Psudo Argyraspides
www.Furaffinity.net/user/Gamestreamer
Game.streamer@Hotmail.com

	Final Wordcount: 4,980 Words	
Toy Factory
By Psudo Argyraspides

Commissioned by www.furaffinity.net/user/Thelostone

 “Ughhh, I can’t believe you made me come to this stupid place,” the temperamental seventeen year old dragon said, arms crossed like a pouty toddler and red scales all flared up like a cat’s fur, trying and succeeding to look as dissatisfied as possible. 
“Dean,” the dragon’s mother said, taking him by the wrist and leading him deeper into the toy factory, his younger female sibling having already run ahead to see the next exhibit, “we’re not here for you, we’re here for your sister, and this is a family outing, which means that, like it or not, you’re not going anywhere. That’s final.”
“But mom!” Dean moaned, trying to pull away from her grip, “this is humiliating! And I don’t care if it’s a family outing, this is a frigging toy factory! You expect me to sit through all this crap just to make my brat of a sister happy?”
“I don’t expect you to, that’s the way it is. Now if I hear one more complaint out of you, you’re losing your phone for a week. Understand?” The dragon quietly acquiesced, probably able, but unwilling to pull his wrist out of his mother’s grip. She was a tall dragoness, taller than him, but not as wide about the arms, legs and chest. That said, she also paid for his… everything, so, unfortunate as it was, he would be forced to obey her.
“Mommy! Mommy! Come lookit over here! The tour is starting!” Dean’s little sister, Talla, said, four years old and still with her diapers, Dean’s favorite thing to mock about her, peeking out from underneath her short dress. 
“Did you hear your sister, Dean? The tour is starting. We wouldn’t want to be late,” the last few words of his mother’s comment had so much venom in them that he didn’t dare complain or question in, and, peeved though he was, allowed himself to be led across the concrete factory floor to where a tall, lanky looking black feline, a bit shy of forty by the looks of her, stood on a podium in front of five or ten other people and their children that had come to tour the grand re-opening of the Magitech production facility, a newly renamed, reorganized, and thoroughly modernized toy factory built on the grave of a vastly older factory who’s history stretched as far back as the eighteen hundreds. 
“Welcome, welcome, all!” the black feline said in carnival ringmaster fashion, and introduced herself as Angela Howell, the current CEO of Magitech incorporated, and gave a stately bow. “I welcome you all to the grand opening of our new facility, which, starting this very evening, will begin to churn out dolls and toys, for girls and boys, to see their joys, it is my calling.” Dean rolled his eyes and rubbed the sides of his head as the feline spoke, often using confusing wordplay and rhymes in her speech, and went into a long and drawn out explanation of the founding of the factory on this very spot by Angela’s great, great grandmother, and how the secrets of a child’s happiness had been passed down in her family ever since. With the history lesson out of the way, she then outlined her own personal philosophy, explaining that toys were the bridge between the ages, of how a doll or toy truck could bring out the inner child in any truck, if it were properly made, and administered correctly. The dragon, who kept well to the back so his grunts of distaste, yawns, eye-rollings and face palming weren’t too obvious, mostly to avoid his mother’s anger than out of any sense of shame, and sat out the speech in boredom, frustration and dull monotony. “And now, I invite you all to tour my family’s personal museum, built out of the only remaining part of the original brickwork factory, and see all the relics of the ages brought to life. Also, parents, please do not let your children touch any of the pieces. Some of these are a hundred years old, and are all very valuable. 
At the mention of value, there was something of a gleam in Dean’s eye. He didn’t consider himself a petty thief, he was above that, but an expert heist of a valuable item, whatever it was? That kind of story he could get behind. After all, it was the least that the feline on the podium could do for getting him stuck in this crap pit, bored out of his scales. 
The attached museum was mainly thin hallways, and the dragon was pleased to see that, not only were there no cameras, but also no glass panels, just velvet ropes. Each of the toys, ranging from wooden dolls and carts that went back to the turn of the 19th century to modern plastic children’s toys each had their own pedestal, and a bronze plaque explaining their importance. The group quickly spread out, and Dean kept a specific eye on the feline, who watched him curiously back as she went to her blinded office across the hall. He waited for all the people to scatter, parents occupied with keeping kids from rubbing grubby hands all over valuable items to watch the drake as he casually looked over the room, bent over the velvet rope, and plucked a pink baby girl’s doll circa 1955 off its shelf and stuffed it into his sweater pocket for later removal. The shelf was right behind a velvet rope stand, and hence might be overlooked for longer. He craned his long neck around behind him before turning, both hands tucked into his sweater pocket to hide the bulge, and caught a glimpse of slitted feline eyes behind blinds, watching him, as he turned back around. The dragon considered putting the toy back and abandoning the heist in the hopes that he might still get away with it later, but, in any case, Angela left her office a moment later, and didn’t approach him about it. My good luck pulls me thorough, he thought with a smirk, already counting the shiny dollars in his head, as always.
“Now, if you’ll all follow me, the gift shop is right on the other side of the factory. From here to there, you’ll see all the specifics of how our wondrous machines crank out the world’s best and most fun toys, all day, all night. With a little magic, this place could make even the sternest adult feel young at heart.” Without another word, Angela turned and led the group, Dean included, across the factory and into the gift shop by the parking lot at the other end. The dragon lagged behind somewhat, his mother occupied in containing his sister’s excitement at seeing where her favorite dollies were made, intending to let the CEO, who clearly had suspicions of him, occupy herself with the other adults and children while he slipped away and stashed the doll for later retrieval. Dean was twenty or so paces behind the group when they all passed through the door to the gift shop, Angela holding the door for them all, then watched the black feline’s eyes twinkle as she looked at him, walking hands in pockets towards her, smirk a smile that had sinister written all over it, then took two steps into the gift-shop and closed the door, locking him in the factory floor.
“Hey, wait up!” Dean shouted, speeding up as the door shut, but stopped in confusion as he heard his voice. That wasn’t his voice… he had a deep, rumbling bass, fit for an adult dragon, though it did still crack occasionally. What echoed back to him against the concrete walls wasn’t his voice, or even an adult voice… he was squeaking like his sister. “Wha- what’s wrong with my voice?!” the dragon gasped, hands going to his neck, and began jogging towards the door, feeling sloppy and uncoordinated, his muscles not doing as he told them. Each awkward footstep seemed to cover less distance than the last, and, after only five more steps, he tripped over his enlarged shoes, and had to grip his trousers with both hands to keep them from falling down around his ankles. “HEEELLLPP!!!” the dragon shouted, desperately crawling forward on all fours as he literally shrunk out of his clothes, his precious scales and spines which he valued as much as life itself seeming to shrink with him, the pointy spikes and horns on his back and head disappearing into him altogether. When he looked up, arms and legs caught up in his shed clothes, things that had previously been at waist height now towered above him, the once proud, vain flying reptile now no larger than a hatchling with bits of egg still clinging to his hide, armored scales now little more than thin, skintight texture on his skin. 
Entrapped in a web of his own clothes, Dean shook and thrashed desperately to get free of them, even using his claws and teeth, but it did no good. Hatchling teeth weren’t nearly sharp enough to pierce the thick fabric, and, only after much frustration and fight, did he manage to get free, naked as the day he was born, from the confines of his own clothes. A weak body being controlled by a hectic and disordered was in little position to move, and, as he tried to rise to his feet and get a bead on things, the baby dragon managed only to flop backwards and onto the pile of garments he had created, but abandoned. Then the claw came.
It wasn’t a claw like his had been, sharp and deadly weapons, useful tools, but a machine of the factory, one of those giant circular clamp arms that were used to lift telephone poles out of the ground, or, in this case, hold baby dolls upright while they were produced. Dean tried to scream, to call for help, anything, but all the sounds that exited his maw were hatchling whimpers, unintelligible, and the next thing he knew the claw-clamp had closed to a skintight fit around his waist, and lifted him as though he weighed as little as a newborn, which he did, up off the ground. More whimpers and sobs left his muzzle as he was suspended in midair over a conveyer belt, toes dangling uselessly a few inches above the belt, and was slowly dragged on forward, towards the dark tunnel of the processing machine, then dropped him right before he reached the point of no return, a pitch black machine opening that clearly boded ill for whoever was sucked inside, then experienced being sucked away from a shrinking square of light as the conveyer belt sucked him in, then slowed down inexplicably. Dean tried to crawl for the exit, which continued to shrink into the distance, then felt the hands, or at least they felt like hands, grabbing at him. One flipped the helpless little dragon onto his back, then pressed down on his stomach, pinning him to the now stopped belt for all the kicking and screaming he could do. It pressed and pressed, more arms joining in and grabbing at his arms and legs before squeezing and pushing releasing the pressure, only to squeeze him again in weird places, his feet, his arms, his chest, not even his face escaped the treatment. It was tickling, squishy, intensely uncomfortable procedure for the little hatchie, but not at all painful, strangely enough, only feeling intensely violating and fundamentally wrong, as though he were made of warm plastic, clay or rubber, or something of that like, and was being molded into submission.
When the arms finally finished having their way with him, Dean was even less mobile than before. His limbs and body, which, after only being shrunk, had at least felt more or less proportionate. But now he felt fat and bloated, arms and limbs short and stocky, weighed down by unnecessary baby fat that the machine had somehow squished him into. When he was finally plucked back into the light, and promptly picked back up by the hanging claw at the waist, Dean got a look at himself in some mirror plated steel, and couldn’t even gasp in astonishment at how he looked, far beyond speechless. He was the spitting image of how his sister had looked as a baby, full, blushing chubby cheeks accentuating his stocky, hornless, crestless head. He was scaleless, or might as well have been, given what passed for scales with a hatchling. His once proud, masculine, armored plates about his shoulders, neck and back had been transformed into the slightly hardened skintight hide of a hatchling. And it didn’t even fit tightly! He could clearly see his every ounce of baby fat, shown out at his belly, his hips, his face, his butt, even his arms and legs were covered by a thick layer of babyish chub. But the changes didn’t stop there. His horns, talons, claws and spines had all been removed, either by groping machines or by the magic that had shrunk him, and only the forehead nubs of a newly born female remained. Whatever had done this to him hadn’t, thank whatever powers there were, turned him into a girl, he had checked, and would have likely never emerged from the fit of crying that would have ensued if it had.
The claw drew him ever onward, facing forward, and, with an air of appending doom, he watched helplessly as his baby body was pulled up to a long line of blank dolls, each being dragged into a booth-like machine and coming out the other end painted in glorious baby pink and red. The dragon struggled and whimpered and cried for help, but in vain, and when it was his turn, the arm rushed him squirming inside. Rows upon rows of precision pressure jets lined the sides of the walls, and seemed to move and wiggle in their sockets to aim at his squirming body. Then they began to spray with the pressure of garden hose nozzles set to mist, and pressure dusted the squirming drake with pastel pink paint, the color of a little girl’s blush powder. The liquid pooled on and under his pitiful scales, seemingly the density of liquid plastic, as opposed to just paint, and, for all he squirmed, it coated him thoroughly and many times, further weighing down the little hatchie’s tired and chubby limbs. More of the hoses, escorted by mechanical arms, wormed their way out from above and below him. Two took to coating his backside, tail up, with bright red, as though he’d just been spanked, and a third came down from above and got right in his face, pouring out liquid rosy plastic onto his lips, which quickly hardened into a permanent suckling baby face, and silenced his cries. 
“Mmmmm…?!” the babified dragon said, squirming uselessly against the clamp around his face, then, against any will of his own, squealed, “M-maammaa! Maamaa!” like one of his sister’s baby dolls who’s string had just been pulled. For all his squirming his plastified limbs simply refused to move in any useful way, and soon enough he was compulsively chanting, “Momma!” over and over again, just like the baby girl’s toy that he now resembled. Gone was his resonant, if still a bit crackly teenage dragon’s voice, and in its place with the high pitched peep of a hatchling female, still with bits of egg clinging to his hide. There were no words to describe the depth of his shame and humiliation and he wriggled, unable to resist the relentless onward pull of the machinery. 
Mechanical arms descended upon him once more, armed with a pair of long, flowing plastic eyelashes. One eye at a time, the arms pinned his shiny, plasticized eyelid open, then the other pressed the synthetic lashes against the lids and waited for the glue to dry. It was a dreadfully drawn out torture, Dean’s cries for his mommy the only sound in his ears except for the hum of the machines as he was held helplessly put and babified against his will. He was practically bawling like his sister in a tantrum by the time it was done, his tears rolling down his chubby, bubbly baby face as the arms seized him by the wrists and ankles and pinned his tiny body to a rubberized section of conveyer belt, then lifted his bottom like a baby. Dean gasped in abject horror as he saw what was next, interrupting even his cycle of begging for mercy internally, and begging for mommy externally, as he watched a great, billowing pink diaper with a heart and rattle print and frilly bottom as it was laid down beneath him and his bottom was lowered onto it. There was no escaping the bulk of it, more like a mattress folded in half to the tiny feminized and dollified boy, though it was probably only a few inches thick. Despite this, a hand materialized from the wall holding a bottle of baby powder and shook it a few times more than was nessesary onto his crotch, belly, and face. The sweet scent of talcum did nothing to calm his fit, and, because so much had been used, he couldn’t escape the scent of his own regression, though nobody would recognize him as an adult or a boy anyway. 
The tears were flowing from the regressed and dolled up hatchling’s eyes in a torrent as his diaper, something of a lock to the cage of infantilism he had been stuffed into against his will, was pulled up around his waist, giving him a perfect view of how humiliating his predicament was, now little more than a frilly, shiny, baby doll, then taped in place with agonizing slowness by the machines. Then they released his limbs, knees so far apart that he could barely move his legs, and left him there for what felt like hours, and for no other reason than to let him sulk in his own helplessness. Immobile, diapered, flash-plasticized and helpless to keep from calling momma, mamma, over and over again like a nine month old baby that had woken up in the middle of the night. 
Eventually hopelessness snuck into the little dragon’s thoughts, and he would have crawled into a ball and cried if he could, but the thick diaper between his legs prevented him from even rolling over, let alone crawling. When the conveyer belt finally began moving again, though Dean wasn’t sure whether to be happy to at least be moving again or get even more miserable that his humiliation was going even further. He didn’t have long to think on this subject because seconds later a pair of arms pounced him once again, this time wielding a crinkly pink plastic diaper cover, the vinyl kind that shined like the sun and had ruffled pink plastic on the behind just to encourage patting by an adult. Dean’s crying doubled, and his whines grew louder. His little sister had had a pair just like them as a hatchling! The diaper cover crinkled like a plastic bag and, despite its name, didn’t cover his diaper in the least, it just hugged it close to him and made the already shamed dragon feel the bulk between his legs all the more intensely. As though the diaper and plastic panties weren’t bad enough, the arms returned a second later with a pair of matching, baby blue infant booties, the kind with the Velcro ankle straps. His little talons, about the only even remotely threatening thing about him now, were bullied into the snug confines of the booties and sealed there, the machines clearly intent to whittle down even the pretense of any independence he might have, no matter how scanty. 
The factory had no intention of leaving Dean even a scrap of adulthood or masculinity, that was plain, but what happened next startled even him. He had raised his hands over his head to scream and squall his mamma… mamma, again and again, legs and arms flailing weekly, weighed down as they were by baby fat and a thick layer of now hardened and buffed shiny plastic, when the mechanized arms pounced him, carrying a thin, cherry pink sundress with white stripes and a button up back, and pulled it over his head. The petticoat was long enough to make it undeniably a dress, but far too short to even partially cover more than the front panel of his diaper, leaving the babyish bulk plain, and even intentionally visible to any who might take it upon themselves to look. But that wasn’t all, Dean felt the clamp around his belly hoist him back up above the belt once more, bootied feet barely able to pad at the belt below, and felt his belly resist the suddenly tightened sash as it was pulled around his waist, and whined all the louder as he was forced into a childish version of the hourglass figure that had been so desirable in women and girls some decades earlier. Like something out of a Disney princess film, the dress’s shoulder poofed up and out, drawing attention to his suckling infant face, which couldn’t stop squeaking the same word over and over again like a stuck vinyl record, Momma! Momma! Momma!
But the changes didn’t stop there. Not a second was lost until another pair of arms descended from on high, carrying a bright pink, frilly bonnet between them, and pulled it over the dragon’s head, hiding even his little horn nubs behind the silky fabric and tying it snuggly in a bow under his chin, further puffing up his girly, babyish cheeks and giving them a cute, pinchable chub, just like he’d seen on the dolls in the showcases before. 
Dean continued his infantile squalling, ever that same endless peeping momma… momma… momma… that he couldn’t restrain himself from saying. It didn't even feel like his lips were moving, set in plastic as they were, more like he had swallowed an MP3 player, and it was playing on repeat. He didn't have long to rest before the clamp around his waist suddenly disengaged, and the dollified youth was helplessly carried up, up and away by the mechanical arms, and aimed towards the packing station, but the arms stopped and took a detour, eventually carrying him over to a nearby mirror that the little dragon hadn't remembered being there before. The image was crystal clear, but what he saw in his reflection shook him to his very bones. In place of his once thick and masculine, blood red scales, each lovingly maintained to look their best, Dean was covered head to toe in a smooth, glistening, uniform pink plastic, which had been buffed to a sheen. His face was unrecognizable, cheeks puffy, red and swollen, suckling lips ready to nurse anything that was put between them, the precious little bonnet encasing it all, hiding even the pitiful remnants of his once impressive crest and horns. There was no getting around the dress he had been forced into, a lacey pink monstrosity that had seemingly been designed for maximum humiliation of the wearer, be they male, female, young or old, its sash squeezing his belly and hips into submission, and its frilly swirls covering him in layers of snug, elastic girlishness. The fabric seemed to cling to his form, accenting his chubby, infantile limbs, which had been kneaded and molded into submission by the factory’s machines, and drove home just how much like an infant he really looked. The pretty little shoes his feet had been bullied into were hard and uncomfortable, and no amount of shaking and fussing could knock them off. Nobody would have guessed that, inside the shimmering plastic baby doll body was the mind of an adolescent male, who had been tricked and tormented into that body by an evil, magical factory.  With an air of equal parts shame and degradation, Dean realized that this was him now, this little toy was what he had been made into, and he was more than likely going to be packed away and shipped off to some doting little girl to be played with forever and ever.
With that image permanently and irrevocably branded into his brain, Dean felt the machine pull him away from the mirror, and went limp in his restraints. He was tired of the struggle, tired of fighting and the horrific things that had been done to him, and didn't even squirm as he was slowly lowered into the loading docks, where dozens of doll-sized boxes were already pre-printed and ready to receive their charges. The dollified dragon peeped one more time, and then passed the lid into the box, the gloved hands masterfully manipulating him into the twist-tie loops, which were then automatically tightened around his wrists, ankles, waist, and neck, and the box closed over top of him, leaving Dean with only light that could be seen through the glossy, transparent plastic film that let a prospective toddler girl choose her next dolly. The only sound that his bonnet covered ears could register was the hum of the machines, the crinkling of his diaper as he wiggled in the twist-ties that now restrained him, and his own pitiful weeping calls.
After being packaged and left there, nothing happened for a long while, leaving the helpless toy dragon to sit and weep in sorrow, until finally a change occurred. Dean's doll box was picked up as though it and its contents weighed no more than the plastic that he was coated with, and a blurry face looked in on him through the plastic front, but the terrified little baby toy couldn't make it out. He was carried carefully for a few moments, never suspecting where he was being taken, and then felt the twist-ties loosen, hoping against hope that this person, whoever they were would take him out and help him... but it wasn't to be. Two large, black furry paws reached into the box and plucked him up and out of it, all four limbs wiggling helplessly, then, of all places, set him down onto the little pedestal that he had ransacked that afternoon, the very same showcase where Dean had thought to steal a decades old and valuable vintage doll to sell on the internet. He had stolen for this place, and now he would spend forever here, a helpless, chubby little baby doll, peeping for her momma every few seconds until...
"M-Mamma! Mamma! Mamma!" the little pink dragoness whimpered, slowly ebbing her way out of a deep, magically induced sleep, and blinks awake, finding herself in one of the many nondescript gridded hallways of the factory, and realizing with embarrassment that her diaper was very, very wet. "Wha- whasgoinon...?" she whimpered, wondering where she was and how she had gotten there, and only having a vague recollection of the nightmare she had had while asleep, but was startled by the loud clapping of shoes on tile as the owner of the factory, the black cat from earlier, knelt down and put a hand on the little dragoness's shoulder.
"You're Daniella, right?" the cat asked, grinning as the little three year old curled up into herself, using her dress to hide her teary face, "I'm not your mother, sweetie, but I think I can help you find her."
"W-weally?" The transformed and hypnotized dragon said, sniffling a bit and looking up into the black cat's face.
"Really really," Angela said with a smile, and gently helped her victim to her feet. She could hear Daniella whimpering in discomfort as she was stood up, still dressed in the little pink toddler dress that she had been put into in her dream, but not really minding at the moment. Her soggy diaper was a much greater concern, its bulk making her waddle precariously and squish whenever she brought her legs together. The black cat led the once proud, dominant male dragon down the halls of the factory towards the gift shop, then gave her a cute little pat on the diapered bum and sent her out to meet with her mommy and sister. "Don't forget to be nice to your big sister, Daniella," she had said before sending her off, and hoped that, when the magic wore off in a week and the little bugger returned to his normal, adult form, he would heed a centuries old witch's advice, and learn a little humility.
As the family reunited, Daniella’s mother collecting her two little daughters and leading them out the door, Angela contemplated her actions that night. It had been a few decades at least since she had last used magic to teach a male a much needed lesson, and she had done it many times before that. For the next few days the little dragoness would live and be treated exactly like the little girl he was. He’d be dressed like his sister, nursed like his sister, diapered like his sister, and teased like his sister. When he finally was released from the spell’s influence, and returned to his adult body, only he and the black cat would ever remember that it even happened, but the memories would remain crisp and clear in his mind for the rest of his life. It was Angela’s sincerest hope as she sat there behind the counter of her factory’s gift store, watching Talla and Daniella being led by their mother, each by a hand, towards the family car and driven off to enjoy a week of girly, babyish, playful bliss, that Dean would learn something from that day at the toy factory, and become a better person because of it.