FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

No CGI (male) 2

by tagenar (https://www.furaffinity.net/user/tagenar | https://tagenar.sofurry.com/)

{Lots of worldbuilding here. And a feral dinosaur with bodybuilder proportions. All of these things foxes like.}

The address R gave takes you to a hole-in-the-wall gymnasium off the main road near downtown. You have been to this area before but never had a reason to stop. It doesn't look any different from all the other parts of town, at first, but as you turn around the back of the building, you notice something from the corner of your eye. The lady wearing the off-white skin-tight jogging outfit, Walkman clipped to her waist and headphones clamped to her head. For a brief instant, you catch a glimpse of a dinosaur instead of a woman.

She is out of view as you pull into the parking space. Forgetting to lock your door, you jog up the sidewalk and emerge onto the main road. You look left and right. She is nowhere in sight, and only a few other pedestrians are around, all of them perfectly human, even at a glance.

Shrugging, you turn down the sidewalk and approach the front entrance. The lettering on the door is fading and falling off.

Iron

Lizard

Gym

You open the door and enter. A white guy is at the front desk, wearing a... suit, of all things. You blink a few times as you approach. Between your third and forth blinks, you see not a human sitting in a chair but a dinosaur hunched over the front desk. On the fifth blink, he's human again, and he's grinning at you.

“Hi," you begin. “I'm here to meet someone."

“R said you might be coming. He's back there."

“Thanks."

Between blinks, you see a creature with a frilled neck winking at you, and then he's human again. He notices your uncertainty.

“Eyes still o-ening?" he says.

“What?"

Now you can hear his accent. “It's [b]een ha[pp]ening more since the [m]ovie ca[m]e out. [P]eo[p]le are starting to see what's [b]een in front of their [f]aces the whole ti[m]e. [M]ore [p]eo[p]le, I mean. We get hu[m]ans in here fro[m] ti[m]e to ti[m]e, and they still don't see us."

“I think I can... Um, what are you?"

“Dilo[ph]osaurus. We have frills [b]ut we don't s[p]it veno[m]. That's just Hollywood. R tried to get me a [p]art in the [m]ovie, [b]ut they [w]anted so[m]eone taller." He laughs. As he does, you see a dinosaur between blinks, and you hold your eyes open so you don't lose it. “I was so close to killing Wayne Knight. Tell R to wi[p]e up his own slit juice this ti[m]e. He'll [p]ro[b]a[b]ly leak all over the da[m]n place with you [b]ack there."

You smile and give him a thumbs-up as you pass the desk and enter the open door.

It's a ramshackle setup. Freeweights lining a rack along the far wall. Squat racks, barbells, but only a few machines. It's roomy, and it has foam puzzle tiles lining the floor in most places. They appear to have been replaced recently, as they look vibrant compared to the paint on the walls.

Two people are in here. One of them looks human, and you blink a few times to confirm.

The other person is an orange-skinned theropod. He is lying on the bench press. He looks enormous in here. You could not imagine him in this position, able to hold a barbell and work his chest. It looks too human. The eight 100-lb plates on the bar look inhuman, however.

He is naked, and you have a view of his slit as you stand by the entrance. The tip of his cock peeks in and out as he raises and lowers the bar. You wonder if the other guy in the room is aware of this.

You thread between the racks and stand at the foot of the bench, staring at his junk as you wait for him to finish his set. Ten hard reps later, he sets the bar back on the stand and raises his head. He licks his lips when he sees you.

“I heard you talking to S. I could've done [b]ench over there, but I [p]icked this one so [m]y slit faced the door."

“I wouldn't have recognized you otherwise." You glance at the other guy, who is loading 50-lb plates onto both sides of the squat rack.

R rolls off the bench and stands up straight as a bird. His arms squish against his chest. They have to in this posture. R waves in the general direction of the other person.

“Forget a[b]out hi[m]. Even if he sees [m]e, he [w]on't re[m]e[m]ber. You've [p]ro[b]a[b]ly met hundreds of us in your life but you re[m]e[m]ber [m]eeting hu[m]ans."

“Really?"

“[P]eo[p]le only see what they want to see."

“So dinosaurs have been here the whole time? Always? Everywhere?"

R bumps noses with you, gives your crotch a squeeze. You return the gesture, but you can't reach his slit from here, so you take the chance to feel his bicep. It doesn't give when you push on it.

“Fuck," R says, stepping away. “I have answered this so [m]any times, [b]u-u-u-ut since you did a good jo[b] on my slit the other day..."

He lies on the bench again. You wonder how much he weighs and if the bench is rated for this much. His bulk overfills it, and his chest muscles make his head look small in this position. He takes the bar and heaves it up, speaking between reps.

“As far as we can tell, the fossils you find are our ancestors. We ke[p]t evolving, too." He pauses and demonstrates his opposable thumb. “We're not giants any[m]ore, and [m]ost of the earlier dinosaurs died off. There's only sixteen species of us left. Before the Ro[m]an and [M]ayan E[mp]ires, there were eighty species, we think."

He has completed a set, and now he lies on the bench, panting. His chest muscles practically have their own heartbeat.

“Dinosaurs lived in isolation while hu[m]an civilizations rose and [f]ell. When hu[m]ans [m]et us, [m]ost of the[m] didn't see us. The few who did led armies to drive us away."

You blink, half expecting R to flash to human and back. You glance at the man at the squat rack. You blink at him a few times, and he remains human.

“How could armies drive you away?" you say. “You have teeth and—"

“And no wea[p]ons. Hu[m]ans got good at long range fighting. We never did. All our custo[m]s are [b]uilt around our claws and teeth. Doing anything fro[m] a distance just doesn't ha[pp]en. So yeah, we were overwhel[m]ed, [b]ut [m]ostly [b]ecause of your nu[mb]ers. Hu[m]ans are good at [m]aking [b]a[b]ies. We aren't. Your fe[m]ales are in heat once a [m]onth. Ours are in heat once a year, and they skip that heat if their diet is not [p]erfect. When we lost our land, good hunting was hard to find. Still, we [m]anaged to [b]lend in with your society for the [m]ost [p]art."

“Because people just... don't want to see you? I saw a woman jogging. I caught a glimpse of—"

R rolls off the bench, flexing his chest, grinning. “She wasn't hu[m]an anymore? Weird how that [w]orks, ain't it? I've heard all kinds of ex[pl]anations. I can't [m]ake heads of tails of the[m], but something like the hu[m]an [m]ind can't accept us, so you still think we're extinct, and [b]ecause you have the guns and the [p]o[p]ulation while we have to get u[p] close to defend ourselves and our wo[m]en were starving and ski[pp]ed heat for years at a time, you win, so we live by your rules. It sucks, [b]ut it [w]orks. That [m]ovie was the first time in as long as I can re[m]e[m]ber people were free to see us as dinosaurs. We still have to [p]lay ani[m]als [b]ecause that's all you want to see, but at least they won't forget they saw us on screen. That's the whole thing in a nutshell. You just gonna stand there, or are we here to get [b]ig?"

You smile. “Not big. Just trying to keep what I have. It's leg day for me."

“[P]erfect." He gets up and leads you to a rack.

You feel infinitesimally puny next to him. You swear he got bigger after working his chest, and the way he stands over you as you load the rack with meager but not pathetic plates means you are always in sight of him. He keeps his claws folded out of sight most of the time, and the huge claws on his inner toes appear to have been blunted, rounded out, now that you look at them closer.

He watches you squat your 120. He helps you set the bar when you finish this set, and you take the chance to feel his forearm. Grinning, he presents the rest of his arm, and you run your hand all the way up. You are certain he can smell your dick getting hard. R might even be able to hear the blood pooling down there.

He picks up a 200-lb dumbbell and works his biceps, one at a time. You stare. His arms are small compared to the rest of him, but they're still thicker than any human arm you've ever seen. He grins, adjusts his stance to show you his slit. He's leaking all over the bench. You move on to hamstrings.

You chuckle. “S wanted me to tell you to clean up your own juice."

“He al[w]ays says that."

“Is that sanitary?"

“It's just lu[b]e. Nothing else going on. Your scent is [m]aking me drip. [P]lus it's fun to i[m]agine you riding my cock when you squat."

“Easy to imagine massaging your chest while riding you."

R reaches with his free hand and puckers his chest for you. Lube drips from the bench and hits the foam tile.

You move on to the rowing machine and work upper back, and then go back to free weights to hit the lower back. R stands close as he watches you do Good Mornings. When you set the barbell on the stand, he moves in and noses your arm up. He scents you through your shirt, and he stays there for a solid minute. You take the chance to feel his shoulder. His neck. Nothing gives to the touch.

“Fucking hell, man."

Finally he comes up. “I'[m] not on roids. I'[m] just like this."

“Bullshit."

He picks up an enormous weight and begins tricep extensions. His slit is a faucet, and the tip of his cock is out.

“I [w]as a [b]ig hatchling. I started off squatting my own weight. That was t[w]enty years ago. Join [m]e on leg day and I'll show you what I'[m] up to now."

You watch him work his arms for a minute. Sometimes you stare at his crotch. Sometimes you observe his muscles in motion. Both are breathtaking.

Set breaks are good excuses for mutual groping, and he takes a few chances to feel your progress. You take more chances to feel his scales and the bulging fibers underneath them. His legs are incredible; he could probably pick up a car or two with as thick and dense as they are.

After more than an hour, both of you have completed your required sets. Your legs are sore, and the raptor's upper body looks puffy compared to when you first entered. He can't move his arms in any direction without puckering his chest, and some definition in his neck has also come out.

You are not sure how to proceed beyond staring and asking him just to move around for a while so you can see his muscles in motion when R stands up and grabs a few towels. He begins wiping up the trail of slit juice he left around the gym and on some of the benches. Smiling, you grab a towel and help.

He deliberately leaves one bench dirty, and then angles his body to the door. His tail smacks the rowing machine, but it doesn't tip over.

“That [w]as fun," R says. “Wanna come to [m]y [pl]ace for a recovery [m]eal?"

You wrap an arm around his neck. “You bet."

“I don't drive."

R fills the entire backseat of your car. Somehow the rear shocks hold his weight, but you are careful not to make any sudden turns, and you gently swerve to avoid manhole covers and even cracks in the road, fearing any jolt will mean the tires will hit the wheel wells.

“You take the bus, R?"

The muzzle rests on your seat, mouth just an inch from your ear. “No, I run everywhere. [M]ost of us have to. [b]uses and ca[b]s aren't [b]ig enough."

“You run across town?"

“I run to Hollywood and [b]ack a cou[p]le ti[m]es a year. My [b]ody is [b]uilt for it. Helps [m]e stay lean."

“You run from Ohio to California and back a couple times a year?"

“Takes a[b]out eight days. I hit up a [b]unch of clu[b]s in Vegas or Reno. I make some cash [p]osing and it satisfies a [m]igration urge evolution stuck [m]e with."

“So what are you doing here? Why aren't you living the high life out west?"

“Too ex[p]ensive, and I only get three [m]ovie roles a year. So[m]eti[m]es a TV s[p]ot, if they want a big guy. I get a lot of [p]arts [p]laying [b]ouncers for night clu[b]s, but I'm just an extra. Oh yeah, you [w]anna hear so[m]e Holly[w]ood gossip?"

“That's why I'm here, you know."

You feel teeth on your ear as he chuckles, which sounds like he's growing through his nose imitating human laughter. “I knew you were [p]a[p]arazzi scu[m]."

“Best way to get a scoop is to get in someone's pants."

“I was up for the [p]art of the Ter[m]inator."

“What? No way!"

Now you feel claws on the back of your neck. “I shit you not. They [w]ere looking for an i[mp]osing guy to play a robot assassin from the future. I was this close to convincing the[m] to let a dinosaur speak in a movie as a dinosaur. Finally a chance to show the world we're here and we can talk, but it went to Schwarzenegger instead. They'd rather have that accent than [m]ine. Bullshit. What's Arnold Schwarzenegger got that I don't? I can out-[b]ench and out-squat hi[m]. Can he run cross country and survive only on the deer he hunts on the way? [F]uck no. Lucky for me so[m]eone decided to [m]ake a dinosaur [m]ovie, and they let [m]e and bunch of [m]y friends do that."

“Keep the celebrity gossip coming. It's my paycheck, you know."

“Let [m]e tell you a[b]out Stallone..."

You lean against the muzzle by your ear. “Got any dirt on Sean Connery? My ex had a crush on him."

“Never [m]et hi[m]. Couldn't say. Haven't even heard [wh]ispers."

“Damn. That would have been my bonus."

A few turns and red lights later, he tells you to parallel park here. You look around. You don't have to blink to see the dinosaurs anymore. Six of them are walking up or down the street, two appear to be T-rexes, but they are certainly not multiple stories tall.

“I'm seeing more of them."

R runs his claws over your neck, harder. “Good. Your eyes are o[p]en. What's your favorite [m]ovie? I'll put it on while we eat."

“Would you be offended if I wanted to watch Terminator 2?"

He huffs in your ear. “No[b]ody would find your [b]ody after I eat the [b]ones."

You chuckle. “Ghostbusters, then."

He huffs again as he pushes the door open. “Good choice. Lots of New Yorkers are dinosaurs. You [m]ight [b]e a[b]le to see the[m] now."

He gets out and leads you to an upstairs apartment. It's a modest space with very little furniture. No carpet. All fake hardwood floors. It does have an entertainment center holding television and a stereo against one wall, CDs and a vinyl stacked vertically on its shelves. The VHS collection is quite extensive. Lots of Mel Brooks movies, and at least one shelf of tapes in plain black boxes, probably porn.

The kitchen is not separated from the living room, so he stalks straight to the fridge. He tells you he normally doesn't bother to cook the meat—he satisfies the urge for hot food while running to and from Hollywood—but today he will use the stove.

Several packages of chicken. Two packages of ground beef. You help him cook them, and then he mixes them together. He says he likes the taste of the two. He can't eat plants of any kind, so his food is expensive, and state law forbids him from hunting for himself, so he has to buy the processed crap when every urge in him wants to get out and kill a bobcat or a buck or something.

No chairs. Only mats on the floor, presumably for dinosaurs to lie down on. You sit on one, and R lies with his backside behind you and his front half beside you so you can use his hips as a backrest.

Ghostbusters has dinosaurs everywhere. You frequently take the remote and rewind the movie just to see them again. It takes twice as long to watch Ghostbusters as it should, but R doesn't seem to mind.

At some point you get up and approach the screen, trying to squint through the scanlines, looking for something that must have been altered, remarking the whole time that you couldn't have missed this—it must be a trick—how can dinosaurs have been there the whole time and you never saw them until yesterday? While none of the cast are dinosaurs, at least one in twenty people in New York City is. You have only finished half your meal. R has licked his bowl of chicken and beef clean.

You step back to take your seat. R has rolled over, so you use his stomach as a backrest now. As the finale of the movie plays, you casually reach down and grope R's slit. His dick erupts from it, and your hand is drenched. R moans and stretches out. The change in position puts his arm-length cock in your lap, and you stroke it while you watch the Ghostbusters battle the Stay-Puft monster.

“Do you work in the [m]orning?" R says.

“I do."

“Where at?"

“I work at a prison. Front desk receptionist."

“Fuck."

“I know."

R growls. “Your scent is so nice. Stay as long as you like. Do anything you [w]ant to [m]e."

Your hand wanders up his flank. It is rock solid. His juice is beginning to smell flowery, so you keep rubbing his dick, licking your hands clean every minute or two.

You are now lying down with him, licking his cock. You feel a tongue on your balls.

Credits roll.

You blink a few times to reassure yourself that you really are sucking a dinosaur's dick. His claws are on your neck, and you love the taste of the stuff coming out of his slit, and his muscles have become your mountainous country and you won't need a passport because you never want to leave.

R rolls to his back, and you follow his cock, climbing up to his stomach. He pulls your shirt up with a claw, and you remove it the rest of the way. He runs his claws across your stomach, just barely touching the skin, enough to feel it but not enough to tickle.

His scaly muzzle grins at you as you feel his arms up to his shoulders and then massage his chest muscles. His body is packed solid with meat. As you remove your pants, you can finally observe his stomach. Human abdominals don't get bigger when they flex, but his do. When he flexes, these muscles collide. Watching them and feeling them in motion as he breathes confirms you are groping a dinosaur.

Bracing yourself on his chest muscles, you angle yourself over his tip and sit down. His lube is even slicker than you thought, for he slides in with so little effort you don't feel it until it's halfway in. R's mouth opens and he gasps, showing all of his teeth. He reaches behind you and you feel claws on your back. He feels your cock with his other, tapping his claws on it.

You slide a little further down, rubbing every muscle you can see.

R opens his eyes again and leans forward, pushing his abs together and puffing his chest. He nuzzles your cheek.

“Have you al[w]ays gone for [b]ig guys?"

You have to breathe a few times before you find your voice again. “I used to sneak away from my parents to peek at the bodybuilding magazines. Every store we went to I looked for the magazine rack."

“And you ignored the [P]layboys?"

“Never cared."

R nuzzles you again as he wraps both arms around you and rolls you over. Your face is squished between his chest muscles, and he pulls out and pushes back in, very slowly. He inhales your breath as you pant. It makes him squeeze you tighter, but he doesn't thrust again.

“Hu[m]an scent [m]akes [m]e dri[p]. Es[p]ecially after a workout."

You can barely move your arms, but you manage to feel his back. Not many ripples along it, but it's more solid than oak, and the scales remind you of a snake's.

“I think your scent is doing that to me, too."

“[M]ust [b]e. [M]ost hu[m]ans can't stand it."

The two of you lie there for a good ten minutes.

Finally he thrusts you again, just once, and you grip him harder. He makes it last for hours.

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4539730.James\_L\_Steele

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7136003.Tagenar