Lush Curves (A BBW Erotic Romance)
By
Delilah Fawkes
Aolani
The
carafe toppled off the counter, and I watched in slow-motion horror as it
headed straight for the hardwood floor of the studio. Coffee splashed
everywhere, making me shriek as the liquid hit my white blouse and began
running down my cleavage and into my bra.
“Shit,”
I said under my breath. “Shit, shit, shit. ”
This
was my first time helping out with a photo shoot, and I was already making a
mess of things. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and threw them down on the
spill, hoping to contain it while I dealt with the coffee ruining my new top.
If
the marketing director saw the mess I was making of the craft services table,
or of myself, for that matter, he’d flip a gasket. The shoot was already
running a day behind, the models were restless, and he was taking out his
anxiety on all of us at whatever chance he could get. I suppose it’s not easy
pleasing the CEO of a company that designs and sells yachts to the wealthy, but
the man could still use a serious attitude adjustment.
“Please,
baby. Just get back on top of the set piece. You’re at sea! You’re loving life!
How hard can it fucking be, sweetie?!”
I
blotted at my chest, the fabric sticking to my curves in a way that made me
want to cover up and hide. I glanced over at the willowy blonde that Martin,
the photographer, was yelling at. She crossed her bony arms over her bikini and
glowered at him in a way that made me snicker. Although as I looked down at my
own body, my ample hips and breasts, the smile faded away. Growing up in
Hawaii, I’d never felt out of place, but here in L.A., I was plus size, and
stuck out like a sore thumb. My thick sheet of black hair flowing down my back
and brown skin certainly didn’t help among the sea of shimmering blondes.
I
sighed, wondering why I’d come here in the first place. Sure, I wanted to be a
photographer with my own studio, but that dream seemed farther away than ever
here, instead of just within reach, like I’d hoped. Instead of working my way
up, I felt trapped, stuck in entry-level hell.
I
remembered the words my grandma used to tell me when we’d sit on her lanai
watching the sunset. She’s run her calloused hand over my hair and tell me, “If
you don’t chase your dreams, Aolani, how will you ever catch them?”
So
here I was, taking the advice of a woman who’d never left the islands, feeling
like I was completely adrift. And about to get screamed at if I didn’t clean up
this spill pronto.
I
bent down to work with the soggy mess of paper towels at my feet when I heard
an unfamiliar voice behind me. There was a hint of Scottish brogue to it, which
made me glance over my shoulder, curiosity winning out over fear of my boss’
wrath.
My
breath caught in my throat.
Standing
next to the fake yacht deck and cranky model was the most gorgeous man I’d ever
seen. He was wearing a light grey suit that fit his body to a tee, and I
noticed it hugging his shoulders and waist in a way that suggested a lithe,
muscular build beneath the exquisitely tailored fabric. His chestnut-colored
hair was long, falling in waves just past his chin, but swept back away from
his face in a way that tamed it into sophistication. A hint of stubble ran
along his jaw, making me want to reach out and touch him, to run my fingers
along his cheek to see how rough his beard was. But when he turned and gazed at
me, it was his hazel eyes that held me captive.
That
is, until I realized I was on all fours, pointing my rear at him, with a
handful of dripping trash. His eyes traveled over my body, taking in the view,
before casually moving back to Martin and his shoot. I scrambled up and threw
the towels away, then tried hastily to blot my chest again. Who was this man
and what was he doing on set? He seemed like someone important.
Way to make a great first impression,
Aolani... Ugh.
I
looked down and sighed. My white blouse was
By
Delilah Fawkes
Aolani
The
carafe toppled off the counter, and I watched in slow-motion horror as it
headed straight for the hardwood floor of the studio. Coffee splashed
everywhere, making me shriek as the liquid hit my white blouse and began
running down my cleavage and into my bra.
“Shit,”
I said under my breath. “Shit, shit, shit. ”
This
was my first time helping out with a photo shoot, and I was already making a
mess of things. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and threw them down on the
spill, hoping to contain it while I dealt with the coffee ruining my new top.
If
the marketing director saw the mess I was making of the craft services table,
or of myself, for that matter, he’d flip a gasket. The shoot was already
running a day behind, the models were restless, and he was taking out his
anxiety on all of us at whatever chance he could get. I suppose it’s not easy
pleasing the CEO of a company that designs and sells yachts to the wealthy, but
the man could still use a serious attitude adjustment.
“Please,
baby. Just get back on top of the set piece. You’re at sea! You’re loving life!
How hard can it fucking be, sweetie?!”
I
blotted at my chest, the fabric sticking to my curves in a way that made me
want to cover up and hide. I glanced over at the willowy blonde that Martin,
the photographer, was yelling at. She crossed her bony arms over her bikini and
glowered at him in a way that made me snicker. Although as I looked down at my
own body, my ample hips and breasts, the smile faded away. Growing up in
Hawaii, I’d never felt out of place, but here in L.A., I was plus size, and
stuck out like a sore thumb. My thick sheet of black hair flowing down my back
and brown skin certainly didn’t help among the sea of shimmering blondes.
I
sighed, wondering why I’d come here in the first place. Sure, I wanted to be a
photographer with my own studio, but that dream seemed farther away than ever
here, instead of just within reach, like I’d hoped. Instead of working my way
up, I felt trapped, stuck in entry-level hell.
I
remembered the words my grandma used to tell me when we’d sit on her lanai
watching the sunset. She’s run her calloused hand over my hair and tell me, “If
you don’t chase your dreams, Aolani, how will you ever catch them?”
So
here I was, taking the advice of a woman who’d never left the islands, feeling
like I was completely adrift. And about to get screamed at if I didn’t clean up
this spill pronto.
I
bent down to work with the soggy mess of paper towels at my feet when I heard
an unfamiliar voice behind me. There was a hint of Scottish brogue to it, which
made me glance over my shoulder, curiosity winning out over fear of my boss’
wrath.
My
breath caught in my throat.
Standing
next to the fake yacht deck and cranky model was the most gorgeous man I’d ever
seen. He was wearing a light grey suit that fit his body to a tee, and I
noticed it hugging his shoulders and waist in a way that suggested a lithe,
muscular build beneath the exquisitely tailored fabric. His chestnut-colored
hair was long, falling in waves just past his chin, but swept back away from
his face in a way that tamed it into sophistication. A hint of stubble ran
along his jaw, making me want to reach out and touch him, to run my fingers
along his cheek to see how rough his beard was. But when he turned and gazed at
me, it was his hazel eyes that held me captive.
That
is, until I realized I was on all fours, pointing my rear at him, with a
handful of dripping trash. His eyes traveled over my body, taking in the view,
before casually moving back to Martin and his shoot. I scrambled up and threw
the towels away, then tried hastily to blot my chest again. Who was this man
and what was he doing on set? He seemed like someone important.
Way to make a great first impression,
Aolani... Ugh.
I
looked down and sighed. My white blouse was
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