The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 58 - 59

Chapter 58

I knew the holidays were gonna be tricky this year.

Still wasn’t speaking to Mom—so Christmas? I could skip. Guilt-free. A gift to myself.

Thanksgiving at Dad’s? No dodging that one.

So I made an executive decision—both Chase and Jordan were coming with me. One on each arm, looking fine as ever, and yeah, I’d tell the family they were just friends, just roommates, hoping no one pressed too hard. Lucky for me, my family already adored them both.

The guys were more than happy to skip their own family Thanksgivings to be with me—called it a no-brainer. Built-in backup, full-body eye candy, and a reminder to every person at that table that yeah, I may be fat, but I was also fabulous.

But the real move?

I wasn’t about to sit there pretending no one noticed how much bigger I’d gotten since last year.

Because at this size—well past where I ever thought I’d land—there was no ignoring it.

So I decided to flip the script.

Give them exactly what they wanted to hear—like I was trying, like I was struggling, like I still cared what they thought.

“Oh, I know I’ve gained a little.” (Cue the dramatic sigh, hand to the hip, other on my belly.) “It just sorta snuck up on me.” (Lower the voice, make it sound humble.) “But I’m on a diet. Doing little walks. Really watching what I eat blah blah blah...”

I rehearsed the lines in the mirror with my lip gloss on. Nailed it.

Because let’s be honest—not a single one of them would understand. Not why I’d let my body get this big, or why I was actually loving it.

And the idea of playing the “poor me” card while Chase handed me pie, Jordan poured my wine, and both of them looked at me like I was what they were most thankful for?

Hot.

Not gonna lie.

Chase and Jordan were totally on board. Thought it was brilliant.

And we pre-gamed. Naturally.

Back at the condo, I went through four outfit changes—minimum. And yes, it was exhausting. Shapewear, heat, heels… all while trying not to sweat off my makeup.

Jordan and I did a shot of vodka to loosen up, lit a joint—he took a few slow puffs, and I, of course, finished it like it was part of my prep routine.

Then I popped open a bottle of wine and polished off almost the whole thing solo.

And let me just say—one of the more frustrating things about getting bigger?

I used to feel a buzz after two or three glasses. Now it takes the whole damn bottle just to catch that warm, floaty high.

Apparently, the glow-up comes with a higher tolerance. Go figure.

Chase—ridged, steady Chase—abstained. He was on driving duty, focused, calm, and sexy as hell with one hand on the wheel and that don’t-worry-I’ve-got-you energy rolling off him.

And unlike Rory? Chase let me smoke in the car. No lectures. No eye rolls. No over-the-top sighs about “air quality.” Just cracked the window, gave me a little smirk, and let me do my thing.

And yeah—I’ll admit it. I was nervous.

Seeing family again, knowing how much I’d grown, how different I looked now… it hit harder than I thought it would.

So I lit up. Again and again.

And when I wasn’t puffing, I was snacking.

By the time we hit the exit ramp, I was four cigarettes deep and halfway through the emergency stash of chocolate covered almond butter cups I kept in my purse like they were survival gear.

Even though I’d been leaning hard into the softness—the fullness, the indulgence—walking into Dad’s house with this much ass, knowing every eye was gonna land on me, sizing me up?

Yeah, that still got to me.

The shapewear wasn’t just for the silhouette. It was armor.

It cinched me in just enough to feel like I had a little control—even if breathing was optional and sitting down took planning.

But then we pulled up to Dad’s like it was a red carpet moment.

I’d been growing my hair out, and it showed—long, thick, falling in soft waves just past my shoulders and the dress was sparkly champagne lace, spaghetti straps, cut low and tight.

No jacket. Didn’t need one. My curves kept me warm.

The Skims held my belly just enough to give me that cartoon hourglass—snatched waist, or at least as snatched as it could be.

Not sure how “slimming” it really was, considering it made my hips and ass look even bigger.

But my boobs were now high, proud H-cups—front and center, stealing the spotlight like they were born to be famous.

I angled the neckline super low—because hey, if my cleavage could do me a solid and distract from just how much of me there really was below it?

Yeah… I was counting on that.

By the time we reached the top of the driveway, I had to pause on the porch, one hand on Chase’s arm, the other pretending like I was adjusting my bra and that I was not, in fact, catching my breath.

And when Grandma Livia saw me?

She didn’t gasp—not right away.

First, she blinked. Like her brain glitched trying to register what she was looking at. Like she had to rewind and go, wait… that’s my little Celeste?

Then came the gasp.

Color drained from her face like I’d walked in naked.

Speechless, for once.

Like I’d offended her, her generation, and every Weight Watchers meeting she ever led. Like I was supposed to slink in head down, ashamed of how big, spoiled, and curvy I’d become.

And let’s be honest—there’s no polite way to say, I didn’t recognize you… you’ve doubled in size.

My feet were throbbing, my knees were screaming, and I was seriously questioning this whole standing upright thing.

“Hi (pant) grandma, (gasp) I know you can (pant) probably tell,” I said, jumping ahead of the conversation, putting my plan into action before she or anyone else had the chance to say a word. “I’ve (huff) gained… a few pounds. But I’m (pant) working on it.”

I let out a dramatic sigh that came out more wheeze than grace.

“New diet. No (huff) more carbs, I just didn’t (pant) realize I’d let myself go so much.”

Still speechless, she reached out and poked my bare upper arm—like she’d just made contact with a marshmallow that moved. Soft, wide, and jiggly like it had its own rhythm.

Jordan turned away, shoulders shaking, trying not to laugh.

Chase handed me a glass of wine the second we stepped into the kitchen— like he’d been waiting for his cue.

I took a long sip, gave him a little wink, then wiggled my way into the dining room and lowered myself into the chair.

The chair groaned. Loudly.

The legs shifted just enough to make me freeze mid-sink, breath held, heart thudding. My butt fully engulfed the seat, spilling over both sides by a lot.

I adjusted the straps of my dress, which were sinking into my shoulders like they’d already surrendered, barely keeping my boobs contained, and took another sip of wine while Jordan loaded me up with food.

Then I picked up my fork like it was an extension of my fingers.

My plate? Overflowing.

Like my cleavage. Like my ass in that poor chair. And I was already shoveling stuffing in my mouth like I was on autopilot.

Thank God Claire was over at Brandon’s this year. She already thought I’d lost my mind. If she saw me tonight? Dressed like this, eating like this? She’d probably stage an intervention before dessert.

Dad was already giving me that look—but bless his clueless heart, he didn’t have the slightest idea about Cel Monroe, he probably just figured I was addicted to carbs or something.

Mom didn’t talk to him anymore. That bridge? Long gone. Nothing but ashes and attitude.

And let’s be real—she’d never admit her daughter built an online empire fueled by softness, sex appeal, and more whipped cream than a Starbucks holiday menu.

Well... maybe to her therapist.

I ate. And kept eating.

Cleaned my plate, every last bite gone in minutes, no second thoughts except thoughts of seconds.

So I looked up, licked my lips, and asked for more.

Chase leaned in, all smooth and focused, helping me pile it back on.

More mashed potatoes. More gravy. More sausages. More stuffing. Just... more.

Tossed back another glass of wine—fourth, maybe fifth. Who was counting? (Spoiler: not me.)

Cheeks flushed, lips glossy, voice all warm and a little wobbly—but still trying to stick to the plan—I gave a sweet little slur between bites, “I (chew, chew) know I (chew) shouldn’t but… (gasp) can you pass the mashed potatoes (hiccup) again, pleeease? They’re just (pant) too good.”

Dead. Silence.

All eyes on me like I’d just announced I was pregnant… with triplets.

But to be fair, I probably looked like I was, even with the shapewear.

Chase scooped another buttery mountain of potatoes onto my plate, grabbed the gravy, and poured it slow—thick and velvety, gliding over those fluffy peaks like he knew exactly what he was doing…

And exactly who he was doing it for.

Because I adored mashed potatoes.

They were my weakness. My comfort. My love language.

And I didn’t wait.

I leaned right in—boobs nearly knocking over Aunt Stacey’s water glass—chasing that next hot, buttery bite like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Jordan topped off my wine like letting me go dry would’ve been offensive.

They doted on me like I was helpless.

Which, I guess I sort of was. Between the heels, the Skims cutting off my circulation, and all of me packed into that little wooden chair, just sitting was a fucking workout.

By the time dessert hit the table I was stuffed.

Rubbed slow circles into my side, trying to ease the pressure from way too many helpings of everything.

And no—I wasn’t done. Not even close.

“Mmm... is (pant) that (hiccup) pecan pie?” I purred, voice breathy, words slurred from the wine. “Ooooff…(gasp) maybe (huff) I’ll try (pant) jusss a small bite.”

Chase tilted his head, gave me that slow, brow-raised look—like he was actually surprised I was still going…

But he didn’t say a word.

Just slid an entire slice in front of me like the smart, sexy man he was—because he knew better than to question a woman with a fork in her hand and momentum.

Jordan, refilled my glass again without looking away from my cleavage, which was rising and falling like it had its own storyline.

I took a bite and moaned. “Uhh(chew, chew), mmmm, God, (chew, chew) so good, (gasp) okay maybe I need more than just a (pant) bite.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Grandma Livia blinking at me, looking like I’d just kicked over a church pew.

Mortified.

Full-on horror show.

Whatever.

I finished that slice in record time—barely chewed, fork already up again before the last bite hit bottom.

I reached for the pie dish, belly pressing hard into the table, making the reach too much effort.

“Ehh... could (huff) you just…?” I waved at it, breath short, nails fluttering like the dramatic queen I was.

Jordan was already up before I finished the sentence.

He cut me a much bigger slice—generous didn’t even cover it—and piled on a mountain of whipped cream.

To Uncle Bob’s shock. To Grandma Livia’s disgust.

To my total delight.

“Oooh... (huff) I jusss can’t (hic) help myself,” I giggled, cheeks flushed, lips sticky with wine and sugar, fork already diving in. “I’ll definately (chew, chew) need to... y’know… (chew, chew) go to the (hiccup) gym tomorrow.”

Jordan bit his cheek and looked down.

Chase glazed around the table, looking a little nervous.

I was stuffed. Super tipsy.

Thighs aching, belly tight and heavy, dress holding on like a hero. Everything in me stretched to the max and gloriously full.

Exactly how I liked it.

And yet, as Chase and Jordan helped me wobble my way out—one on each side like bodyguards—it hit me.

I fucking loved my growing curvy figure.

It was so ironic and stupid that around my family I had to pretend that I didn’t. 

Like I wasn’t out here living my plushest, most indulgent, most Cel Monroe life.

It was sad. Silly. Totally fucking ridiculous.

Because let’s be real—the only thing bigger than my butt… was their discomfort with the fact that I didn’t hate it.

Chapter 59

I spent the rest of the year doing exactly what I did best—lounging in full-blown luxury, surrounded by sweet treats, and saying yes to all the holiday foods.

And yeah, that big 400 number? Still hanging out in the back of my mind like a sexy little dare.

But walking was already getting harder.

And not just “ugh, my feet hurt” hard. I’m talking all-out effort. Breathing heavy after a slow waddle to the kitchen...

Not that I had to go in there.

I made Chase and Jordan bring me everything I could possibly want. I mean, I literally moved less than even Muggles.

I was getting really lazy. Like, next-level, hard-to-explain lazy.

How lazy would I be if I got to 400? 

And the idea of tipping over that number? 

It did freak me out. How could it not?

But here’s the truth I hadn’t said out loud yet—

I wasn’t sure I could stop.
Even if I wanted to.

Between the weekly stuffing vids, the way I was becoming totally addicted to late-night feeding sessions, and the no-limits binge fests with Sydney and Lizzie—who were, let’s be honest, bad influences in the very best way—I wasn’t exactly living with restraint.

I was living deliciously.

And by December?

I hit 379.

By January? 386.

It was crazy.
Fucking crazy.

Sometimes I’d stand in front of the mirror—one hand on my hip, the other wrapped around my daily chocolate milkshake—and just stare.

Felt like I was on mushrooms again just looking at my body.

But it was not in fear. Not in shame.

It was in straight-up disbelief.

Like… how?

How was I still gaining this fast?

How were the pounds stacking up like they were racing each other to see who could take over first—hips, booty, belly, thighs, tits, arms, face, even my calves—every inch softening, thickening, rounding out like my body was hosting a luxurious land grab?

Every curve more dramatic. Every roll deeper, squishier. Every move slower, breathier… sexier.

And the more I grew, the more they came—fans, followers, subscribers, simps.

I was raking them in like it was easy. Like I was born to be watched. And maybe I was.

Chase was always watching me. Always with that sexy, mysterious look on his face.

I wasn’t just his fantasy.

I was his addiction.

His obsession.

Every dirty dream made real in soft, jiggling, can’t-look-away flesh.

One slow roll in bed—belly and thighs spilling over the sheets, heavy, warm, and unstoppable—and he was on me.

Mouth hot on my neck.

Hands grabbing at me like he couldn’t believe how fucking fat I was getting, sinking into my belly, the curve of my back, like the feel of me was medicine to him.

His hips pressed hard into mine, breath rough, reaching around to push eclairs between my lips when I screamed for it.

I ate them fast, barely chewing, already moaning for more before I swallowed.

"(chew, chew)Don’t (chew) stop—keep (pant) feeding me."

I needed it—needed to be full, overfilled, stuffed until I couldn’t think straight.

He fed me faster, hand shaking, eyes dark with something between lust and fright, and I let him see all of it—how bad I wanted it, how much I craved every bite.

His scruff scraped between my huge thighs, his mouth catching every moan as I writhed beneath him—breathless, aching, desperate.

Not just for him… but for everything he was giving me.

Everything I squealed for and demanded.

But beneath the heat in Chase’s eyes, the devotion, the hunger—

There it was.

A flicker.

Just a flash.

That quiet pause I knew all too well.

I’d seen it in my brother’s silence, in the way Dad looked everywhere but at me. In my sister’s sharp side-eyes.

That we love you, but… are you okay? look.

And now it was in Chase’s eyes too.

It was there when I groaned trying to shift my weight on the sectional, there when I tried pushing myself off the mattress and couldn’t, not without help. There when I’d start wheezing halfway through a sentence—cigarette in hand, cheeks flushed, chest heaving—not from effort, but from doing nothing more than sitting up after a heavy meal.

I didn’t really go out a lot anymore. Sectional to bed. Bed to bathroom to bathtub to shower. Back again. That was the full extent of my daily journey.

And yeah, I was always stuffed.

But it wasn’t like I was out of control or anything.

By that point, it wasn’t just a craving—it just was what my body needed.

That heavy, bursting feeling—belly round and swollen, spilling wide across my lap, soft under my palms, warm and growing.

It grounded me. Made everything slow down, made me feel right in my skin.

Same with the edibles.

One before noon, basically every day. Just to take the edge off, calm my nerves, keep everything... smooth.

It wasn’t a problem.

I just liked that soft float, the way my body melted into itself, so squishy and plush.

A little wine, a little haze, and the praise from fans rolling in like waves.

They couldn’t stop clicking.

Couldn’t stop watching.

And honestly?

Why should they?

I still looked fucking good. I felt sexy all the time.

I was fine. I was a queen.

I was desired in the kind of way that made people lose sleep and tip like they’d lost their minds.

I smoked in bed now. Or on the sectional. Just like I did after the knee injury, except now? The vibe was permanent.

The balcony was sometimes just too far. Too much effort. Getting up, sliding a door, sitting down again—no.

So I’d scream for help, and Jordan or Chase would be there in an instant, placing a cigarette between my lips and lighting it for me.

I’d take a drag, belly rising like a soft mountain, cleavage out and not sorry. Hair a sexy mess—from sleep, sex, or a combo of both.

One night, Chase turned to me—quiet, bare-chested, hand on my boob and asked, “You ever think about settling down? Getting married Having kids someday?”

I knew what he meant.

Would you marry me if I asked? Would you have my baby?

I didn’t lie. I didn’t soften it. I just said, “I’m (pant) not sure.”

Because I wasn’t.

I was loving what I had right now—the attention, the freedom, the lifestyle. It was easier to give myself to the public, to the camera, to the rhythm of cake and content and lazy mornings tangled noncommittal between two men who couldn’t get enough of me.

Giving all of that up for just one man? For forever?

Not yet. Rather just have his food baby.

And I could see it—right there in Chase’s eyes.

The disappointment. The longing. And maybe… a flicker of something else.

Worry.

Like he knew he couldn’t keep me. Not completely. Not with Jordan in the picture. Not with my millions of fans and the way I soaked in every second of being seen.

And maybe he was right.

Maybe Chase wasn’t the kind of man who could share me.

But I wasn’t going to change just to soothe someone else’s insecurity.

Not when life was this soft, this sexy, this dreamy, this delicious.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)