No CGI: Hollywood Meeting
Story by Tagenar on SoFurry
All meetings with Hollywood execs are sexy. Everyone knows that.
No CGI: Hollywood Meeting
by tagenar (https://www.furaffinity.net/user/tagenar | https://tagenar.sofurry.com/)
{All meetings with Hollywood execs are sexy. Everyone knows that.}
You wake up not knowing where you are, but you can smell dinosaurs all around you, including some species you just recently learned about.
Parasaurolophus. Species number 5 in tape code. Herbivore. They get something completely different out of smoothies and olive oil, and somehow they can pack on muscle.
Carnotaurus. Species number 6. Carnivore, roughly the same size as a T-rex but with fins on the sides of the skull, and walking more like a raptor.
Troödon. Species 8. Theropod, raptorlike but standing lower, unable to raise themselves up to a human stance. Thinner, leaner, and all the more surprising to meet one who managed to pack on enough muscle to make some T-rexes look small. (Do not forget the umlauts, they said.)
The room is unfamiliar at first, and then you remember you followed a pack of muscle-dinos that had formed around you. So many hands on your ass and down your shorts. So many snouts scenting you.
They tried to describe what they were getting when they caught your scent: you smell so much like R it's obvious what you're into and what you like. Plus word has long gotten around that you have a job as a “matte painter."
You followed them to the gym. You got to see lots of dinosaur muscle in motion. Lots of muzzles in R's slit. Lots of hands and muzzles appreciating one another's thighs and triceps and abdominals. Lots of muzzles and biceps and pecs in your face. Despite your perpetual boner, you remember the three Dilophosauruses the clearest. They showed you how they work their frill muscles, and it turns out dinosaurs also have workout routines to train their jaws. They let you feel those muscles at work. Humans do not value these, but they are impressive across all dinosaur species.
Their jaws can move more weight than your arms.
At first you felt weird going with all of these different dinosaurs, but when R told you he wanted this to be the best time of your life, you went with it.
Lots of them have connections to people in Hollywood. A number of humans have already found you on set and gave you their cards. Writers. Agents. Producers. Joel Schumacher also sent a few people your way.
You gave quick pitches for your rejected screenplays.
Things are moving.
It's true what you've heard: it's not what you do, it's who you know, and who can vouch for you, and it turns out being good at painting/servicing dinosaur slit is a better entrance to Hollywood than writing an original screenplay.
You untangle yourself from the pile of dinosaur limbs and tails and step over the sleeping crowd to the shared bathroom. It is set up the same way as the ones in Ohio, small unit with a locker-room style shower. You don't bother to close the door and proceed to make yourself presentable. Dinosaurs may love to smell you covered in slit lube and semen, but humans give you weird looks, and you have to prepare for a meeting with humans who don't seem to be into dinosaur porn tapes.
From the corner of your eye, you see a dinosaur head peek into the room and then he sneaks in, thinking you haven't seen him.
J-B, a 6, chest muscles pushing his arms out and back muscles making him look like he has wings. He grins at you and steps over to the toilet. Giving it a few sniffs, he turns and stalks into the spray. You know exactly what he is going to say.
“I _have_ to shower. I got a meeting today, and it's important."
He growls. “Sha[m]e."
You laugh. “I hate to wash everyone off, as much as I like drawing a crowd of sniffing dinosaurs shoving their muscles in my face."
He picks up the soap and begins washing your chest, making sure his claws scrape your skin. “You'll never wash R's scent off. You're easy to find in a crowd. So what's the [m]eeting?"
“I'm pitching a teleplay to Star Trek Voyager."
“Haven't seen it."
“I wrote it for Next Generation, but it could work for them, too. Been trying to get in for years. Turns out all I had to do was sleep with a bunch of dinosaurs."
He is taking a long, long time washing your ass. You feel claws on your hole. It's making you hard.
“I hear you're good at [p]ainting slits, too."
“Yeah, my job is to stare at dinosaur slits all day and apply makeup. Sure beats my dayjob."
“What is your dayjo[b]?"
“Receptionist at a state prison."
“Fuck."
“I know."
You feel another set of hands on your back. At some point a buff raptor with twilight scales snuck in and is now washing you. F is his name. Two sets of claws on your ass. Two muzzles sniffing your boner.
F is out of his slit. You reach down and grasp it. He purrs as he washes your back.
You have been told dinosaurs like humans who are not intimidated by claws, so these two are running their claws up and down your skin as much as they can.
The shower running has apparently attracted the attention of others. You see more heads peeking around the door frame. Raptors. T-rexes, 5s, 6s, 7s, 4s.
As if in a herd, they form a line and step into the shower, exchanging noises in their native language. You guess they are telling one another Comma has a meeting and we're helping him clean up.
You now have ten pairs of hands on you, claws liberally running up and down your body. You feel lots of rippling forearms and flanks. They bounce their pecs for you, and you pat them in reply.
At some point someone leans you over, and you feel a hot tip on your hole. You have a reputation as a dinosaur slut, so you make no effort to stop him from sliding in. You can tell it's J-B from the ridges and the feel of the pecs and biceps squeezing your head.
When he finishes, someone else climbs on. A number of wet dinosaurs stand before you and flex their muscles in your face while F rams you from behind. You feel them up while your rear gets filled.
What should have been a ten-minute shower becomes a 2-hour session of dinosaurs sharing your ass and flexing for you. By the time they clean you up to be presentable for human civilization, you are practically asleep on the shower floor.
J-B has to pick you up and drag you to the door so you can put your clothes on. He reassures you that you smell perfectly normal right now, with some of R's scent lingering, more than enough to pass for respectable in human society.
Exhausted, but ready to rejoin the human race, you stumble down the street, legs wobbling and mind in a haze. Three police cars drive by you very, very slowly. They do not stop. You have been a fixture of this place for weeks. Even the cops make lewd gestures in your direction when they see you. You have been tempted to flip them off in reply. One of these days you actually will.
You stop for a coffee and a smoothie and a cup of olive oil to go. As you sip them walking down the street, you wonder why olive oil is not advertised as a drink on its own. It should be. Some of this stuff is too good to waste on cooking.
On foot, you leave the dinosaur district and enter Paramount studios.
You are clean. You checked your presentability on the way. Yet the receptionist gives you a weird look. Some of the other humans also give you sideways glances.
They direct you to an office on the sixth floor, and you wait dutifully for Mr. Walters.
This man is pretty high up in Paramount, you are told. Not only has Mr. Schumacher vouched for you, but several dinosaurs mentioned his name, so multiple people got you here today. This gives you some comfort.
You are called, and you leave the seat and step into the office of Mr. Walters.
You freeze at the door. Standing behind the desk is a Brazisaurus (4), wearing a dress shirt and tie that hangs down to the desk. His pecs are resting on the desk, struggling for position between his biceps.
“Um..." you say.
He grins. “You must [b]e ___. [P]rofessional Co[mm]a."
You nod.
“I saw your ta[p]es. Co[m]e inside."
You step in, closing the door behind you. “Nice shirt."
He chuckles. “In the hu[m]an world, we're ex[p]ected to wear clothes. [P]ersonally I'd rather walk around naked."
You smile as you approach the desk, noting how he fills out his clothes and how strained they are against his pecs. They look heavy enough to need resting.
“I saw your na[m]e as a writer and co-director," he continues. “Sounds like a [p]et [p]roject you [m]anaged to convince the[m] to [m]ake. How'd you do it?"
You are hard. You do not try to conceal it, as he can smell it anyway. “I'd helped them steer some of their other videos. X was willing to give my screenplay a read. He liked it, so we made it happen. He joked nobody would get off to it, but he liked it so much it needed to exist. I'm happy to hear it's getting around."
“It's [m]ore of an indie [m]ovie than a [p]orno. That sur[p]rised [m]e. I had [m]y dick in [m]y hands ready to go, [b]ut that [m]ovie [m]ade [m]e think instead. It left [m]e with a confused [b]oner."
You smiled. “I take that as a compliment, Mr. Walters. And if I may say so, I didn't expect to meet a dinosaur today. I got all cleaned up and ready for a professional pitch because I was under the impression humans dominated the industry."
“No one told you who I was? That's not a sur[p]rise. Not [m]any nonhu[m]ans rise up the ranks anywhere. I got this jo[b] [b]y sucking dick. It's a[b]out the only way to [m]ove u[p], es[p]ecially in this [b]usiness."
“That little indie movie was part of a screenplay I sent to The Next Generation. A surreal moment on an alien world. Their civilization is so bizarre the crew of the Enterprise can't understand what's going on. This is what they see."
Mr. Walters is sniffing you from across the desk. You can smell he is out of his slit, and he is undoing his custom Brazisaurus trousers. They fall, and he stands upright, revealing his boner. You pull yours out.
“Hhhhhhhhh, I took the li[b]erty of looking up that tele[p]lay you su[bm]itted."
Your eyes widen. “You did?"
“We kee[p] records of these things. I have to agree with their decision to reject it, as it's too surreal for Star Trek, but I found it an intriguing conce[p]t on its own. If you don't [m]ind [m]e saying so, it worked [b]etter as dinosaur [p]orn."
“Thank you, sir."
He is sniffing you from across the desk. “I can tell you [b]elong to R. Word has gotten around a[b]out your jo[b] on the set of Jurassic [P]ark 2."
You smile. “I didn't ask for it. I just kinda fell into it. I'd quit my job and do it until I retire if I could. Everyone else seems to think it's disgusting work, but I enjoy it."
He grunts. “It tickles [m]e to [m]eet a hu[m]an who likes dinosaur scent. I think I can hel[p] you out. Send [m]e so[m]e of your other stuff and I [m]ight be able to find a ho[m]e for it. Don't bother editing for one show or another. We can work out how to ada[p]t the[m] later."
He has practically flexed his way out of his shirt. Finally he just unbuttons it and reveals his rippling frame, squishing his pecs against the desk for you. You lick your lips and stand up. Mutually sniffing one another and feeling each other—his pecs are huge and veiny but somehow less dense than R's, and his flank is so thick he should have wings—you grasp his thick cock, rubbing the ridges with a finger. Huffing, he fondles your ass, slit spurting ropes of pre all over the carpet, inviting you to feel the rest of him while he feels you up.
Claws free to touch flesh. It's an intimate experience for dinosaurs. You have your time with E, R, and X to thank for this knowledge.
It's a typical Hollywood meeting.
{If you like what I do, consider buying one of my published books. Links below. Thanks!}
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4539730.James\_L\_Steele