The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 53 - 55

Chapter 53

As well as everything was going with OnlyFans and now Patreon, not to mention Cel Monroe’s Insta hitting 900K thirsty-as-fuck followers, the impending tragedy of Chase probably leaving for SoCal in April had me feeling some kind of way.

Sure, Jordan would still be around, but even that felt uncertain, because their lease was up, which meant he’d be moving soon, too. Maybe not out of state, but who the hell knew?

I’d gotten used to the queen and her knights dynamic.

Like having one super boyfriend—split into two men.

And Chase?

I got the feeling he was dreading letting me out of his sight just as much as I was dreading it.

On St. Patrick’s Day, we shut down every bar in Seattle—Cap Hill, downtown, then Ubered our drunk asses back to South Lake Union. Left a trail of empty shot glasses, smudged lipstick, and poor guys, and girls, who never stood a chance.

By the time we stumbled into my condo at 3 a.m., I was stuffed, out of breath, and so tipsy I needed a spotter just to stay vertical.

And yeah, I was a full-on spectacle.

Emerald green tank barely holding the girls in. Shiny beads swinging between them like I was handing out sins for free. That mini skirt? It hugged everything—especially my ass, which was now so massive it entered the room before I did.

Leprechaun hat still perched on my head, crooked but committed. Glittering like the crown I damn well earned.

Inside, I kicked off my heels—fine, launched them—and the second my bare feet hit the cold hardwood, regret hit harder.

My legs were hurting like hell. Knees, ankles, everything below the neck felt crushed, like they were buckling under the sheer weight of me.

“Ennhhh,” I moaned, wincing, grabbing onto Chase like the floor had betrayed me and my body was seconds from staging a revolt.

My feet were hurting like crazy—like I’d spent the night dragging a sofa up five flights of stairs. Not just hauling around my gigantic butt in four-inch stilettos, which, let’s be real, is pretty much the same thing.

And there they were—those smug-ass shamrock cookies still on the counter, sitting pretty like they knew I wouldn’t make it past without surrendering.

I wiggled away from Chase, thunder thighs clapping with every step, each one sending a wave of jiggles and a sharp reminder from my knees and ankles that this body was not built for strutting tonight.

Still, I tossed a little hip over my shoulder. Because I’m me. And even in pain, I bring the drama.

And then—bam.

“Ow—fuck, fuck, fuuuck!”

A sharp, stabbing pain shot up from my knee, slicing through my buzz like a blade. My body locked up, breath caught, knee buckled.

Thank God for the counter—I grabbed it, arms braced, body shaking, leg screaming, chest heaving, boobs damn near launching out of my top.

“Shit, Cel, you okay?” Jordan’s voice snapped through the haze.

Chase was already there—catching me like he knew damn well I wasn’t light, but he had me anyway. Like carrying all this softness, this weight, this woman, was something he’d signed up for and wasn’t backing down from.

“What happened?” 

My throat was dry, pain pulsing up my leg, my breath short and shaky. “Knee,” I gasped, slurring, gripping Chase and the counter like they were the only things keeping me from collapsing. “Twisted… or (gasp) something.”

“Inside or outside?” he asked, already in full coach mode, shifting his stance to take more of my weight, like he’d done this a hundred times—just not with a girl.

“Inside (huff) and outside!” I shrieked, nails digging into his arm, all pretense gone. I was drunk, hurting, and not even trying to play tough anymore.

Jordan dropped down, pressing gentle fingers along my leg. “Did you feel a pop?”

I let out a breath that was part hiss, part sob. “I don’t know... but it (gasp) fucking hurts!”

They exchanged that look—the one that said, we’re staying calm, but yeah, this might be serious.

“We need to get you off that leg,” Chase said.

They moved practically carrying me. Chase’s arm locked around my bloated waist, Jordan bracing me from the other side. My knee throbbed with every step, pain sharp, relentless. I moaned the whole way, breathy and dramatic—like every step was some kind of over-the-top performance.

When they lowered me onto the sectional, I flopped back like a full-blown queen in distress—tits heaving, skirt hitched high, lips parted in pain.

Muggles darted under the coffee table like she wanted nothing to do with this scene. Jordan grabbed pillows, propped me up and gently lifted my leg onto the cushions.

“Shit,” I gasped, head back, hand to my chest, breaths coming short and fast. “Get (pant) me a shot. (huff) There’s still Grey Goose, (huff) in the freezer!”

Jordan didn’t blink. “On it.”

“This (gasp) is bullshit,” I moaned, flopping deeper into the cushions. “Did I seriously (pant) just get injured from just fucking (huff) walking? What the actual fuck.”

Chase leaned in, smoothing my hair back, fingers brushing over my cheek. “Don’t worry, we got you.”

“I just wanted a (huff) cookie,” I pouted, lower lip out, eyes wide.

Jordan came back, handed me the vodka—poured into a cup, like I was fragile porcelain. “Here,” he said. “We gotta wrap that knee and get some ice.”

Chase gave my thigh a gentle squeeze, which had absolutely no business feeling as good as it did, considering I was in legit pain. “Might need to take you to the ER tomorrow, could be a tare.”

I tossed back the vodka like it was water and slurred, “I need (gasp) a fucking cigarette. But I’m (pant) not moving.”

Jordan nodded. “Yeah, you really shouldn’t move.”

“Well, I’m not,” I snapped, shooting him a look like I was queen of the sectional—which, let’s be honest, I was. “Just bring me (pant) something to ash in.”

He didn’t argue. Just grabbed my cigarettes, slid one between my lips, and lit it like a man who knew exactly how to handle a woman.

I took a long, slow drag, exhaled, then waved a hand. “Now (huff) bring me that fucking tray of cookies.”

Chapter 54

The next morning, I woke up—barely. Everything hurt. My head pounded, stomach churned, and my knee? What the hell even happened last night?

Chase was next to me, already dressed, scrolling his phone like he hadn’t just spent the night hauling my overly-indulgent ass around like it was a full-time job.

On the nightstand? My full Starbucks spread—coffee, sandwich, and something sweet, lined up like a hangover survival kit.

Both my guys had stayed. For me. For Muggles, too, who was finally tolerating all the testosterone in her space. Chase crashed next to me, Jordan took the sectional—probably half-awake all night in case I yelled for snacks in my sleep.

Good thing, too. Walking? Not even an option.

They got me to the bathroom, slow and steady, like one wrong move might break me. My knee? Swollen, red, pissed off. Chase barely touched it and I yelped like he’d stuck a knife in me.

Back in bed, eyes half-shut, I breathed, “Obviously, I’m smoking in here today.”

Chase didn’t argue. Just lit me up, like he knew better than to mess with a hungover woman in pain.

One long drag, smoke curling around me like silk. I sighed. Better.

Then came the edible—because pain, plus hangover? You need backup.

They moved around me with the kind of quiet, practiced care that made a girl feel special. Precious. Like I was something they’d protect with their lives. Like I was worth every soft touch, every whispered breath.

After breakfast, they helped me to the bathroom—again. Brought in my vanity chair so I could brush my teeth, fix my hair, throw on a little makeup without having to stand. 

Then came getting dressed.

Maroon pajama shorts—because my knee needed to breathe, obviously—and the matching tank. Soft. Stretchy. Way too clingy.

The hems of the shorts dug into my thick thighs like they were hanging on for dear life, and Jordan? He had a hard time getting them over my giant rump of a backside.

And I do mean hard.

The tank? Too low-cut. Boobs spilling out, jiggling with every breath.

Definitely made for sleep, not the fucking ER.

But it’s what fit.

Then they got me into Chase’s SUV like I was royalty—practically carried my entire butt down the hall and into the elevator, making sure I didn’t put even a toe’s worth of weight on that leg.

The ER was bright, cold, and thick with that vibe—judgment with a side of damn, who is she? 

Jordan? Already chatting up the front desk nurse, flashing that cocky grin like we weren’t here because my knee gave out under the weight of all this goddess-level glory.

And yeah… it worked.

We got seen fast.

Turns out—thank God—it wasn’t a tare. Just a strain, a little hyperextension. Still earned me a brace and strict orders to rest, stay off it, let it heal.

Yeah, it freaked me out. I had Cel Monroe content to shoot, and Chase wouldn’t be around much longer.

But I didn’t argue. Not with the pain. Not with the way Chase and Jordan looked at me like they’d carry me anywhere I needed to go.

And honestly? I was kinda into it.

Of course, Doctor Buzzkill couldn’t let me have the win.

Started rattling off numbers like he was reading from a chart made in 2004. Blood pressure high. Risk for type 2 diabetes. Like, really? According to who? The same outdated scale that thinks BMI is gospel?

“Could’ve been a lot worse,” he said—flat, clinical, like he wasn’t talking to me, just the chart in his hand. Like I hadn’t already lost it the second Chase peeled off the ice pack and I saw the damage—swollen, red, furious. Just like I felt.

“You’re young,” he went on, pausing like doctors do right before they drop the hammer. “But your weight’s more than your knee can handle. That’s a very serious problem.”

Excuse me? Had this man never spoken to a woman in his life?

My back was on fire, my knee was screaming, and now this guy—this doctor with zero tact and even less sense—was telling me that my body, the one that gets stared at, spoiled, and worshipped on the regular, was the problem?

The nerve.

Apparently, what he was really saying—in that oh-so-professional, clinical tone—was that my ass was just too damn juicy for my joints and my alleged lack of muscle.

Seriously?

Fucker.

Instructions? Elevate. Rest. Stay off it for five to six weeks.

And then—like I wasn’t already limping out of there with my pride bruised and my knee screaming—he handed me a shiny little packet, all neat and official.

Inside? Calorie calculators. Portion charts. Fat-shaming in a lab coat, dressed up like health advice.

Written by loser nerds who’ve probably never touched a thigh that wasn’t in a textbook.

I nearly combusted.

Like it never occurred to him that I might actually love this body. That I might adore my thick thighs, my soft belly, and my ass that turns heads every time I walk into a room—without even trying. 

That maybe I’m not trying to shrink myself to make some guy in a lab coat feel less conflicted about staring at my inches of cleavage or how much he’s secretly dying to bend me over the exam table.

When we were finally done, Jordan rolled me out in an extra-wide wheelchair like it was a palanquin, and Chase followed right behind, crutches in one hand, discharge papers in the other—both of them looking like my personal royal escort.

When we got back to Chase’s Range Rover he braced, Jordan lifted, and between the two of them, they got all of me—soft, heavy, aching—tucked into the backseat.

Leg up, chest heaving, belly settling.

Finally able to breathe.

And waiting for me in the cupholders, like a trophy for surviving the ER?

Another Iced mocha and a pastry bag full of cake pops.

Jordan didn’t ask. He didn’t have to.

He just knew. Of course he did.

Because when the world wants to tell you your body’s a problem, what you deserve is sweetness—chocolate on a stick and a man who gets your coffee order right every time.

Back at the condo, they got me out of the wheelchair and onto the sectional—my throne. Pillows fluffed just right, leg elevated, blanket draped over me with care.

Chase grabbed my cigarettes, slid one from the pack, set it between my lips, and lit it—quiet, easy, like he knew what I needed before I said a word.

I took a long drag, exhaled, waved the smoke. “Oh my God, (huff) you guys. If I’m not (cough) supposed to move for six weeks, how the hell am I supposed to feed Muggles?”

Jordan smirked. “Don’t worry, princess. We got you. No way we’re letting either of you go hungry.”

I bit my lip, shot Chase a look through my lashes, then turned to Jordan. “You promise?” 

“Of course,” he said, all calm and casual. “You want something now?”

“I’m not hungry hungry,” I cooed, slow and sweet like honey. “But I think there’s mint chocolate chip in the freezer.”

Next thing I knew, Jordan was handing me a bowl piled high—ice cream drowned in chocolate syrup, topped with a mountain of whipped cream like he took dessert presentation personally.

I had a spoon in one hand, a cigarette in the other, and Muggles curled at my hip like the queen she was, while I lounged like her spoiled, overfed royal twin.

Chase slid another pillow under me. Jordan moved the ashtray closer, no words, just smooth, practiced care like this was routine.

And yeah, needing help with everything—from feeding the cat to hauling my injured self to the bathroom—was a little mortifying.

But also? Kind of amazing.
Okay—really amazing.

One sigh, one pout, and they moved. No questions. No hesitation. They fluffed, fetched, adjusted—like this wasn’t just temporary.

Like this was how it was gonna be now. I didn’t hate it.

Time blurred. Hours melted together in a haze of sugar, edibles, and pure, over-the-top indulgence—stretched slow and sweet by the kind of high that only comes from being completely helpless and doted on by two ridiculously hot men who’d do anything to keep me happy.

I napped. I whined. I ate. I smoked. I woke up to the sound of my own complaining and the guys didn’t mind one bit.

By early afternoon, I was halfway through a large order of fries, milkshake in hand, chicken burger long gone, and the wrappers crumpled like party favors across the coffee table.

I still hadn’t really moved, though I couldn’t help but notice the way Chase had been pacing most of the day. When he wasn’t helping me to the bathroom, lighting my cigarettes, or handing me something sweet like I was a patient in the world’s most over-indulgent dessert spa—seriously, is that a thing? Because if not, it should be—he was quiet.

Which, for Chase, meant dead silent.

Focused. Tense. Circling the condo like he had something lodged in his chest and no idea how to get it out.

Then he stopped.

He was right in front of me—arms crossed, eyes locked on mine.

“I’m not taking the job in San Diego,” he said.

I blinked, straw still in my mouth, milkshake halfway to salvation. “Come again?”

“I already decided. You need me here.”

Jordan, lounging on the far end of the sectional, looked up at Chase. “You sure man?”

“Yeah,” Chase said, no hesitation. “She can’t be here alone with that leg.”

Jordan gave a cocky shrug. “I can take care of her, no prob.”

I took another sip of my milkshake, watching them like I was tuned into some slow-burn drama with really good casting. Muggles was still sitting next to me, eyes wide, blinking like even she was entertained.

Chase didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, but I think she’ll need me too.”

I pulled the straw from my lips, heart doing that annoying little flutter it had no business doing, and looked up at him. “But isn’t that, like… a big opportunity?”

“There’ll be others,” he said, steady and calm, like uprooting his whole life was just a Tuesday thing.

Then he looked at me—really looked.

“But this? You?”

He didn’t even blink.

“That’s what matters right now.”

I let out a dramatic sigh, because obviously. “You two (pant) are gonna make me feel so guilty.”

“You’re not allowed to feel guilty,” Jordan said, smirking. “You’re way too high-maintenance for that. Plus, you still gotta keep Cel Monroe online and making the world more hot, right?”

And that hit me.

I glanced at the camera on the shelf, the tripod tucked in the corner, and yeah… the weight of it hit me hard. Not just my body—but the pressure. The followers. The fans. The fucking content.

Because yeah—I was injured. Sore. Stoned. Stuffed. 

How was I supposed to run OnlyFans and Patreon when I could barely shuffle to the bathroom without backup?

Still, I smirked through it—because that’s what I do.

I leaned forward, grabbed a few more fries, and popped them in my mouth. “Yeah (chew, chew), I do. Don’t know how (chew), but I definitely need to give my fans something.”

My eyes flicked from Jordan to Chase, lashes low, giving them my best helpless-but-still-hot look.

“But your (pant) lease is up soon, right?”

Chase shrugged. “Shit happens. Plans change.”

I looked between them. My voice came out soft, almost a purr, sweet with just a touch of something dreamy.

“Well... maybe (pant) you two should just stay here. At least until I can walk again. I mean, I’ve got all this space, right?”

Jordan and Chase glanced at each other, then back at me.

Jordan leaned forward, brow lifted. “You serious?”

I smiled—then glanced down at Muggles.

“I want both of you here,” I said, scratching her fuzzy little head. “This place is way too big for just me (pant) and Mugs anyway. Don’t you agree bay girl?”

Muggles looked at Chase. Then Jordan. Then back at me. Gave the tiniest, most confused little meow.

I gasped. “Oh my God, Muggles says yes!”

And just like that, my little pillow kingdom turned into something else entirely.

Home.

For all three of us.

Well—four, if you count Muggles. 

And obviously, you should.

Chapter 55

For six straight weeks, I didn’t move.

And I mean literally. Got to follow the doctor’s orders right?

Laid up—stuffed, spoiled, pampered, treated like a goddess who wasn’t expected to lift a finger. Because I didn’t. Couldn’t.

Chase and Jordan just... handled it.

No questions, no fuss—just stepped in like they’d been doing it forever.

Their beds got moved into the spare rooms, not that it mattered. Let’s be real—one of them was always in mine.

They traded off, took shifts. Weirdly domestic. Weirdly hot.

They filled the condo with their chill, low-maintenance energy and made themselves right at home. And I let them. Because I needed them.

I mean, I couldn’t even really shower on my own.

Chase went out and bought a big, padded shower chair like it was no big deal—then installed grab bars in the tile himself, just in case he wasn’t around to help me up.

Handrails on both sides of the toilet in the master bath? Yup. He thought of everything.

Was it mortifying? Oh, absolutely.

But when your knee won’t bend without a full-body wince, you get real grateful for a man who knows his way around a drill.

Especially when that man’s got his sleeves rolled up, and eyes on you like taking care of you isn’t just part of the job—it’s his privilege.

All my new content? Shot with me in bed or sprawled out on the sectional.

No twerking—obviously. Just me. Barely moving. Hardly dressed and surrounded by snacks.

Telling myself, if I was stuck like this, might as well try to enjoy it, make it hot, make it indulgent. And if it gave me an excuse to smoke inside? Even better.

McDonald’s, cupcakes, pizza, donuts, eclairs, ice cream—whatever I craved, Chase or Jordan—or both—delivered.

Hot. Ready. No questions asked.

And yeah—I don’t care what anyone says… sometimes McDonald’s just hits. Period.

My fans didn’t just tolerate the slowed-down, post-injury version of me—they worshipped her as always.

Didn’t matter that I was basically immobile. They were more than happy watching me eat like it was their religion.

I even filmed a few vids of me lighting up a cigarette after a stuffing, thinking maybe it’d spark some backlash. But nope. Turns out, they loved it. Just like Chase did—maybe even more.

They were obsessed.

So with nothing else to do but eat, scroll, and soak up every ounce of attention, I slipped deeper into the world of indulgence content.

Feedee blogs, curvy girl forums, videos I’d once skimmed now felt like inspiration. Then I found the collabs—and that’s when I got hooked.

These ultra-curvy women were feeding each other sweets, iggling in barely-there lingerie, mouths sticky with cake and donuts.

It was kind of refreshing.

Watching these body-positive babes do their thing—owning every bite, every part of themselves—it hit different.

I’d seen it before, yeah.

But this time? It stuck.

I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t alone.

Definitely not the only girl out there who thought stuffing myself full, getting softer, rounder—was the sexiest thing ever.

This wasn’t just about body acceptance.

This was a celebration.

Some of those girls? Not even close to being as naturally pretty as me—just putting that out there.

But they were huge. Like, seriously bigger than me. And that made me feel better.

Like maybe I wasn’t spiraling. Not in the clinical, red-flag, girl-losing-control kind of way. Maybe I wasn’t even close to the limit, the edge, the place where it all breaks. Maybe the “limit” itself was a construct, something imagined, imposed, a line drawn by a culture that’s addicted to control—particularly over women and how much space they take up, both physically and otherwise. Maybe I had room. Room to grow. Literally and metaphorically, figuratively and hormonally, sensually and spiritually.

And maybe I could keep feeding my hunger without weaponizing guilt against myself.

My fans had been calling me a BBW for a while now. The term had become a sort of badge, a digital label in neon-pink font, but compared to the women I was now watching—so-called SSBBWs, hypercurvy icons of femininity—I still felt small.

We’re talking bodies so lush they didn’t just fill the frame—they overflowed it.

And I had to admit—some of those women were sexy.

The made me wonder if maybe there was more of me I hadn’t leaned into yet.

I could go deeper.

I wanted to.

It wasn’t just about indulgence. It was about liberation.

A new kind of feminism—post-body positivity, post-inspiration porn. A feminism that said, I am allowed to have hips. I am allowed to be soft. I am allowed to want. And I do not owe anyone an apology for it.

I wanted to be worshipped—not just for my pretty face or the way my ass was perfectly shaped like it was created in a dream, but for how big I was getting. 

That fearless energy—the kind that says, Yeah, I’m too much. You love it. And so do I. Now be a doll and bring me something delicious to eat, would you?

Yeah. That. That was the vibe.

And some of those curvy, confident queens I’d been watching were actually local. Right here in Seattle.

So maybe I was curious. Or maybe I was six glasses of wine deep, feeling myself a little too hard. Either way, I started answering DMs.

Okay—more than a few.

Might’ve sent some of my own too. YOLO, right? Buzzed, biting my lip, hitting send like the flirty little tease I am.

And turns out?

Cel Monroe wasn’t just known.

She was iconic.

Every single model hit me back—fast.

They knew who I was. Loved my content.

Called me an inspiration.

Said they’d kill to shoot with me.

Apparently, I was goals.

I just needed to finish healing so I could walk again and actually do something about all this big, soft, spoiled energy I’d built up.

Although—if we’re being honest? A little part of me didn’t want to heal at all.

Not when I could lounge around all day getting pampered by my two big, strong, take-charge men who treated me like I was made of gold and frosting.

But around a month in, Chase and Jordan started gently easing me back onto my feet.

Helping me shuffle around the condo, stretch a little, breathe through it, figure out which muscles were still showing up to work after all that lying around like a glorified cupcake.

Little bits of physical therapy—stuff they were basically pros at, thanks to four years of college football and a whole lot of “let me handle that, babe.”

It was slow.

A little awkward.

Kind of hot.

Kind of painful.

By week seven, I could finally walk without help.

Okay—hobble to the fridge with a dramatic groan and a wiggle I wasn’t exactly trying to hide.

But my body had changed.

Seven weeks. That’s all it took.

I couldn’t even remember how I used to move. 

I felt heavier than ever—but it wasn’t just the weight.

Whatever strength I’d had was long gone—melted into softness. Plush.

Now, when I moved, every inch of me moved with me… and then kept on going after I stopped.

My belly, my arms, my hips, my thighs—everything jiggled. Wobbled. Bounced like it was making a statement. Even the way my arms brushed my hips when I walked—like they were being pushed further out just from how wide I’d gotten—reminded me there was more of me now.

I didn’t hate it. It made me want to touch myself and eat more.

Honestly it was flat-out, fuck-me hot.

By the time I climbed onto my brand-new, heavy-duty talking scale—courtesy of a very sweet, very generous fan—it was early May.

Yeah, I’d skipped April’s weigh-in. But considering the whole bum-knee situation, my fans understood.

Now that my knee could actually hold me again, sort of, I stepped on.

And the scale talked back.

328 point zero four pounds.

It was surreal.

Knowing I was really that big. That I’d officially more than doubled my weight since I was engaged to Tanner.

I tried not to let it freak me out—really, I did.

And yeah, maybe it hit me for a second.

But the thing was it fucking turned me on so much, I didn’t give a single fuck.

Twenty-five pounds. In just over a month.

Which—let’s pause here and give that its due—means nearly a pound a day, if you’re counting. And these weren’t invisible, abstract pounds that sneak onto your body under cover of winter sweaters or emotional denial. No. These were pounds that announced themselves.

My curves had curves—not the flirty kind you say in a caption, the real kind. Full, stacked, layered.

Soft rolled into softer, everything extra. My arms had gotten so plush, I had a new little roll where they pressed into my side-boob. My knees, my joints? Not exactly thrilled. Which is why I kept walking to a minimum.

But my tits? My ass?

Absolutely phenomenal.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)