The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 56 - 57

Chapter 56

Spring melted into summer, the days blurring together—not by calendars or checklists, but by cravings and comfort.

It was dreamy. Like life had hit pause just for me. Slowed down. Sweetened up.

And I let it.

One bite. One breath. One spoiled, blissed-out moment at a time.

Me, Jordan, Chase, and Muggles—we had our rhythm. Easy. Solid. And yeah, strangely natural.

Neither of my boys seemed in a rush to leave, and I’d gotten so used to them handling everything—from food to foot rubs to fluffing pillows—I couldn’t picture life without them anymore.

I didn’t want to. Not even a little.

They worshipped me. Shared me.

And honestly? I was kind of impressed with how mature they were about the whole thing.

Most nights, I gave myself to one of them. Completely.

Either Chase or Jordan—whoever’s turn it was—would feed me first. Their own way, their own pace. Stuffed me until I was breathless, belly stretched and aching in that sweet, sinful way that had me whimpering for more.

And then they’d take me.

While one was with me, the other made himself scarce. Usually hit the gym, lifting like his life depended on it—like the sounds coming out of the bedroom would break him if he stayed too close.

But obviously he was thinking about it.

Thinking about the next day when it was his turn.

Thinking about cupping my growing ass, about me smothering his face in my belly, burying him between my tits.

Thinking about me begging for just one more bite between moans, squealing for another donut before I came undone in his hands.

We kept it fair. Balanced.

No jealousy. No drama.

Sure, I guess technically it was sort of an open relationship…

But Chase and Jordan weren’t out there sniffing around.

Every time one of their ex’s or little bimbo friends tried to slide in with a flirty smile and bad extensions, they shut it down fast. Saying they were taken.

Damn right they were.

Because I was more than enough for both of them.

And yes—obviously, I made them get tested ages ago. We’re not savages.

Anyway, once my leg healed up, I started easing back into it.

And that included the collabs.

Met a few models for drinks—if we clicked, they came back to the condo.

And we filmed. Sometimes Chase or Jordan played cameraman, all focused and professional, pretending they weren’t about to combust. Other times, it was just us—lip gloss poppin’, ultra-skimpy loungewear clinging to every soft, thick, beautiful curve we were blessed with.

It felt good.

Like I belonged. 

For the first time, being around other girls didn’t come with side-eyes or quiet competition. No tension, no weird energy.

They didn’t treat me like a threat.

They looked at me like they were straight-up in awe.

My body. My face. The hair, the skin, the glow. And yeah—the transformation. The weight I’d gained, the way I carried it like it was designer. All of it. 

It wasn’t fake. Just that look that said, Damn, girl.

And I won’t lie—I’m straight. But filming with some of these girls was sexy as hell.

One of my absolute favorites was Lizzie—goes by Bellarein on Onlyfans.

Five-foot-two of pure, curvy chaos.

Super chunky, yeah, but when I saw her in person? Actually smaller than me. Not that it mattered. 

Wild energy, blue hair, big doe eyes, pouty lips, and that laugh—that laugh—the kind that made you want to misbehave just to hear it again.

She was adorable in that she might be a little crazy, but way too fun to say no to kind of way.

We made funneling videos with cartons of melted ice cream.

And holy hell, it was way easier—and about a thousand times more fun—with another girl there, giggling and hooting and encouraging me to keep going.

It was fucking hot.

Like, off-the-charts, someone-better-call-the-fire-department scorching. Tube in my mouth, eyes going all glossy and rolling back like the world’s most fattening blow job.

All that creamy, sugary goodness sliding down, straight into my already massive, already fabulous belly—slow, thick—like a slow-mo explosion of pure, dirty decadence.

My belly swelled, stretching like my body had been waiting for the green light to go full goddess mode.

And I knew it would make me gain. I knew I was already getting big—fat-fat, not just curvy anymore.

And okay, maybe my joints were starting to throw shade about it. They had opinions, and they were loud.

But somehow, that just made it hotter.

Because that feeling—that push-past-the-limit, breathless kind of fullness—was addictive.

Knowing it wasn’t sustainable. Knowing I couldn’t keep going like this forever.

But reveling in it while I could?

That had me aching for more.

Especially with the way Chase and Jordan looked at me—even when I had another model over, their eyes never left me.

It was like I was the only woman in the room.

In their world.

Yeah. That lit me up.

Because this wasn’t just about food. Or sex. Or size.

Okay—maybe it was.

But it was also about being too much, and doing it on purpose.

Flipping the script they handed us as little girls. Looking those tired rules straight in the face—shrink, starve, smile pretty—and saying, no thanks.

It was about letting go of Mom’s salad-for-dinner gospel and falling head over heels for food. Loving it. Craving it. Owning it.

Loving me.

The softness. The fullness. Every huge roll that folded into my sides when I sat, every jiggle, every bit of extra.

And of course, everyone else loved it, too.

Especially Sydney—aka SupersizedSyd—another one of my favorite local collab queens.

She was obsessed with me, in that sweet, flirty, can’t-stop-touching-your-thigh kind of way.

Long brunette hair, big brown eyes, and the sweetest soul wrapped up in the biggest, fattest body I’d ever seen in real life.

She was huge—maybe an inch or two taller than me, but literally over 500 pounds.

Watching her was a whole experience. Kind of an inspiration.

I used to think there was a point where you just got too curvy—like, at 500 pounds, you wouldn’t be able to walk, your body would just give up.

But then I met Sydney, and I realized I had a long way to go and nothing to worry about.

Her belly was massive, soft and full like an oversized pillow come to life.

She was way more top-heavy than me—a soft, glorious mountain of woman.

Her boobs were literal volleyballs. At least. An when we filmed together? Magic. Pure, heavy, sultry, sugar-dusted magic.

Every collab vid we dropped was a total sensation. Internet couldn’t get enough.

They broadened my audience in all the right ways. Sexy, on-brand, the kind of publicity that sells. And I picked up a real friend in the process—plus a few more pounds.

Because let’s be real—even though I wasn’t stuck on the couch with a bum leg anymore, I was still gaining.

Honestly I kind of had to.

I’d promised those monthly weigh-ins, and what’s the point of a weigh-in without the gain? My fans didn’t want a plateau.

And truth be told, neither did I.

With new friends like Lizzie and Sydney—and let’s not forget Asuka Curves, Lexi Luxuriante, and a few others—I was pushing myself further than I ever imagined I would.

And the pounds?

They just kept piling on right along with the summer sun.

Chapter 57

I kept up with the weekly stuffing videos.

And maybe—they had something to do with why my monthly weigh-ins kept catching me off guard.

I’d step on the scale, still chewing the last bite of a cookie, telling myself I’d probably only packed on a pound or two.

You know, just enough to keep the fans happy.

I mean, I didn’t feel that much bigger...

And then?

Boom.

Surprise.

Up another ten.

By August, I was soft, full, and heavy at 344.

The kind of heavy that made chairs nervous and mirrors do a double take.

The kind of soft that had me calling Chase or Jordan over to rub lotion into the new stretch marks blooming across my hips and breasts—those pretty, silvery little lines showing exactly where I was growing.

One night, belly stretched tight, skin glowing from indulgence, I looked at Jordan and said, “I (burp) want (huff) 350.”

Just to reach it. Just to feel it.

I promised I’d ease up after. Tone it down.

But… 

I didn’t.

Blew past 350 like it was nothing.

Hit September still glowing, still craving, still saying yes to every bite, every late-night delivery, every sweet little something that came my way.

Because toning it down? That meant saying no to dessert, skipping midnight ice cream, and—worst of all—getting back on a fucking treadmill.

And it’s real hard to stop when your belly’s still growling after a tray of cupcakes and your fans are tipping like you’re the altar in the church of curves.

And yeah—I still had a little PTSD from that one time I said I was going to lose weight and watched my likes and subs drop faster than my panties after a pizza-stuffing.

I had goals.

More followers. More content. And a ridiculously expensive condo that wasn’t gonna pay itself off.

Chase and Jordan were amazing.

Started paying rent without me asking—like they just knew.

Handled it all—cleaned the kitchen, restocked the pantry, even dealt with Muggles’ litter box (which, yes, is self-cleaning… but it’s the principle).

They wiped down counters like it was an honor to share space with me.

And me?

I didn’t move unless absolutely necessary.

Because when you’re living soft, spoiled, and adored?

You don’t lift a finger. You lift a fork. And sometimes, not even that.

Not much had changed since the knee injury—except now I could walk.

I just didn’t want to. Didn’t need to.

Besides, even though my knee was better, my lower back? Constantly pissed. My feet and ankles? Swollen, achy, over it. And even though I didn’t need it anymore, that shower chair Chase bought me was still getting regular use.

Because why would I stand in a hot shower, sweating and slipping, trying to wash my thighs while holding onto the wall like it’s a pole dancing class?

No, thank you.

I sit. I steam. I shave from the throne—like a real queen.

And sleeping?

A whole thing now.

I’d gotten so big, I had to sleep with a pillow tucked between my thighs just to keep my hips from throwing a full-blown tantrum in the middle of the night. And if those pillows weren’t in the exact right spot? I’d wake up breathless, gasping, like my body had waved a little white flag and was whispering, Girl, you gotta slow down.

But I didn’t want to slow down.

I was too in love with the lifestyle. Too wrapped up in the pleasure, the slow, soft rhythm of it all.

So what if sleep came with a few extra props? So what if I couldn’t move as fast anymore?

I’d done the travel thing—NYC, Italy back in college, L.A., Vegas, Cabo, Hawaii more times than I could count.

Now I just wanted to be home.

Comfy. Cozy. In my space.

Cupcake in one hand, wine in the other, Muggles curled up beside me. 

But of course, the bigger I got, the louder the haters got—crawling out of their nasty little corners like they’d been waiting for their moment.

Instagram. TikTok. Anywhere Cel Monroe showed up in public.

To be fair, I had cracked a million on Insta. So yeah—they noticed.

Chase and Jordan kept begging me not to read the comments.

“Stick to your subscribers,” Jordan would say. “The ones paying to see you. The ones that actually matter.”

And yeah—obviously, he was right.

But sometimes? It’s really hard to look away.

Especially once I started posting more TikToks with my guys—getting dressed for date night, doing swimsuit try-ons, or just squeezing into something stretchy and scandalous when it was one of those stay-in, Netflix and chill, steam-up-the-windows kind of nights.

And the second Chase or Jordan were shirtless next to me on camera?

Cue the trolls.

Losing their minds trying to figure out how two tall, chiseled, jawline-for-days men were all about me—as if it wasn’t crystal fucking clear.

Why isn’t she filming with plus-size guys? 

Why doesn’t she date someone who matches her body type?

Uh, hi—Chase and Jordan do match my body type.

They match me.

I don’t settle. I don’t compromise.

And no, I’m not into chubby guys. Period.

Me, all curves and softness. Them, hard, lean, and built to handle it.

And then… came the classics.

She looked better when she was smaller. 

It’s sad she let herself go this much. 

This is not healthy.

She’s gained so much fucking weight! 

She’s unrecognizable! 

She’s glorifying obesity.

Glorifying what now?

Like these people actually thought beauty had a weight limit. Like their small, boring brains couldn’t possibly compute that fat and fine can exist in the same sentence—in the same body.

Pictures of me were getting slapped all over fit-to-fat Reddit threads, like I was some kind of before-and-after warning sign with a million comments.

And the plus-size modeling hauls? Yeah... those started slowing down.

Apparently, those so-called “inclusive” brands weren’t nearly as inclusive as their hashtags liked to pretend.

Funny how that works.

They adored me when I was sitting just under 300—soft, curvy, but still within their comfort zone of “acceptable” fat.

But once I started embracing more—more softness, more curves, more me?

Crickets.

Whatever.

At least the BBL rumors were finally starting to fade.

For the longest time, people were so sure my curves were fake—like just because my ass was round and wide, I must’ve paid for it.

Never mind the fact that my booty wasn’t stiff or sculpted—it was squishy, juicy, feminine, shaped more by cheesecake and late-night ice cream than anything happening in a surgeon’s office.

Plus I’ve always had thick thighs, soft hips—the whole package.

Sure, my booty usually took the lead when it came to gaining, but trust me, my thighs kept up just fine.

Proportions, balance.

But the haters had always refused to believe it.

Like they’d never seen a woman blessed with good genes, perfect bone structure, and the exact kind of extra that drives men wild.

But now?

Yeah… I guess I’d gotten fat enough that even the slow ones were finally catching on that I was a hundred percent real. Took them long enough.

And the rest of it—the judgment, the sad little pansies hiding behind blank profiles, rage-typing from their mom’s basement with their fragile egos and microscopic dicks?

Adorable.

Almost endearing, how pathetic it was.

Actually it kind of turned me on.

Keep talking, you creepy, never-dated-a-woman-in-real-life losers. I’ll eat another cupcake just for you.

Having my model girls in my corner—my ride-or-die, anti-diet culture queens—kept me grounded. Kept me sane.

Girls like Lizzie and Sydney…

God, Sydney—over 500 pounds and shaking her booty like the world owed her something. And honestly? It kinda did.

They reminded me it was perfectly normal to gain weight, it was totally okay.

I was totally okay.

That weight was just a number. It didn’t define my beauty. It sure as hell didn’t define me.

That being said, in November, I hit 371 on my Patreon weigh-in.

And I’m not gonna sit here and lie.

It did rattle me.

Just a little.

Like... oh my goodness, I really did this.

This was real.

Not a dream, not some wild, late-night fantasy.

Real life. 

I didn’t fall apart, didn’t swear off carbs in some dramatic, wine-soaked spiral. But I did have a moment—that whoa, girl moment where everything gets quiet and you realize maybe things were starting to get a little out of hand. Like—can’t find your phone because your huge ass was sitting on it the whole time and you couldn’t even feel it kind of out of hand.

Like—fast food every day, no willpower left in the tank, and getting breathless just lifting my arms to take another bite, another sip, another drag off my cigarette kind of out of hand.

The kind of out of hand where I had to pause and go, “Girl… what are we doing? I mean, you nearly tore a damn ligament in your knee—just from carrying around your extra juicy, extra plush badonkadonk, for fucks sake.”

But then I’d lick frosting off my lip and think—whatever it is, at least I’m doing it with style.

And then I’d start thinking about 400.

Couldn’t help myself.

Four hundred.

Was it even possible?

What would my ass look like? My boobs? Would I need custom everything, or would I just give in and live in stretchy clothes forever—or maybe just be naked all the time?

But more than that—how many likes would it bring in? How many new subscribers would show up just to witness the transformation? To watch me grow—bigger, softer, sexier.

They were already more obsessed with me than ever.

At 400? I’d fucking break the fucking internet.

And also maybe my sectional.

Was it crazy? Absolutely.

Way too big? No doubt.

But the idea of it… being that fucking huge, that soft, that hot, that fat…

Turned me on like nothing else.

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The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)