The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 64 - 65

Chapter 64

Spring slowly melted towards summer, and to my slight surprise—though let’s be real, not that surprised—I just kept growing.

And not because I was trying. Because once I started eating? I usually couldn’t stop. LOL, but also... not kidding.

Everything expanded—my ass. My thighs. My appetite. My fan count.

What didn’t expand?

My lungs.

I’d still wake up gasping, chest tight, head fuzzy, convinced I was suffocating under my own cleavage. I couldn’t sleep on my back at all anymore—my belly pushed up so high it felt like a weighted blanket I didn’t ask for. Couldn’t lie on my side long either—hips ached, thighs got pinched, boobs threatened to knock the air right out of me.

So one night—2 a.m., still sticky and bloated from a sponsored cheesecake stuffing-I gave in. Pulled up Amazon, typed CPAP, read some reviews, and just fucking bought it.

Next morning, box was on my doorstep.

High-tech. White. Sleek.

I watched the tutorial with a mimosa in one hand, cigarette in the other, muttering “how hard could it be?” while Muggles looked at me like I was delusional.

That night I strapped it on.

Mask over my nose, tube trailing to the machine like I was hooked up to a spaceship. 

Did it feel sexy?

Not really.

But I slept.

The kind of sleep I hadn’t had in forever. No gasping. No panicked frosting dreams. Just sweet, uninterrupted silence and the soft hum of a machine pushing air into my face like it was reminding me I was still alive.

Sure, I looked like Darth Vader crossed with a chubby post-binge Barbie, but the stupid thing worked, so... whatever.

Sydney showed up the next day with champagne and a box of pastries, and five shopping bags full of what she called “jeans for queens.”

“You’re never (gasp) too big for denim,” she said, dropping the bags like she was delivering salvation. “And if these don’t (huff) stretch over that ass, we sue.”

She popped a bottle and we got to work.

First pair? Didn’t make it past the knees. I was panting, doubled over, squeezing out champagne burps between gasps.

Second pair got halfway up my thighs before I wheezed, “I (gasp) can’t breathe,” clutching the sectional for dear life while my boobs bounced beneath my skimpy black tank like they were making a run for it. Sydney was on the floor, crying with laughter, calling me a goddess and swooning over how amazing my ass was in my lacy black thong.

Third pair?

Ultra-stretch. Marketed like a miracle. Size 5X.

Ripped halfway up.

Dead silence.

I looked at Sydney. She looked at me. And then we lost it.

I collapsed onto the sectional, my huge belly jiggling, mascara smudged, looking like a trainwreck.

A hot trainwreck—but still.

Sydney raised her glass, smirking. “To a butt (pant) made to break denim.”

“Fucking (gasp) cheap fabric,” I panted, swiping sweat from between my boobs with the back of my hand. “Didn’t (huff) stand a chance.”

Next up? The biggest pair—size 36. Medium blue, super stretchy, perfect fade. And I could actually get them on, too bad they were actually a little too loose for my style.

Sydney raised a brow. “Ooh, keep (gasp) those ones. You might grow into them. If you fill them out, (pant) you’d look freaking amazing.”

I blinked. “These are (huff) massive.”

She looked me up and down and giggled. “Couple more stuffing vids and they’ll fit like a glove, especially with the way you’ve been going.”

Eventually—after a breath check, a spritz of perfume—we got me into a pair that actually fit.

Size 34. High-rise. Deep stretch.

My ass? Lifted. My vibe?

Bad bitch, fully activated.

We filmed everything—open denim over lingerie, twerking attempts that lasted two seconds and ended in wheezing, and coughing. 

Afterward, Sydney flopped down beside me, flushed and glowing, hair stuck to her forehead.

She pulled out her phone, tapped the latest video she did as SupersizedSyd, and held it up between us.

Her and her husband, tangled in bed. He was feeding her donut holes like he was devoted—slow, greedy bites, eyes on her like she was the moon, the stars, and the cream filling in between.

“This,” she said, nudging me, breathless and smug, “this is what (pant) real love looks like. You’ll find your guy soon, I’m sure of it.”

I believed her.

And yeah… I missed that. The way Chase and Jordan used to look at me—like I was everything. Used to feed me whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it because they knew stuffing me silly was the fastest way to get me naked.

And I wanted that again. Not from them, obviously. But from someone who really got it. Got me.

I didn’t want some guy sitting across from me with that tight jaw, saying, “I’m worried,” like an idiot.

I wanted a man who’d take me out to a huge dinner, then hit every damn drive-thru on the way home and buy me more food—without me even asking. Someone who got turned on watching the numbers climb on the scale more than I did. Who didn’t blink at the way I indulged. Because he knew how special I was. And he knew I deserved it.

Hell, I wanted him to grab my hips, look me dead in the eye, and say, “Baby, I’m feeding you extra tonight… ‘cause you’re not fat enough for me yet.”

Yeah. 

That. 

But I was glad I had a friend like Sydney. To laugh with me through every ripped seam, every bottle of wine, every late-night cupcake confession. And that was enough.

For now.

Chapter 65

June came and the rain finally backed off. The skies opened up. That soft, golden kind of light poured over Seattle like an apology for the last six months. The whole city smelled like lilacs and street food, and everyone was suddenly outside—half-naked, coffee in hand, pretending we hadn’t just been buried under clouds and seasonal depression since October.

At least as far as I could tell from the 38th floor.

Me?

I was 422 pounds on my last Patreon weigh-in.

I don’t know if it’s my metabolism throwing in the towel now that I’m closer to 30 than 20, or if I’ve just hit my final form as a spoiled, stuffed goddess—but the weight?

It seemed to be piling on faster now. My arms were soft, heavy, made it a full upper-body event every time I reach up to fluff my hair or adjust my robe, and don’t even get me started on the girls—my boobs have become a whole situation, threatening to smother me if I roll too far left in bed.

I just couldn’t stop eating. Even at this size, my appetite? Still insatiable.

I wasn’t nibbling.I was devouring.

Grazing like the queen that I was, sprawled on a throne built from carbs, curves, and couture loungewear that cost more than most people’s rent—and clung to my butt like it wanted to be eaten too.

I was always shoving something between my lips. I just couldn’t stop.

This wasn’t some cutesy “teehee, I love cupcakes” thing. Wasn’t a phase.

Apparently, 400 wasn’t a number I stumbled into. Apparently I claimed it.

I wore it like it came with a crown, made it look like art, and I was doing it beautifully—being this big was sexier than I ever imagined, with more satisfaction than I thought possible. So yeah… you can see why I wasn’t exactly rushing to exercise any willpower. Or, you know, exercise at all. I was just way too comfy with my lifestyle.

I had the ass of a girl who’d settled in.

Into her body. Her cravings. Her appetite—for food, for attention, for praise she didn’t have to earn and pleasure she didn’t have to ask for.

And yeah… sometimes that kind of living?

It comes with weight gain.

Sometimes “just one size up” turns into a full-on fashion renaissance.

Which, honestly? I’ll take. Any excuse to online shop with a bottle of wine in one hand and a bag of chips in the other? Yes, please.

Weekly clothing deliveries became a lifestyle.

Every robe in my closet? Upgraded. Expanded.

Heavier silk. Richer colors. Slits that promised. Necklines that dared.

Size 5X—and even then, they barely closed over the softness that was my signature.

But they didn’t need to.

Cigarette tucked between my getting-really-chubby fingers. Glass of pinot in my other hand, nails long, glossy, and the exact shade of “try me.” Hips so wide I had to twist sideways to get through my own damn bathroom door—and even then, it was a squeeze that came with sound effects.

People stared more than ever when Sydney and I went out.

Two super-thick baddies in full glam—hair teased to the heavens, lashes thick enough to fan the flames of desire.

We’d order half the menu with our OnlyFans money, never caring about prices. Ate and drank until we were stuffed, sweating, and blissed out in lipstick and designer stretch, barely able to move and not caring one bit.

We tipped like brats. Made the servers work for every refill. Sent things back just because we could. Complained about chairs that were too narrow, barstools that groaned when we sat, and service that didn’t move as fast as our cravings did.

We didn’t just waddle in—we arrived. Okay, fine… we waddled, but we did it with elegance.

All hips and heels, dangly earrings, glossy lips, and tits that bounced like they had somewhere to be. When you saw us?

You didn’t forget.

Sometimes we crashed at my place, sometimes hers.

Met her husband Kegan—tattoos, calm energy, and the kind of man who knew exactly who he married and didn’t just accept it, welcomed it.

He’d make us breakfast like it was his love language and never blinked when I showed up half-dressed, hungover, hair in a claw clip, and a donut in each hand.

But going out solo?

That was a different story.

First off, if I went out at all, even just errands—Whole Foods, Sephora, wherever—it was hard fucking work.

First? The shimmer. Then boob powder—because these girls? Stick together like frosting in July if I don’t prep. Then the gloss—thick, wet, just how I like it.

And then? Squeezing my butt into the car without pulling something, sweating through my top, or having a wardrobe malfunction before I even hit reverse.

Belly pressing against the wheel. Thighs snug against the console. Had to lean just right or I’d honk the damn horn with my tits—which, yes, has happened. More than once.

By the time I got buckled in, I needed a cocktail, a snack, a full-body nap, and definitely a cigarette. 

And the stares?

They hit different when Sydney wasn’t with me.

Longer. Slower. Like people couldn’t decide if they were horrified, hypnotized, or horny as hell.

Probably all three. 

Mostly, it was older women—shooting me those tight-lipped judgmental glances, like I was single handedly ruining their idea of feminism one ass jiggle at a time. Like my size and my comfort with my own figure was some kind of personal attack.

Sorry, Karen—I’m not shrinking for your comfort.

Yeah—I was huge. No sugarcoating it. Didn’t need to.

I was soft. I was full. I was a whole mood.

But I was also styled.

Always glamorous. Always glowing. Always looking like the fantasy these poor, unsuspecting family men—ironically, probably the husbands of the Karens giving me side-eye—didn’t even know they had… until I wiggled by.

Boots clicking.

Huge butt bouncing with every step, swaying like it had a rhythm all its own. Using my cart like a walker—because let’s be real, my lower back needed the support. Belly hanging. Thighs fighting for space in designer leggings that seemed to twist the necks of everyone that saw me.

Even if I was panting halfway through the frozen aisle, gasping for air and adjusting my shapewear before I passed out, then sidestepping toddlers. Hunched over my cart while the kale-chip moms gave me side-eye—the kind of women who "manifest" their way through brunch and act like bread is a personal failure.

It was always a fucking workout.

By the time I’d make it to checkout, I’d be breathless. Sweaty under my tits. And fully convinced I deserved a medal.

Or at the very least—cheesecake. 

And maybe…

Maybe I deserved something else too.

Not just someone to carry the bags. Or rub my feet when I got home. Or peel my top off while I laid there like a beached goddess.

I missed someone feeding me the way I deserved.

Not just with food. But with love. With laughter. With real connection. Someone to make every bite, every touch, every breath feel like dessert.

So when Sydney texted me, told me her friend Autumn—who she’d been raving about since forever—was having a backyard BBQ that upcoming weekend?

Said it would be chill, low-pressure, open-minded, full of people who got it? Guys too? 

Told me to bring my appetite and my ass?

I just said yes.

Because maybe… I was done pretending I didn’t care about having more of a social life. 

I knew the internet probably thought Cel Monroe was out every night—taking over some VIP lounge like it was built for her.

Truth?

I spent most nights alone.

And I missed feeling wanted in person—not just on camera.

Not just through fire emojis, DMs, or tips that came with captions like “Queen, sit on my face.”

I missed a real hand on my waist. A real mouth on my neck.
A man looking at me like I was a meal—not a performance.

And yeah… I missed love.

Not the safe kind. Not the beige, “hey let’s go to the gym and work on getting healthy together” kind.

I missed the kind that grabs your big ass like it’s the reason he wakes up in the morning—and tells you he wants it even bigger. The kind that shows up with your favorite dessert just because he can’t get you off his mind—feeds it to you slow, with that look that says he knows it’s going straight to your hips…and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

That hot, hungry, ride-or-die kind of love. Messy. Delicious. The kind that sticks to your butt—and stays. The kind that sees everything. Soft. Wild. Messy. Extra.

And doesn’t just handle it—craves it.

The kind that doesn’t get scared off by more. He wants more.

The kind that always—always—wants more.

I thought I had it with Chase.

And maybe I did. For a minute. Or maybe I just wanted it so damn bad I convinced myself I did.

Maybe I’d still never really let myself be loved. Not the real kind. Not the kind where you let go—where you let yourself receive, all the way.

Vulnerable. Raw. The kind that strips you bare and still says, “Damn, you’re perfect.”

And maybe… I was more starved for connection than I ever was for cake.

Okay—maybe not cake.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)