A Small Hollywood Exploitation Tale
Chapter 1: The Petals Open

Copyright© 2018 by Flighttime

Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1: The Petals Open - The rise and fall adventures of the young starlet, Milary Stanton during the filming of a hit television show. The show is a production of the giant conglomerate Fabriana, an old and established institution with their hand in everybody's cookie jar as told through the eyes and ears of the crew. Note- Work in progress, but I will post chapters as I can

Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Lesbian   BiSexual   Heterosexual   CrossDressing   Hermaphrodite   TransGender   Fiction   Celebrity   Humor  

“I have a great power.” Mmmm that’s good, let me say it againÉ “I have a great power, and along with great power, some have said, comes great responsibility.” Bullshit. More often than not, reckless abandon is the intimate cellmate of great power. It’s an all too common theme in the history of humankind and its existence on Planet Earth.

So, here I sit in my cell, not the ten by ten kind with iron bars inside grey walls topped with razor wire, but the one I’ve created for myself, inside myself. Everyone creates them. Some of us escape, some of us don’t, but in the end, there are far more desperate souls banging on the walls to get in. That’s what feeds the unstoppable hunger of this machine, what creates the great circle of life (and death) in the entertainment business. In television, no one escapes. Everyone’s trapped and held prisoner in some way. Below-the-liners are basically labor; highly compensated, unionized, trapped in the blue-collar cycle of paying bills and trying to find the next job, labor. Those with their heads and bodies above the line are management; trapped in their own endless cycle of feeding egos, feeding lawyers, feeding agents, and feeding those beneath them who exist only to serve, management. And so, the ring of reality continues, the old maxims just morph into new scenarios, so long as the revenue continues to flow in at a far greater pace than it does out.

Milary Stanton didn’t start out as a needy, ego driven, child star, but the machine, which drives the system, made sure she became one. Her mother, Joansie Mason-Stanton, a bloody Tampax of a woman, made sure the machine continued to feed the whole Stanton family, until she had bled it dry of everything and left a wake of carnage behind her that made the BP oil spill seem like an afterthought.

And the machine? The great Fabriana Corporation, a mega-conglomerate of international divisions and interests with their hand in everything from theme parks to movies and television stations to signature characters known and loved throughout the world. Their corporate iron fist crushed anything standing in the way of greater profits and control. They clamped tight on everything within their grasp that posed even the slightest threat to their branded world. It was often discussed in the below-the-line world, that their immense fortune and popularity, was born from a cultured, cozy alliance with several forms of sub-human deities. These graven images have been purported to be traceable to the early days of Fabriana’s silent motion pictures when the great empire began. Rumors and innuendo about this subtle but obvious homage to a malevolent entity have swirled around the corporation for years.

So, how does it start? From where does that one special show emanate and just how does that young star germinate into a full-blown worldwide sensation?

Well, in the particular case of the show in question, The Family Tree, it started at the Writer/Executive Producer, Lottie Grenier’s house with a phone call.

“Lottie? It’s your agent, Jack. Listen honey, I got good news. Fabriana loves your script. They want a meeting with you and this kid they’ve been grooming, Milary Stanton.”

“Really? That’s fantastic. Milary Stanton? Who’s that? What’s she done?” Lottie held the phone between her ear and shoulder while picking the dead leaves off one of the hundreds of plants in and around her garden home.

“I don’t know. She’s some kid repped by Don Ryson over at DCK. The suits at Fabriana are crazy about her. She sings, she dances, she’s funny. They say she’s the next big one coming down the pipe. And we both know how big the pipes are over there.”

“That’s not funny, Jack. Okay, well maybe it is, a little.”

“You bet your britches it is. Tuesday, ten thirty at the big building. You know the one with the ugly statues carved into the face.”

“Careful, Jack. You know how big the ears are at FC. If this works out, those ugly statues could make us a lot of money.”

“Lottie, I got a good feeling about this one.”

She could almost feel his ooze dripping through the phone, but she was cautious. “Yeah Jack, right. That’s not the first time I’ve heard you say that. You spouted those same famous words about John’s Rainbow, The Final Celebration, A Circle of Birds, A Mile forÉ.”

“Okay, Lottie. I get your point, but I’m always out there pitching for you, ain’t I? You’re a good inker. Always meeting deadlines, solid rewrites, funny jokes, that’s what the studios like to see. Besides, I really mean it this time. I got a feeling, deep down.”

“That’s your Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Jack.” She chuckled.

“No, I mean deeper than that and IBS ain’t a laughing matter. I don’t wish that mishegoss on anyone. You just start bangin’ out story arcs, and I’ll see you tomorrow at the Ugly Creature Building.”

“Maybe they’ll carve your face into it.”

“Fuck you, Grenier. See you tomorrow. Ciao.”

Bye, Jack.” She hung up the phone. “Yesss!” She yelled while doing a silent fist pump.

Fester, her aging brown Schnauzer, waddled up to where she sat on the arm of the sofa, angling for attention.

“Looks like things might get a little fat around here, Fester. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.” She said leaning over to meet his needs. “And we deserve a little extra trim on our tree this year, don’t we?”

Lottie stroked Fester’s head as he snorted with canine pleasure. A little drool spilled from the side of his loose jowl onto the floor.

And this is how it began; not the spilling of drool, but the rise of one star through the halls of the Hollywood system and, of course, while one star rises into the sky of fame, the cycle continues as many many others begin their journey down from a once high perch. Some of the stars, of which I speak, are not necessarily those whose hopes and dream are bestowed upon them by an adoring public, but sometimes, stars come in other forms, such as breadwinners and family members. Their fame is foisted upon their shoulders through the eyes of their children. It’s a curious, fragile duality of adoration and stardom. And in the eyes of a child, are not their loving, caring parents frequently the true stars? All too often, like the Lindsey Lohan’s and other self-absorbed personalities of this world, one or both parent’s falls from grace by one means or another. Sometimes, the reasons are known and sometimes not, the difference is, one is a public spectacle, the other, a private tragedy.

Who the fuck are you, might be the next prophetic utterance from your festering estuary. I am a below-the-liner. A Property Master, to be exact; a jack-of all-trades and a master-of-none, as has often been used to describe us. So, in actuality, the job title is a misnomer. Look at any credits; you’ll see us listed in every scrolling proletariat lament to the true workers. I think the more grandiose title of Creative Engineer is appropriate; it sounds noble, almost scientific.

We are tasked with the job of overseeing everything an actor or talent interacts with or holds on a film set. The parameters of my field extend across nearly every boundary: from physics through chemistry and over into gymnastics and food service. There is almost no area of human civilization that someone who’s been in this profession for any length of time doesn’t have to delve into and become a mini-expert quickly. It requires the ability to assimilate a large amount of information, apply it to a film set and consider all the limitations, constraints, safety issues, and all too often, the comfort and safety of an actor; usually in a very short period of time. Much more on the comfort of an actor, or the maliciously intended lack there-of, will be exploited later. I am a member of a very special, very elite part of the film industry. We are unsung, mostly unknown and very often, under scrutinized. I have always felt we should be licensed, as our powers can be exploited to be in the neighborhood of larceny, or in more extreme cases, felonious.

You see, those of us who have been trained properly, with the right amount of experience and skill, and possess just enough crazy to traipse carelessly toward the edge of insanity, peering ever so carefully over its precipice, begin to use the gifts of our stature to abuse the system. We maintain a balance between our need for fairness and our power to create or procure anything. In the rare, very rare circumstance, that power can create havocÉshould we should so desireÉif exploited beyond acceptance. We never expose enough to get caught, but the more expert of us are true masters of manipulation in every sense of the word. We can be anyone we choose at any time and the less scrupulous of us have been known to abuse our positions of power when the need for that particular prop exceeds the norms of procurement. If something required is not available within our trusted network, we must travel into the non-film world to meet the needs of our story creators. We have learned to extract information and things from the eager, media-hungry populace of our world in order to meet the needs of our masters. In turn, we manipulate the masters to accommodate the needs of our obsessions and more notably, our addictions. It’s our addictions tapping our veins for another fix into an industry that sometimes abuses us, drains us, and makes demands of us in an untold and often unscrupulous manner.

In my case, the great power, of which I spoke earlier, has given me the ability to see within the great cartoon-walls of the Fabriana Corporation and bring this story of Milary Stanton, the production of The Family Tree and the rise and fall of both.

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