The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 62 - 63

Chapter 62

In the days that followed I numbed the fuck out.

Couldn’t believe it. Chase—such an ass.

Except… yeah. I could.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Somewhere deep, buried under wine and cake, I knew he wasn’t wrong.

Didn’t mean I was ready to hear it.

Or feel it.

So I didn’t.

I shoved it down—hard. Every breath, every bite, every broken thought.

But the way he looked at me? Like he still loved me. Like it killed him to walk. Like letting go cost him something he’d never get back?

Yeah.

I believed him.

God help me, I really fucking did.

Jordan tried. Sweet, loyal, steady-as-hell Jordan. Always in my corner. Always that safe place to fall.

Chase leaving? Split the condo clean down the middle.

Jordan kept acting like we could live on the fault line—like the floor wasn’t already cracking beneath us.

But when it came time for Chase to pack?

I made sure I wasn’t home.

Booked a hair appointment. Poured myself into my stretchiest black leggings—second skin with an attitude and zero fucks given.

Threw on the matching cami that barely contained my boobs, slipped into my darkest Gucci shades, glossed up like heartbreak didn’t dare touch me, and squeezed my overfed ass into the driver’s seat of my poor, groaning Audi.

And yeah, I mean squeezed.

Because at that point?

Getting in took a hip wiggle, a deep breath, and more core strength than I currently had. My belly pressed against the steering wheel. My ass spilled over the seat like it was trying to escape. Seatbelt extender? Oh yeah. I had Jordan put that in a few weeks after my birthday. And when I pulled the door shut?

It clicked with resistance.

I was officially testing the structural limits of German engineering.

Did I care?
Not even a little.

Because I didn’t need to watch Chase fold his shirts like it wasn’t the end of the fucking world. Didn’t need to hear the zip of that dopp kit sealing up our history. Didn’t need to see him take that worn-in hoodie I used to steal and sleep in—one that used to feel like a hug, but lately fit me more like a halter top.

And I definitely didn’t need to watch him walk out with that cologne that still clung to my sheets like a ghost.

He texted. Said he wanted to talk. Called. Said he missed me.

I told him I wasn’t surprised then hung the fuck up. 

He had his chance, and if he thought I was going to move to Fresno he was fucking crazy.

I pulled into the salon like paparazzi were parked across the street—cameras out, ready for the scandal.

Didn’t matter that I was unraveling underneath.

Glossed. Fluffed to hell and back. Blowout big, blonde, and bold enough to make any man think twice about walking away. Lashes curled, lips lined, tits spilling out of my cami.

Blonde bombshell. Hot mess.

Didn’t matter.

I looked like revenge sex and red velvet cake rolled into one.

I plopped back into my car—lit a cigarette with hands still smelling like product and heat spray.

Chain-smoked like it was exercise.

Drove straight to McDonald’s. Then Chick-fil-A. Hit Dairy Queen like it was calling my name, and just for the hell of it? Swung by Crumbl too.

Burger wrappers piling up. Carton of fries in the console. Frosting smeared on my lips. I licked it off like someone was watching, like the camera was still rolling, like Cel Monroe never turned off.

Smoke curled out the window, smooth and sharp.

A fuck-you exhale to the whole fucking world.

I didn’t go home.

Not until I was sure Chase was gone. Long gone.

Because the truth?

I wasn’t ready to feel the hurt.

So I fed it.

Stuffed it down with every bite. Every puff. Every bite-sized piece of the life now broke in half.

Jordan kept trying.

Rubbing my back. Pouring my wine. Handing me tissues while I sat there crying—swearing I wasn’t crying over Chase, even though we both knew I was.

He offered to beat the hell out of Sam Walters just to make me laugh.

Normally, that would’ve worked.

I’d have smirked. Pulled him close. Maybe let him peel off the robe and distract me with that mouth of his.

But now I barely blinked.

Something in me had gone cold.

Maybe I looked at him like a second-place ribbon. And maybe he felt it.

I didn’t mean to.

But he wasn’t Chase.

And maybe—fuck—maybe I’d been in love with Chase way longer than I ever had the guts to say out loud.

But saying it?

That felt like dying.

So I didn’t.

I kept the wine flowing. Kept the smokes lit. Edibles on rotation like they were vitamins.

Slept too much. Moved too little. Ate constantly.

By the end of the month, I could barely make it from the bed to the fridge. Belly was getting in the way of everything. Breathing shallow just from shifting on the sectional.

Everything jiggled. Everything ached.

But I kept going.

Because food didn’t judge.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look at me like it was worried about me.

But then even fucking Jordan did.

Third night in a row, I’d devoured an entire family-sized pizza—hot, greasy, folded slice after slice like I was making love to it—then chased it with a tub of mint chip and the last of the whipped cream straight to the mouth. Didn’t even pause to breathe.

I was sunk deep into the sectional—robe barely hanging on, one tit out, cigarette dangling from my fingers. Belly flushed, high, round as hell. Thighs spread wide, tipsy, and too full to move.

And there he was.

Across the room. Watching.

Hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t offered to feed me this time.

Just gave me that look.

The same one Chase gave me before he left.

Not disgust. 

Concern.

And that was the fucking line.

“What?” I gasped, voice already slurred from the bottle and a half of wine I’d knocked back. “You (huff) gonna just stand there and look at me like that, (gasp) or are you gonna fucking say it?”

He blinked. “Cel—”

“Don’t fucking ‘Cel’ me,” I snapped. “Don’t start this. Not with that (hiccup) look on your face.”

“Are you okay?” he said, quiet. Too quiet.

I let out a bitter laugh, lifted my glass—pink-stained, smudged—and took a long, messy sip.

“Of course I’m fucking (burp) okay. Why (gasp) wouldn’t I be?” Sharp, breathy, my hand shaking as I brought the cigarette back to my lips.

He stared, all sad and handsome, like that was supposed to change something.

“Don’t fucking (cough) look at me like that.” I waved the cigarette like it was casting a spell. “What’s next? Gonna (huff) tell me to do yoga, or fucking do (gasp) exercise like you did before?”

He sighed. Frustrated. “Come on, that was when I was trying to support what you said you wanted. You said you wanted to slow down and get healthier a long fucking time ago. You said you wanted to stay at 240 or whatever.”

“Yeah, (hiccup) well,” I huffed, setting my wine down and shifting on the cushions with effort, belly rising like dough in the oven, “that was when I was still brainwashed by society and still too deep (huff) in my own fucking baggage.”

“Yeah, but do you really need to smoke this much? Drink this much?”
 His voice got tight—real tight.
 “You said you hit your goal, but you’re still eating. You can’t just keep gaining like this. I’m not judging. I’m just—” He paused, swallowed. “I’m worried. Feels like you’re doing it for your fans now. Like you’re making too much money to stop.”

I dragged on my cigarette, slow and deep. Laughed—dry, cold—as I coughed straight through the exhale.

“Oh, you’re (gasp) worried now too?” Tone sweet. Laced with venom.

His jaw ticked.

I didn’t let up.

“Our whole thing (gasp) was based on (cough, cough) me being your little feedee fantasy,” I said, voice slurring, eyes glassy. “You were right there with me, and don't fucking (pant) act like you aren't getting off on every pound (gasp) I gain.”

He stepped forward, reached out. “Celeste—please—”

“No.” I bit the word off, voice thick with smoke, wine, and the kind of hurt I’d buried under pounds of frosting and lace. “Don’t (huff) call me that.”

He froze.

And just like that? It landed.

Celeste Somerset?

She was gone.

Cel Monroe had taken over—one undersized cami, one moan-filled stuffing video at a time. 

“You changed,” he said. “The fans, the money... you let it swallow you whole. You don’t even see it. You don’t see you anymore.”

I fluttered my lashes, took a drag from my cigarette, let the smoke roll out like a kiss I wasn’t offering him.

“Good,” I said. “Celeste (gasp) almost married Tanner. Let Sam Walters humiliate her. Starved herself, called guilt discipline, and treated (huff) calories like they were evil.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t even move.

Just stood there—watching me like I was slipping through his fingers and he couldn’t figure out how to stop it.

“Yeah, well...”  His voice cracked. “I miss her. I miss the real Cel.”

I leaned back, took another long, sultry drag from my cigarette and exhaled towards his face.

I shifted my hips, let my robe slip from my shoulders—heaving breasts on full display, thighs spreading wide like they had every fucking right to take up the space they did.

Each thigh?

Easily way bigger than Jordan’s waist now, maybe bigger than his torso and he’s not a small guy. 

They weren't even thighs anymore; they were pillows. Giant orbs of fat, and I wanted to make damn sure Jordan knew it.

“This—” I gasped, voice smoky, low, lethal, “(wheeze, gasp)... this is the real Cel.”

He left two days later.

And just like with Chase, I made sure I was gone first—didn’t need to hear goodbye, and didn’t need to give him the chance to talk me into anything.

Wax appointment booked—because that’s what a girl does when she needs to escape with dignity and extra smooth legs.

And if that also meant hitting every drive-thru I saw?

So fucking be it. Pain looks better with lip gloss and fries. 

Audi idling, cigarette between my lips. Sunglasses on like I was rolling into a premiere, not spiraling through a binge. Hair wild. Robe barely clinging over a tank that didn’t cover shit. Belly poking out. No fucks given.

First stop? KFC. Extra crispy. Mashed potatoes, honey-drenched biscuits, a bucket of tenders, and gravy I practically drank. Ate half in the parking lot, one leg out the door, panting like that’d make space.

Then Cane’s. Extra toast. Double sauce.
 Taco Bell—Crunchwrap, nacho fries, Baja Blast. Don’t even remember ordering it. Just wrappers, crumbs, and that warm, stuffed buzz I was chasing like comfort in a cup holder.

I was stuffed, warm and relaxed.

Exactly how I wanted to feel strutting into my wax place in Bellevue.

They know me. They don’t ask questions. The table’s wide. The wax is hot. They’ve learned how to work around all this extra.

It takes more now—more time, more effort. Bit of lifting. Lot of shifting. I was red-faced and gasping just from the walk in. Back aching. Vision fuzzy. But I did it.

Because no matter how wrecked I am?

Cel Monroe stays clean and soft always.

Waddling back from the front desk, belly smacking against my thighs with each step, might’ve been the most I’d moved all week, so yeah—earned myself a reward afterwards.

Krispy Kreme.

Dozen glazed. Still warm.

Pulled in, parked, popped the lid—

Ate four right there in the driver’s seat.

Sugar on my cleavage, thighs spread wide, seat groaning under me like it had something to say about it.

Hell, the whole car shifted with every bite—suspension creaking like it was begging for mercy.

And when I rolled back into the condo?

Jordan was gone.

Left a note on the fridge, I guess where he knew I would find it, written in that stupidly childlike handwriting of his. 

When you’re ready to come back to yourself, I’ll be here. I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ll love you forever.

Ugh.

I lit a cigarette.

Burned the note in the toilet. Flushed the ashes like they never mattered.

Yeah, I was over 400 pounds. But I was still giving mid-size curvy, thank you very much.

Sure, the number was high. But the vibe?

Soft in all the right places.

Stacked where it counted.

And still turning heads everywhere I went. And if Jordan and Chase couldn’t man up and admit how much they loved this body—loved me—just the way I was? Then they weren’t men worth my time.

Then I ordered a dozen cupcakes from Cupcake Royale, because the idea of not being surrounded by tasty treats?

Terrifying.

Now it was just me. Muggles. My fans. My food.

And silence—the kind I earned, the kind I own.

I lit another cigarette—just because I could.

Tried not to think about Chase or Jordan lighting it for me. Tried not to think about the way their hands used to shake just a little when they did. Tried not to feel the soft, aching weight of everything I’d kept shoving down.

All the heartbreak. All the regret. All the messy, sticky truth I’d buried under frosting and “I’m fine.”

But I was fine. More than fine. I was fire in soft skin.

So I went live. Gave them a show—my fans, the ones who actually knew how to appreciate a real woman with real curves.

Me, in bed, nothing on but a bra and thong. On all fours, belly hanging, ass to the camera—big, soft, swaying and wobbling with every breathless move. Wiggling, jiggling, cupcakes in hand—one after the other. Moaning soft, sucking on frosting, soaking up the comments like they could fill a hole that went way too deep.

And yeah—even after—sprawled out in bed, legs too heavy to move, too stoned to care, cupcake crumbs on my tits…

I still reached for another one.

Because feeling full?

Still hurt less than feeling empty.

Chapter 63

The next day?

I didn’t fall apart. Didn’t break.

I expanded, actually.

Because if Chase and Jordan weren’t going to comfort me anymore, I’d find something that would.

Something thicker. Sweeter. Deep-fried, smothered in cheese, or dipped in chocolate with a whipped cream chaser.

So I did what anyone does when life hits like a truck. 

I texted my girls.

SYDNEY & LIZZIE: Emergency hang. Bring carbs. And backup.

They showed up fast—pure chaos in heels.

Sydney strutted in wearing a matching glam set, juggling three party-sized pizzas and a grocery bag stuffed with wine like the queen she was.

Lizzie followed, stomping in glitter boots, faux-fur coat hanging off her shoulders, no pants—just a pair of men's boxer briefs stretched tight over her thighs and ass. No explanation. None needed.

Sydney dropped the pizzas and wine on the coffee table like she was laying down an offering at the altar of heartbreak and hunger.

Then she crossed the room, pulled me in, and hugged me tight.

Lizzie joined from the other side—all boobs, belly, and sparkly chaos.

And we stood there. Squished. Breathless. Holding on like the world had stopped spinning for just a second.

I wheezed.

They squeezed harder.

Sydney’s glossed lips brushed my ear. “I’m (huff) so sorry girl.”

Then she pulled back, grabbed the blunt from her bra like a magician, lit it, and took a long drag before passing it to me.

Lizzie was already pouring wine. “Fifteen thousand calories and a slow, sensual belly rub from yours truly,” she purred, topping off my glass like it was her calling. “You’ll be back to goddess mode by midnight.”

I didn’t argue.
Didn’t fake a smile.

I just collapsed on my sectional, leaned back, parted my lips…

And let them worship me in carbs.

Let them feed me while Muggles watched like we were crazy.
Let them crawl into bed with me like we were sixteen again—drunk on sugar, wine, and unconditional, no-judgment love that only girls like them give.

And right then?

That was all I needed.

The days that followed?

No schedules. No guilt. 

Just food. Filming. Fun.

We made content that crossed lines—and then jumped right over them in stilettos.

Trio stuffings. Extreme stuffings. More funneling. Dessert roulette. "Who can moan louder" challenges that almost got us flagged.

We’d go on rants about how our bodies were the least interesting things about us—then turn around and take pics of all three of our butts bent over, smushed together like a bakery display gone wild.

The fans ate it up. So did I.

I wasn’t trying to balance fantasy and reality anymore—hell, the fantasy was the reality.

And if that meant dipping a little further past 400? So be it.

By mid-April, I weighed in at 408.4.

Sydney screamed like I’d just won a Grammy. Lizzie got misty-eyed, hand over her heart like I was floating down the aisle in slow motion—draped in frosting instead of lace.

Way better than the grim, tight-lipped stares I got from Chase and fucking Jordan when I hit 400.

Like I’d died instead of leveled up. 

I posted a selfie right after.

Glossed pout. Cupcake at my lips. Mid-lick—lavender frosting clinging to my tongue like it knew it was delivering the goods.

Eyes heavy-lidded, glowing like I’d already gone too far… and had every intention of going further.

Caption?
 “I’m just going to keep getting bigger if I don’t stop soon.”

Which, obviously I wasn’t planning on getting much bigger, But a girl’s gotta play along for her fans, right?

But yeah… somewhere between the cupcakes and the cocktails, I had to admit—

Life without my boys, my former knights?

It hit different.

No man hovering, desperate for sex.
No man topping off my plate like I was made of frosting and thigh fat.
No man treating me like I’d snap if I stood too fast.

And maybe that was a good thing.

Maybe it meant I’d move a little more, build back some strength, get myself out of bed with a little more grace.

Hitting 400 was hot. Bold. A whole damn moment.

But like I said, I wasn’t exactly planning to blow past it—didn’t need to hit forklift status just to get to the fridge.

Still… left on my own?

Just me, Muggles, my fans, and the occasional stuffing session with my fellow model girlfriends?

Somehow, I got even lazier.

Hired a couple older ladies to deep-clean the condo once a week, because let’s be real—no way I had the energy for that.

I was busy being Cel Monroe.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)