The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 66 - 67

Chapter 66

It was a Saturday—the kind of early summer evening that made everything feel golden and possible.

The sun hung low over Seattle, casting everything in that soft, buttery light. Sky was clear, just over eighty degrees. The kind of evening that felt like it was meant to be something.

I was dead set on the blue jeans and white tank look for the BBQ. Classic. Sexy. Very Cel Monroe—even if I hadn’t worn jeans in public since, well, literally like a hundred pounds ago.

Kinda sad when you think about it. Especially because, I always look so damn good in jeans.

It was only a few months ago—Sydney and I doing that Jeans for Queens collab—when the size 34s fit like a dream. Snatched my waist, hugged my hips, made my ass look very very kissable.

Now? They barely made it past my knee fat.

So yeah—I was officially poured into the ultra stretchy size 36s. And yes, I said poured.

These were the jeans I could once slide my whole fist under the waistband—no resistance, just extra room and big energy.

The same pair I’d spun around in months ago, and Sydney had said,
 “If you keep going the way you’re going, you’re gonna fill those out and look insane.”

Well…she wasn’t wrong.

I kept them. And I was filling them out.

But holy crap—how big was I now?

I was 422 in May. It was now late June. And while I had a Patreon weigh-in coming up, I always saved the surprise for my fans—so even I didn’t know the number.

But I had a sneaking suspicion I was dancing somewhere past 430.

And these jeans? Yeah… they weren’t just snug.

They were proof.

High-stakes, high-stress, hold-your-breath-while-you-zip proof.

Even the biggest jeans I’d ever heard of—hell, didn’t even know they made them this size—were now struggling.

At this point, I was obviously way too fat for jeans…which made it even hotter that I still insisted on squeezing into them.

They were high-rise. Hugged my waist, cinched tight, even with my back rolls and upper belly spilling over like cake batter. 

My white spaghetti strap bodysuit? Tucked in. Tight. Barely legal.

Straps digging into my doughy shoulders like floss with an attitude. 

Neckline? Low. Real low.

Inches of deep cleavage front and center—battling my ass for the spotlight.
Hot pink bra peeking through, lifting, shaping, teasing just enough to make a man forget his name… and remember mine.

Those last twenty pounds? Yeah, a good chunk went straight to my tits.
And this top wasn’t hiding a thing.

But my booty in these jeans?
I turned, caught a glimpse in the mirror—
 And damn near dropped my lip gloss.

It looked like it came with its own bass drop and a man with big hands who knew exactly where to put them. Round. High. Low. Wide. All of it. 

It jutted out so far behind me, it was ridiculous.
Like, turn-a-corner-two-seconds-after-the-rest-of-me ridiculous.
A full-on shelf.
Hell, a display case.

So wide, the back pockets looked like they were trying not to panic.

I collapsed back into my little vanity bench with a gasp and a creak that scared the hell out of me for half a second, thinking I’d cracked it in half.

Then? Poured another splash of Grey Goose into my vodka cranberry, swirled the ice with my finger, and took a long, cooling sip.

Hair? Down, brushed out, soft waves cascading over my shoulders like I’d just been kissed until I begged for mercy.

Makeup? Smoky eyes, dewy glow, contour strategically blended to keep my jawline from totally disappearing into my neck—because yeah, my chin had started doing that slow slide into soft territory.

My cheeks were definitely puffier. My face was way rounder than it used to be. One little tilt and my triple chin was ready for its close-up.

But even with all that, my face was still fucking stunning. Mesmerizing, honestly.

The weight hadn’t taken anything away—it just added.

Made me look softer, richer… more.

It was the kind of beauty you couldn’t fake, couldn’t even hide really.

I leaned forward—barely—and grabbed another mini cream puff off the tray, popped it in my mouth, then chased it with the rest of my vodka cran.

Everything jiggled. A full-body ripple with every breath, every shift—like just moving had turned into a slow, sultry production.

I was already stuffed.

I’d told myself I’d take it easy that day. Swore I’d save my appetite for tonight. Even got myself poked with a vitamin D shot and a B-12 injection—thinking I’d be cute, energized, in control.

And yet?

There I was—raiding my fridge then Doordashing half the city’s bakeries like I was planning a dessert-themed apocalypse.

Now I could barely sit upright—but still found myself reaching for more.

Arms?
 Bare, flushed, velvet-soft.

My upper arms had thickened right along with the rest of me—so plush they were borderline comical, creeping into head-sized territory, sloping into soft, lazy folds at the elbows.

Inflated?
Yeah.

But so was the rest of me so it all fit.

An extra-wide, bottom-heavy hourglass made to break hearts.

I was Cel fucking Monroe.

The deluxe summertime edition.

Sydney and Kegan pulled up just after six.

I wasn’t running late on purpose—I was just finishing the essentials. Perfecting my pout, curling my lashes, a few extra spritzes of perfume... and a couple more sips of vodka straight from the bottle.

Priorities.

By the time I waddled my way down to the curb, thighs rubbing, boobs bouncing, I needed a cigarette just to steady the weight of what I was working with.

Lit one fast, hands a little shaky. Ankles burning, breath already short, feet screaming in my black leather Tecovas—3-inch heels, sexy enough to be worth the suffering.

Kegan was behind the wheel of his Highlander—rocking that whole I-make-my-own-bitters-and-read-women-poetry-in-bed energy.

Sydney turned in her seat, slid her sunglasses down her nose, and gave me a once-over. 

“Damn,” she said, eyes locked on my hips like they were breaking laws. “Are those the jeans?”

I smirked, blew smoke out the corner of my mouth, and gave my hips a slow, teasing wiggle that made me cough, my belly bounce, and my bodysuit damn near tap out.

“(Cough) Yep,” I gasped, hand to my chest. “Might’ve (gasp, wheeze) grown into them (pant) a little too well.”

“But we love that,” Sydney said. “You look so freaking hot in that outfit it’s ridiculous.”

Kegan opened the back door like a man who knew exactly how to treat a woman with an ass.

Getting into that seat—behind Syd—wasn’t a glide. Wasn’t even a struggle. It was a mission. And my hips were the main obstacle.

I groaned. Wiggled. Huffed, cigarette in one hand, holding onto the edge of the door like it might give me a boost.

With some rocking, a little swearing, and Kegan being very hands-on in that respectful-but-knows-curves kinda way, I finally got in.

Barely.

I swear the whole Highlander tipped to the right—me and Sydney on one side, the car audibly protesting. For a second, I considered crawling behind Kegan instead for like balance or whatever, but the effort? Not happening.

“Holy (pant) shit,” I gasped, rolling down the window and flicking ash from my cigarette. “That was (gasp) a workout.”

Sydney turned her head, grinning. “Can’t wait for you to meet Autumn.”

I tossed my hair back, fanned myself with my free hand, still trying to catch my breath. “I can’t wait to stuff (huff) myself stupid and (pant) get wasted to be honest.”

She reached forward the best she could—overflowing her seat in every direction—then turned back and handed me a venti frappuccino and a pastry bag packed with cake pops.

“Kegan insisted we grab snacks to tide us over.”

“Damn right,” he said, sliding back into the driver’s seat without missing a beat.

I moaned, took a long drag from my cigarette. “You guys (huff) are the (pant) actual best.”

That first sugary sip? Pure heaven.

Then I reached into my purse, pulled out my little bottle of Grey Goose—because of course I came prepared—popped the cap, and poured in a generous splash. Stirred it right into the whipped cream with my straw like the classy girl I am, then handed the bottle to Syd so she could do the same—because we weren’t amateurs.

I melted into the seat as we hit the freeway—hips taking up half the car, belly tight against the seatbelt, which was a struggle to fish out from under my ass and get buckled. Thankfully, Kegan had already clipped in a seatbelt extender because of course he did. That man thinks of everything.

By the time we crossed the bridge and rolled into a quiet suburban neighborhood in Kirkland, I was buzzing—sugar, caffeine, vodka, and cleavage threatening to bust free at every speed bump.

My seat felt like an overstuffed prison. And my body?

Screaming to be let loose from the backseat’s too-tight grip.

Autumn’s place was a cute little one-story—orangey-brown brick, straight outta some 1960’s Pinterest board. Big front windows, curved walkway, and a nice front lawn, manicured and green.

Cars lined the curb, and a few more tucked into the driveway.

Kegan got out, jogged around, and opened the door for Sydney because she needed him—one hand on her hip, the other steadying her wobble like he’d been doing it for years.

Then he turned to me just as I managed to unbuckle and shimmy forward.

I groaned. “Oooff, (gasp) glad (huff) you’re here, Kegan.”

He grinned, easy as ever, and offered his hand. Hauling me out took a little extra effort, and a whole lot of boobs, hips, and thighs coming at him full force.

Once Sydney and I were both out, the Highlander rose. Like the car exhaled in relief.

“So (huff) who’s all coming again?” I asked, the two of us waddling up the walkway like a curvy girl tag team, bracing each other with every step.

“Just a few people,” she said. “Looks like Lizzie’s (pant) already here. Then just Mike and Autumn and one of Kegan’s friends from (huff) when we lived in Green Lake.”

Chapter 67

Sydney didn’t knock. Just pushed the door open and called out, “Hello? Samson, you in here?”

We waddled in—Kegan trailing behind us with a six-pack in one hand and a box of cupcakes in the other like the hero he was.

“They’re (huff) all out back,” Sydney said, waving a hand toward the hallway. “Samson’s their (pant) cat.”

We squeezed past a wine-stocked console table, pastry boxes and a massive charcuterie board that looked like it came with everything. Glittering glasses, stacked meats, and cheese I couldn’t pronounce.

By the time we made it to the sliding glass doors, I was sweating under my boobs, and Sydney looked like she needed a chair, a fan, and someone to carry her, but then again so did I.

Then we stepped out into summer magic.

String lights glowing overhead, throwing off a soft, golden haze. Towering sunflowers along the cedar fence, forget-me-nots spilling sweet across the patio. Grill was sizzling. Music low, sultry—slow-drag sexy. The air thick with barbecue, cigarette smoke, perfume, and something else—something electric.

“Yay! Sydney and Cel are here!” Lizzie squealed from the patio, vape in one hand, hips already swaying like the party had started and we were just catching up.

Then she froze, eyes locking on me. She blinked. Looked me up and down. “Jesus, Cel. You look fucking amazing in those jeans, looks like you’ve been eating well.”

I opened my mouth to say something clever, probably smug, but then I saw her.

Reclined like a queen in a massive outdoor sofa that looked custom-built. Champagne in one hand, cigarette in the other, auburn hair, full and fluffy, spilling to her bare, pillowy white shoulders. She was poured into a black bodycon dress that clung like it had no choice.

Huge boobs, bigger belly, and soft, doughy knees peeking out beneath the hem like they hadn’t stood up for anyone in a while—and weren’t planning to anytime soon.

She was enormous.

Not just bigger than me. Wider than Sydney.

And?

I had to admit, she was actually like stunning.

Her face? Objectively pretty. High cheekbones, full lips, skin like she slept in a vat of moisturizer. Even her ample double chin looked cute. She was a little older than me, probably closer to Sydney’s age but she definitely had a glow about her.

Flushed cheeks, curves that didn’t quit. Rolls that looked like they were styled. Brown eyes sharp and unbothered, locking onto me like she already had me clocked.

She didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.

Sydney launched herself into her like a full-body love bomb, boobs smashing into softness. Autumn lifted her champagne and cigarette like she’d done it a hundred times.

“Oooh (pant) careful,” she said, voice low, slow, lazy-rich.

Then her eyes slid to me.

“Hi I’m Autumn. You must be the (pant) famous Cel Monroe.” Her lips curled like she knew things. “Syd showed me (pant) your Insta. I love it. Sexy, but tasteful.”

I blinked, chest still heaving, trying to smile through the kind of breathlessness you only earn from waddling across a backyard in heels and jeans this fucking tight.

“Ohh, (gasp) thank you.”

“Love how (pant) you keep it elegant,” she added, dragging on her cigarette, stealing my whole damn vibe like she’d invented it.

Was she as pretty as me?
No. Couldn’t be.
I was younger anyway.

Autumn tipped her chin toward the grill. “That’s (huff) my husband, Mike.”

I turned just as the guy working the barbecue shut the lid and faced me.

And my eyes went wide.

No fucking way.

Mike. That Mike.

The facilities guy from the Google campus. The one who never flirted, never stared, never "accidentally" grazed my ass in a hallway. Just fixed things and kept it moving.

I gasped. “Oh my God. (huff) I know you.”

He smiled. “Recruiter, right?”

“Yeah,” I panted, fanning myself, shifting my weight to one hip with way too much effort.

“Thought I recognized you,” he said with that calm, quiet confidence that somehow made it worse.

I shrugged. “I’m not (pant) there anymore.”

“Oh my God,” Sydney cut in as she dropped into the chair kitty-corner to Autumn. “I totally (gasp) forgot you used to work at Google too.”

I gave a breathless laugh. “I probably (gasp) look a little different now.”

Heat crawled from my flushed cheeks down to my thighs—which were already glued to my jeans and cussing me out for everything I’d put them through.

“Sorry,” I gasped, still panting. “I need (gasp) to sit or die.”

I glanced around—Sydney had already claimed the only other chair that looked big enough to handle me. The rest? No thanks. I wasn’t about to risk humiliation for a seat with questionable screws.

There was one spot left.

Next to Autumn.

She barely moved, just shifted an inch and said, “Here, (huff) I can scoot. Don’t worry, (pant) this thing’s super sturdy. It’s bolted to the patio.”

That was all I needed.

I collapsed into the oversized sofa beside her with a groan. My hip pressed into hers, soft on soft, and together we made that heavy-duty piece of furniture look kind of tiny.

My feet? Done.
My back? Filing a complaint.
And those jeans?

Digging into my belly like they were trying to remind me I’d inhaled six cake pops in the car and chased them with vodka and whipped cream.

But once I sank back—cigarette in hand?

I felt… okay.

Squished. A little crammed. But comfortable in that way you only feel around people who get it.

Didn’t even mind being pressed up against Autumn, smooshed together like soft royalty on a throne made for two queens—or like five men.

And yeah, I looked down. Took in her thighs. Her hips.

She was huge. Next-level. The kind of huge that made jaws drop and guys even stupider.

And I’ll admit it—some petty little part of me felt it.
Jealous.

How dare she have a bigger ass than Cel Monroe?

Made me want to binge. Made me think maybe I wasn’t done growing, not even close.

Then Lizzie appeared like some champagne-soaked fairy godmother, and I pried my eyes away.

“For Queen Monroe,” she said, handing me a glass of bubbly with a wink.

I took it with a smirk, dragged deep on my cigarette—so deep it hit low, settled warm and heavy in my chest—and let the smoke roll slow into the thick, honey-sweet air of a summer night that felt too good to be innocent.

Then the sliding door opened.

And my whole damn body froze.

Oh holy hell…

Because the universe, in all her pixie-dusted, chaos-loving glory, wasn’t done messing with me yet.

Striding out of the house carrying a box of cigars like he hadn’t just walked back into my story—was none other than…

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)