The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 70

Chapter 70

One year later…

“Did you (pant) fucking talk to (huff) HOA like I (gasp) told you?” I wheezed as Aaron helped me wiggle through the front door of the condo.

I had to turn sideways just to squeeze through—hips still somehow brushing both sides like I was a wiggling, jiggling, wrecking ball of squishiness wrapped in tights. I let go of Aaron’s steady grip for a second, shuffled inside like a woman one snack away from giving up on this whole mobile lifestyle.

Aaron shut the door behind us, hauling two giant, paper bags of KFC to the kitchen like a man on a mission. Meanwhile, I was doing everything in my power not to collapse under the weight of my own ass.

“Not having (huff) benches or even one damn chair in (cough, cough) an elevator is the dumbest, most fat-phobic (gasp) shit I’ve ever heard of!” I snapped, still panting as I waddled in behind him and tossed my Saint Laurent handbag onto the counter like I was done playing nice with the world.

I plucked a wedgie out of my stretched-to-the-limit black leggings—so tight they were damn near see-through and riding deep and high up my butt crack. Then I tugged at my matching spaghetti strap top, the thing barely hanging on.

Underneath, my lavender sports bra was trying real hard to keep the girls in check—but let’s be honest, it was a whole lotta boob and not nearly enough spandex.

“They’re not gonna do it, babe,” Aaron said, sliding a hand to my waist, grabbing my arm again to steady me like he knew I was seconds from crumbling.

“They said it’s a fire hazard and chairs reduce the number of people that can fit in there.”

“Yeah, well, I (huff) don’t give a single shit about those people, and neither should you,” I huffed. “You should (gasp) only care about what I want.”

“Fair,” he said, totally deadpan as he guided me toward the sectional.

“You know (huff) how hard it is for a woman living (pant) in a gloriously curvy, gloriously exhausted body to stand that long?” I panted, fanning myself like that alone might save me. “Elevators (gasp) were clearly designed by selfish, clueless men who’ve never experienced inner-thigh friction or the kind of high blood pressure that comes from hauling around an ass and a (huff) rack like this at the same damn time.”

“You’re right, baby,” Aaron said, slipping his hand over my huge protruding belly. “Let’s get you off your feet.”

I collapsed onto the sectional with a dramatic whommphhh, the cushions groaning under me like they’d just surrendered.

“Sorry,” I panted, voice soft, sweet, maybe a little helpless. “That doctor just really upset me.”

I was sprawled out—tits heaving, breath shallow, thighs spread wide—taking up way more of the sectional than I used to.

Honestly? I was kinda too big for it now. Might need to upgrade. Or hell, just swap it for a damn sofa bed so I could actually stretch out.

And through all that, I still managed to give Aaron my best wounded look.

“And my (huff) blood sugar is, like, (gasp) dangerously low. I feel dizzy.”

Yeah, I’d had a strawberry cheesecake Blizzard. Fries. A cheeseburger. Soft pretzels drowning in queso. But that was before the doctor’s office. That was, what, over an hour ago?

And sure—soon as we got the KFC order, I tore into that crispy chicken sandwich in the car, didn’t even breathe, chased it with a Pepsi.

Still starving.

Still lightheaded.

Still very much in the mood to eat my feelings.

I was dying.

Exhausted from walking, from standing… from just trying to exist in a world that clearly hadn’t been designed for curves like mine.

I couldn’t even fit in my Audi anymore—Aaron had to drive me everywhere now. Between my ass and my tits, steering had become a full-body contact sport. Turning the wheel felt like trying to parallel park a mattress.

And the doctor’s office?

Don’t even fucking get me started.

Next time, I’m diagnosing myself via Google and calling it a day.

I went in for a simple checkup—just needed to change my birth control, ask about some compression socks, mention the random numbness in my thighs and arms, maybe wiggle out with a little peace of mind.

Instead?

I left sweaty, pissed off, and emotionally wrecked after being told I “needed to lose weight” like that decision belonged to him.

By the time we got home, I’d had it.

Because a girl this soft, this sexy, this extra?

She deserves better than a fat-phobic world with not enough seating options, judgmental scales, and some idiot mansplaining that she’s a pre-diabetic, that her headaches and chest pains are likely caused by “hypertension” like he’s God and he fucking decided.

She deserves wider chairs, wider doorways, elevators with velvet benches, and a man who knows how to light her cigarette and rub her feet at the same time—preferably while calling her “baby” in that low, gruff voice that makes her thighs twitch.

“Don’t worry, baby. I got you,” Aaron said—perfectly on cue—slipping a cigarette between my lips and lighting it like always.

Then he crouched low, hands warm and gentle on my poor, swollen ankles—and slid off my shiny gold Versace tennis shoes.

The second my feet were free, I let out a breathy moan that sounded borderline indecent.

He stood, handed me the remote, and gave me that lazy, knowing smile.

“I’ll bring everything out before I run back down for the rest.”

Then he turned and headed to the kitchen, Muggles trotting right behind him—because she followed him everywhere.

When he came back, arms full of KFC, it felt like my well-earned, post-doctor-visit consolation prize.

Because nothing makes me want to binge harder than some smug-ass doctor telling me to lose weight.

Sixteen-piece chicken tenders. Eight golden, fluffy biscuits. Mashed potatoes drowning in gravy. Creamy mac and cheese. Cool, crunchy coleslaw. Two massive cartons of fries—so big I might let Aaron have a few.

Might.

I leaned forward—belly in the way, thighs spreading, breath already short.
“I need more dipping sauces!” I gasped, grabbing a fistful of fries and shoving them into my mouth.

Aaron was already halfway to the kitchen. “Don’t worry, baby. There’s more to come.”

I flipped on Silo, Season 4, and kept eating—more fries, another drag from my cigarette, twisted halfway in my seat like a goddess in repose.

“And (chew, chew) make me a (chew, chew) Long Island iced tea,” I called after him, voice thick with food and smoke. “With (chew)… whipped cream on top. Extra (gasp) whipped cream!”

I kept going. Ate. Then ate some more. And then kept right on eating—like I couldn’t stop, like I wasn’t gonna stop—until every last bite in front of me was gone.

Aaron came back with the drink—whipped cream piled high—set it on the coffee table like it was sacred.

Bent down, brushed a kiss to the top of my head.

Inhaled deep, like I smelled better than anything he'd ever breathed in.

Which, let’s be real… I did. 

Then he headed back down to grab the rest of the stuff from the car, put away the groceries, unloaded the dishwasher, fed Muggles like the domestic god he was.

By the time he finished? I was buttering my eighth biscuit.

Yeah. Eight, the last one, unfortunately.

He dropped down beside me, hand sliding straight to that strip of bare skin on my lower back—right where the band of my purple thong peeked out like a dirty little secret, tucked between my too-tight leggings and the tank top riding up, squeezing into my fat like a Chinese finger trap.

“Don’t (huff) forget I got a (pant) livestream tonight,” I cooed, then bit into half a biscuit, still warm, still dripping with butter.

“What kind of food do you need?” he asked, thumb dragging over the thick blubbery bulge of my giant love handle, spilling around my waist like it was made to overflow in his hand.

“(chew, chew) Donuts,” I mumbled, pouty, mouth full. “(chew) Two dozen Krispy Kremes.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Two dozen?”

I shoved the rest of the biscuit in, licked the butter from my fingers, and chased it with a deep pull off my Long Island. “(chew) Mmmhmm. (chew, chew).” I swallowed. “The more I eat, (pant) the more they tip—you (pant) know how (wheeze) it goes, plus I (pant) promised I would (gasp) try for two whole boxes this time.”

His hand paused, just for a second, fingers slipping under the edge of my thong.

“You’re not worried at all about what the doctor said?” he asked, voice low, careful.

I dragged the straw through the last of my Long Island, sucking until ice clinked against the glass. Then I wiped the whipped cream from the corner of my mouth with the tip of my finger, licked it clean, and leaned back slow.

“No (gasp) way,” I breathed, legs spreading as I sank deeper, belly gushing soft between my thighs. “Don’t be silly—” I let out a little burp, soft and sudden. “That (gasp) doctor was an idiot.”

I tilted my chin, gave him that slow, sultry Cel Monroe pout. “Besides (gasp) he was saying (huff) Celeste needs to lose weight,” I whispered, leaning toward the coffee table, lashes low. “But Cel Monroe?”

I smirked, lips glossy, voice dropping to a purr as I pulled another crispy, golden strip from the box, dipped in ranch and trailed it toward my mouth.

“Cel Monroe (crunch, chew) doesn’t (chew, chew) shrink herself for anyone, remember?”

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)