his teeth at Rebecca, who held him in place with one hand on his back, and the other ready to spank. 
“Spank me again and you are so getting bitten,” Creeo hissed again, rumbling like an upset cat. Rebecca, however, knew her way around small children.
“Bite me and I’ll leave you here, little furry butt all red and stinging, swaddled, in front of the telletubbies for an hour. Come on, bite me, fluffy.” Creeo’s eyes went wide. Up until now, the raccoon hadn’t ever imagined a fate worse than death. It was now clear and obvious to him that such existed, and it couldn’t have been summarized better. 
“Y-you wouldn’t…” He mumbled, breathing hard and trying to subtly wiggle free of Rebecca’s restraining hand.
“Apologize,” Rebecca said, stern, and pressing Creeo almost onto his belly, powerless to resist.
“You’re a bitch!” he squeaked, and got another hard spanking on the buttocks for his troubles.
“You’re really testing my patience. Now apologize, or do I have to set up the stroller, and take you around the block like this. Hmmm?” This last threat was too much for Creeo, and he went limp, not fighting Rebecca any longer.
“S-sorry,” he said, under his breath. Rebecca scooped him up, and depositied the little raccoon with a sore bottom right back onto the floor, right where he had been a few minutes earlier.
“Now, where did that get you?” Rebecca knew she was probably being harsher than she had to, but she damned the expense, the point had to be made. She was in charge, Creeo was powerless. If he wanted anything, anything at all, he would have to go through her. As a Parthian shot, the grey husky picked up Creeo’s pacifier, which had fallen from his mouth, and popped it back between his lips where it belonged. He didn’t resist, only sulking in shame and anger, ears drooping, at the corner of the couch.
Rebecca completely ignored him, as she knew she had to, and waited for his inevitable submission. It took longer than she had expected, but it happened. After about five minutes sobbing in the corner, Creeo spoke, or, rather, tried to speak with his muzzle full of pacifier, “Awwwight, hewp me uwp,” he said, not looking at her.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” Rebecca looked down at him, “I didn’t hear you.” Being a dog, Rebecca heard him very well, she just wasn’t done humiliating him. Asking wasn’t enough, he had to ask properly.
Creeo knew what he had to do, his eyes showed it, they also begged for mercy. The two stared at one another for a few seconds, before Creeo’s head finally drooped, “Owwwkawww, yow win. Pwease?” He gave her the best sad puppy eyes he could muster, and, for the first time Creeo had ever seen, Rebecca’s smile was one of warm affection, instead of sadistic pleasure.
“Sure, bud,” the change in her demeanor was striking, almost bipolar. She picked Creeo up without a struggle, comfortably with one hand under each arm, and sat him down on her lap, arresting his attempt to crawl off onto the couch proper, “Woah, where ya’ going?” she said with a giggle, and pulled him into a hug against her chest.
“Pwease, leme… gah,” Creeo spat out the pacifier onto his lap, tired of having to speak around it, comforting as it was, “Please, I can sit on my own.”
“Not on my couch, cutie bum. You’d tear it to itty bitty bits with claws like that,” she laughed and flipped Creeo onto his back by a foot, then inspected his winning nails, not manicured to a civilized standard like Rebecca’s, his were wild and unkempt, and every sharp, “Not until I can get those killers filed down, anyway. You’re like a little bandit!” 
Rebecca had wholly dropped the guise of hate, and was well overcome by all the positives of caring for a child. Snickering at the wiggly cub, she put her years of practice to use on Creeo’s ticklish belly, his squirming instantly doubled, and his diaper growing wet in the front once more as he laughed hysterically. He didn’t even seem to notice, and, when she stopped, looking into the little coon’s eyes, there was no racist asshole there, just a happy little child who was enjoying a good tickling, but that didn’t last, and, soon, he flushed deeply, pouted, and assumed a sitting posture on Rebecca’s left leg. He wasn’t going anywhere, but just to be safe she kept her arms wrapped around the little cub at all times. “Wouldn’t want you falling and bonking your little head, now would we.”
Creeo ignored the remark, and looked up at the television. It showed the continental parliament, a full house. Now that the therians had the vote, nobody who valued their career was about to skip out on this call. The house was divided into two sections, the upper and lower, going by physical height of the oak bleacher seats, not level of power or authority. The house was made up of 200 members, elected by demographic region, half of which came from the former nation of Canada, and the rest from the former nation of the United States. In the center, and off to the far end was the house speaker, who, like a court justice, was tasked with keeping order within the house, and casting a tie breaking ballet if the need arose. 
“Ohhh, look,” Rebecca said to Creeo, and lightly nuzzled his head, “lets watch. I want to see your daddy get his butt kicked,” she giggled, and looked up at the huge television. The camera briefly focused on the two parties of the debate as they walked down to the speaker’s platform, ready to debate. After the therians had been given the vote, a small community in the province of New York, which had been built to be exclusively inhabited by the anthropomorphic population (though their human supporters were welcomed, as well), ballooned to city status, and, with a petition, had been granted the rank of a represented riding. The representative, chosen by unanimous public vote, had been Mark Chutski, a hot burning flame of the civil rights movement’s old guard, and a rhetorical expert for the ages. From the other side of the house came Creeo’s father. Political bias, party politics, everything had been set aside for this one day. The economy didn’t matter. Political inequality was irrelevant. Illegal immigration and crime were small fish. The spearheads of two radical, jump shoot social enigmas were about to collide, Creeo’s heart was beating out of his chest, and he could feel Rebecca’s, mere inches behind his head, doing the same.
The speaker spoke, and introduced the contenders. It was one, and in this corner, away from a boxing match. Creeo’s father, Dexter Orbis, an elderly man of sixty years that still had the energy and stance of a twenty year old, ran his ring adorned hands through his short cropped, grey, impeccably, artistically rendered hair, then pulled his coat closer around him, the trimmed orange Italian fabric gave him a striking, plutocratic look, and not just because the suit cost more than most people’s homes.
Mark Chutski, a wolf in wolf’s clothing, cut an entirely different figure. He stood an imperial foot over Orbis, and barely kept from raising his lupin hackles and growling at him. He, too, was wearing a suit, if heavily modified. Despite how dreadfully uncomfortable they looked, Chutski even wore a pair of something resembling leather dress shoes. Anything for appearances, it seemed. Despite his best efforts, the wolf’s fur all stood out and on end, especially on his tail, which floated slowly back and forth behind him, as good as two dominant males, ready to fight to the death. 
Without even the drop of a flag, the two began assaulting each other in the most polite, diplomatic terms available. They were a perfect contrast, in both appearances and style, Orbis’s solid wall of sophistry and keen political jabs, metaphors, met in the middle of the room with Chutski’s hard logic, and historical precedent. It was a bar brawl fought with words, with the occasional pint mug thrown across the room. The debate went back and forth, as with any fight, Chutski had the upper hand right out of the gates, even Creeo had to admit one or two of his arguments had merit. Gradually, however, Orbis’s studied, aristocratic calm seemed to win the day. The study of Therian instinct was hotly debated, but Chutski’s wolfish mannerisms soon showed through. When, for example, he requested that Dexter stop referring to him by the derogatory, beast, and his request was denied, the wolf, for all his effort, couldn’t stop himself from growling.
“Mister Speaker, are you sure I’m safe here? Might I suggest a muzzle?” Orbis offered, smiling good naturedly and opening his arms in a gesture to the great number of those, both representatives and common audience, who had begun to laugh at the wolf’s expense. 
“Mister Orbis, that is quite enough. Quite enough of that. They are not animals, are you, Mister Chutski?” the speaker, a large black man, said, despite clearly trying hard to conceal his own amusement at the jab.
“No, sir,” Chutski growled out from behind clenched teeth, and the debate continued for another hour or more, Creeo’s diaper growing progressively wetter and squishier. He paid no attention, not willing to lose concentration for a moment.
At last, the debate had consumed even the considerable reserves of time and energy that both sides had brought to the table, and, with a bow, both returned to their seats. A vote was called, and the two hundred men stood, and walked in file down to the platform. Each had two coins, a solid one: in favor, and one with a single hole in the middle: against.   
The votes were counted while some minor business was discussed, the tention almost visible between the husky and the raccoon as the verdict came forward in an envelope. The speaker, a Mr. Jackson, opened it and read the contents in a cold, deep voice.
“The vote has been taken, and ruled in favor of the opp…” the TV shut off. Creeo had been watching so long that his eyes were dazzled when it went dark. He blinked a few times, and only then noticed Rebecca hugging him tightly, very close to her bosom. He, himself was a bag of mixed emotions. The ever present child was happy about being hugged, whereas the adult Creeo was happy because of the bill’s failure.
In a moment of confusion, the little raccoon was wondering why his head felt wet, only then did he notice Rebecca’s sobbing, and the tears that were rolling down her muzzle, “Another failure…” she said between the snivels, “I hope you’re happy about this, Creeo…” As much as he wanted to smirk, he couldn’t, “because guess who that law applies to,” it took a moment for Creeo to realize that she meant him.
“W-wait… you said you could turn me back!” he said, suddenly shaking very violently.
“Why should I? Give it fifteen, twenty years. Maybe that’ll change your mind.”
“N-no! No, you can’t do this to me!” He began again, but was cut short by a pacifier being shoved in his muzzle. Rebecca rolled over onto one side, still sniveling, and held Creeo close to her upper chest, slowly whispering in his ear.
“It’s okay, little one. It’s okay…” she kept stroking him, and cooing for a while. Creeo, a furry arm blocking him from spitting out the pacifier, simply sat and listened as she cried, her salty tears rolling down to meet him, “Years of work…” It soon became obvious that she wasn’t trying to comfort him, but herself. They just sat there a while, on the couch, until both of their emotional states left critical levels.
By that point, Creeo’s diaper was thoroughly soaked, and potentially, he couldn’t quite tell, messy, as well, and he was hungry. He wiggled a bit, Rebecca didn’t try to restrain him any longer. Spitting out the pacifier, he lightly nuzzled her breast, “Miss Rebecca?” the cub in him was talking as much as the adult, “I’m hungry… and I think I need a change…” his every move squished around the contents of his doubled diaper, and he knew by the smell and weight that it was full.
Realizing that she had neglected her basic duties as a caregiver, Rebecca sat up, stoic, and carried Creeo over to their improvised changing station, disposing of his diaper and cleaning him up. He was messy, after all. His next diaper was only a single, and he could toddle, at least.
“What would you like to eat, hon?” she asked, setting Creeo down, happy to be out of the soaked diaper, onto one of her modern, chrome dining chairs.
“Anything… as long as it’s not trash,” he said, faking a smile. Somehow Rebecca’s rotten mood had infected him, too, and he was desperate to lighten the mood.
“I’m sure I can do better than that, sweetie,” she, too, forced a laugh, and the silence deepened. Eventually, after a few odd suggestions, Creeo consented to eggs and bacon, which, despite considering himself of the upper elite, he lusted for. Rebecca, having grown up on frugal rations, knew how to make cheap food taste good, and her current means were far from frugal. The two sat down across from each other on the husky’s round steel table. It had a big hole in the middle, because apparently things need to be impractical to be considered modern.
Even Creeo, who failed to reach even the height of the table, wasn’t disappointed when he was fed on Rebecca’s lap. She seemed to have forgotten who it was she was sitting, and had gotten caught up in the old routine of child management she had mastered so well. The food was terrific, even by Creeo’s standards, and, by the end of his breakfast, he sagged, sleepy and content on Rebecca’s leg, belly full, diaper starting to grow warm. 
Rebecca loved kids, and she was good with them. She knew exactly what to do with a small child on a Saturday morning, and, even if Creeo wasn’t your average small child, maybe it would raise the mood a bit. 
She hummed with satisfaction at the droopy eyed cub, and carried him gently back out into the living room, then turned the television back on, this time to Saturday morning cartoons. Creeo, of course, in the normal model of a one year old who had just been fed, was fast asleep by this point, but the husky was in need of some cheering up, and, with the addition of a little cuddly ‘coon to cuddle, she figured she would do alright.