Island Curves (A BBW Romance) by Virginia Wade Page B

and nearly every move I made would be documented.
    The show’s hostess, Charlene Laird, famous
for her Olympic gold medals and television endorsements, including
nine seasons of Contest Island, would be waiting for us on
shore.
    “Now listen up, people,” said the lady
producer, dressed in a pair of white slacks and a brown blouse.
“This is it. You’ve been waiting for this moment, some of you, for
years. Make the best of it. If you have a medical emergency, please
notify one of the camera people. Don’t let scrapes and bites
fester. Besides the rats and spiders, watch out for the Bolo snake,
even though it’s fairly docile. You probably won’t even see it.
Don’t drink un-boiled water, and I don’t recommend sleeping on the
sand. Get your shelter together as fast as possible.” She squinted
into the sun. “It’s a couple of hours till sunset. Good luck,
everyone, and let’s make this the best season ever of Contest
Island . Now grab your stuff, and get in a boat.”
    The faces around me were filled with
excitement, and, once the cameras turned on, the expressions were
even more animated and theatrical, which I wondered at. Several of
the girls flirted with the cameramen and stripped down to their
bikinis, having worn swimwear under their clothing in anticipation
of this event. I had on lacy panties and a matching bra, which I
was certainly not going to flash for the TV cameras. My bathing
suit was in my duffle bag, along with several sets of clothing and
not much else. We were about to be shipwrecked and miserable,
surviving in the great outdoors, although the climate was temperate
and the sky was clear of clouds. We were in the tropics, and rain
would happen often, and, with this in mind, I had packed an ultra
light, waterproof rain jacket.
    As we paddled nearer to shore in the rustic
looking boat, I had a moment of panic. What the hell was I doing
here with these overeager, hard-bodied, fame whores?
    I’ve just made a huge mistake.
     
     

Chapter Two
     
     
     
    We lined up on the beach, cameras rolling,
the lights blinding, and our congenial host standing before us,
hands on hips, and with a huge smile, revealing impossibly white
teeth. Her make-up person had just touched her up, and she took a
long swig of water from a crystal clear bottle.
    “Well, don’t y’all look pretty?”
    I stood near Susan, who stared at Ms. Laird,
starstruck. “She’s way better looking in person. She’s so
thin.”
    “You’ll never smell as good as you do now,”
quipped our hostess.
    Someone approached with a handheld computer,
and they took a look at it together. A crewmember hovered, his
camera held on his shoulder. Several more were mounted on tripods,
with operators behind each, wearing baseball caps and bandanas
around their necks to protect them from the searing, late afternoon
sun.
    An assistant held up a clapperboard. “Let’s
see if we can get this in one take.” The smirk on his face
indicated that he thought otherwise.
    “Here we go,” said Charlene. “Your
adventure’s about to begin.”
    In the end, it took five takes before the
director was satisfied with the footage of the newest cast members
of Contest Island . Our congenial hostess gave us a simple
looking map to our campsite, and we grabbed our things and headed
out in a large group of eighteen players. We would be competing
together in challenges every day, and the bottom two contestants in
each match would be up for Panel, which would see one of the two
voted out. The object of the game was to make it to the final three
with the hope of sharing the three million dollar prize with one
other contestant and being named the Ultimate Champions.
    As we traipsed through the vegetation, I
spoke with Susan and Loren almost exclusively, while a camera
operator followed, recording every word. When agreeing to do the
show, I knew my life would be an open book for however long I
managed to stay in the game. I didn’t mind being shadowed by a
bulky