The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 39 - 41

Chapter 39

I didn’t know what the hell to do with myself for the rest of September. Felt like my life had been flipped upside down, dumped on the floor, and I just walked away, not even bothering to check the damage.

Of course, the boys called, texted—annoyed, confused, wanting answers I wasn’t giving.

Jordan was still sweet, even though he had every right to be pissed.

Chase? Still bossy, still hot for me, demanding attention like he thought he could bend me to his will—not knowing the only bending I’d done lately was reaching for that last slice of pizza.

Both of them acting like I owed them something—answers, apologies, explanations.

Maybe I did.

But they weren’t the ones keeping me up at night. Not even Chase.

That honor? All Aaron.

Aaron, whose smile did things to my chest—funny, complicated things I had no business feeling.

September blurred into October, pulling me deeper into softness, indulgence—maybe just trying to drown out everything I didn’t want to face.

Anxiety found its match in cigarettes smoked on my balcony way too often.

Comfort food stacked up around my sectional—DoorDash bags, pizza boxes, candy wrappers—trophies of zero self-control.

Wine bottles emptied at an alarming speed and netflix ran on a loop, background noise drowning out everything I didn’t want to think about.

But reality was that at 260 pounds, even breathing took effort.

Getting off the sectional? A process. A wiggle, a moan, a full-on negotiation with gravity—and my damn heartburn was getting worse every morning.

At work, my hips still spilled over even the new office chair I made David order for me, my thighs rubbed more than ever, my belly bunched around my waist, squeezing me, making every breath a little shallower.

But honestly? 260 wasn’t even that big when you really thought about it.

I wasn’t anywhere near 300—and let’s be real, even if I was, I’d still be drop-dead gorgeous.

I’d spent enough time scrolling curvy-girl and so-called BBW forums to know plenty of women were packing on pounds, flaunting soft rolls, huge bellies—and getting worshipped for it.

And I knew I was hotter than any of them.

Face, figure, curves—I really was the entire package.

If those women could flaunt every extra pound they packed on, basking in the adoration of thousands, then just imagine what I could do if I leaned in, let go, and went full-on feedee. After all, a wise girl knows her limits, but a smart girl knows she has none.

And thanks to Aaron’s mushrooms, I was starting to see myself clearer than ever.

One night, mellow wasn’t enough.

So I took the full dose. Stripped bare—skin to air, no filter, no pretense—and planted myself in front of the full-length mirror like a lunatic priestess ready to summon the spirit of her own ass.

And what I saw?

Jesus.

I was huge. Not cute-and-curvy huge. Not soft-focus, boudoir-pose huge. I looked comically massive—like some fever dream fertility goddess cartooned out with hips that could squish a man and tits that defied physics.

But the mushrooms didn’t judge. They revealed. I wasn’t just looking at myself. I was witnessing the divine.

A wild, sacred vision of flesh and fullness—curves blooming, blowing up like sin-soaked balloons.

I squinted through pupils big as dinner plates, trying to comprehend it.

My belly blobbed out in front of me, its plushness starting higher now, just beneath my boobs—boobs so round and ripe it was getting ridiculous.

A new, gorgeous little roll of fat had formed just beneath them, another indulgent curve I hadn’t noticed before.

And my lower belly? Yeah, that had grown fuller, heavier, hanging lower now—intoxicating, fascinating.

I let my fingers sink in, slow and deep, savoring the softness I used to fear—now I couldn’t get enough.

I was loving how the extra weight was shaping me—rounding me out in all the right places, like my body knew exactly what it was doing.

My waist still curved, still cinched, softer now, bigger rolls filling in, but small enough to exaggerate that dangerous, old-school, bombshell bottom-heavy hourglass.

Sure, my belly was catching up to my tits and ass, but mostly it pushed forward, full, proud—taking space instead of spreading out too much. My hips handled that just fine, flaring out wider than my softened shoulders, let alone my waist.

I twisted, watching my huge butt bounce, new dimples adding to its charm—sensual, made to break hearts, made to inspire.

Standing there, euphoric in my own softness, I felt it—the last stubborn knot of shame unraveling, slipping away, gone for good.

Screw diets. Screw exercise. Screw guilt.

At 260 something pounds, I was made for more.

Even my face had softened, rounded, cheeks plush, jawline fading into smoothness.

And my lips—God, my lips.

They’d always been full, but now they were plumper, poutier, the extra weight making them downright sinful.

Like they were meant to be kissed, meant to part around indulgent bites, meant to have men staring, aching, craving.

And lately, sprawled out in my apartment—wine in one hand, cupcakes disappearing faster than Netflix could queue up the next murder doc, slipping onto the balcony for cigarette after cigarette—I felt it.

A slow thrum in my pussy, a pulse low in my belly, a tight pull at my nipples.

Nothing turned me on more than knowing exactly what I was becoming.

There were nights I lay naked, fingertips drifting over my belly, soft and heavy, making me wet.

And yeah, I won’t lie—Aaron slipped into my thoughts way more than was smart or safe.

Knowing he’d appreciate me like this, if that gentle smile would turn hungry, if that deep, quiet voice would murmur in my ear—beautiful, perfect—while his hands traced every inch of me.

Aaron had no business in my fantasies, but damn if I could stop him.

He was forbidden.

Totally. Completely. Off-limits.

So instead of driving myself straight-up crazy dreaming about him, I poured all that messy, tangled-up yearning into something I could actually have—new outfits, more awesome food, and the condo I'd lusted after for months. 

South Lake Union. Thirty-eighth floor. Brand-new, high-end luxury.

Three bedrooms. Two full baths.

Eighteen hundred square feet of pure, decadent, queen-in-her-tower indulgence.

And yeah, probably should’ve talked to a financial advisor. Or at least Jenna. Should’ve run some numbers, thought it through.

But did I?

Nope.

Instead, I dove in, head first, eyes closed, straight into the kind of loan and mortgage that made me want to throw up. It chewed through my Google savings, took a greedy bite out of my juicy OnlyFans cash, and left me with a whole lot of “hope this works out” energy.

But with steady money rolling in from both my jobs, I’d be okay.

Better than okay.

Because that condo was fucking mine.

Nobody else’s name was on it.

No Dad. No Mom. No opinions. No judgment cluttering up my space.

The perfect place to be exactly who I was—
A total. Fucking. Queen.

The HOA fees were straight-up robbery, but that was future-Celeste’s headache. If—when—I moved, my commute would practically vanish. Roll out of silk sheets, and bounce right into the South Lake Union campus, at least on the mornings I didn’t have meetings forcing me to Fremont.

Not that Google was doing me any big favors. Dragging myself into the office felt like punishment—clothes straining at every curve, belly jiggling gently with each slow stroll out for another cigarette or vape break.

Yeah, my day job bored me stupid, but let’s be real—it wasn’t like waiting tables or anything.

Show up late. Snack shamelessly. Smile only when absolutely necessary.

And let David trip over himself fetching me pastries and coffee, spoiling me rotten like it was his life’s mission.

Another year of this? Yeah, I could swing it.

Especially when swinging it tasted so delicious. Honestly, if it wasn't for the food, I'd have quit ages ago.

The October I’d pictured? Man-free. Drama-free. Full of moderation and sensible choices.

Yeah… that version never stood a chance.

No Chase. No Jordan. No one spoiling me rotten, feeding me senseless, whispering temptations in my ear.

But also? No one telling me no. No disapproving looks. No one trying to shove my lush ass onto a treadmill.

So I leaned in more.

Indulgence became my religion, and I worshipped devoutly.

Midnight tacos, reckless and glorious.

Ice cream straight from the carton.

Cigarettes, smoked secretly on my balcony—each one a stolen kiss, soothing anxieties no one got to question anymore.

And Cel Monroe? Still slowly increasing in popularity.

On OnlyFans, it was sultry, leisurely try-ons, dresses straining deliciously over my thickness, food play—every bite teased out slow, sinful, like foreplay itself. Or simply me, moving around my apartment, soft and breathless, belly bouncing and jiggling freely, turning myself on almost as much as my fans.

On Instagram, it was sips of creamy lattes, frosting deliberately licked from fingertips, glazed donuts disappearing between glossy, parted lips, and elaborate, sexy shoots with Jenna—showing off my growing ass, dresses clinging tight to my expanding figure. Silky skin and full curves never flaws, always pure feminine perfection, just me being my sweet self. And thousands of worshipful comments didn’t let me forget how good I looked with every extra pound I gained.

And my figure expanded right alongside Cel Monroe’s follower count—now hitting 600K, all thanks to Jenna’s magic.

Not the million I'd envisioned, but getting there.

Still, Jenna gave suggestions—more gym, fewer pastries, moderation wouldn't hurt.

But moderation was for girls who liked their lives bland.

And yeah, maybe it should’ve crossed my mind, especially with that contract renewal looming, flashing bright, insistent.

Instead, pure, sultry confidence settled deep in my ass crack, whispering sweet nothings about how I was untouchable.

Google would renew—no doubt, no question. They had no choice.

Every man in this place dragged himself to work just to watch me stroll by—ass bouncing, hips testing the seams of every too-tight skirt, every pair of leggings hugging my pampered body.

Yeah, I pushed limits—breathing shallow, belly round enough to slow me down—but no one cared. Why would they? Face gorgeous, hair thick and soft, eyes smoky, daring them to look, linger, lose their minds.

I wasn’t decoration—I was inspiration.

And Sam Walters had no choice but to keep me around. If he valued his marriage, his career, his precious reputation—he’d play along, no matter how many jealous daggers Vanessa threw my way.

Honestly, the only man in this office who didn’t stare like I was Google’s gift to mankind? That facilities guy—Mike? Mark?

Never once caught him sneaking a glance.

And that annoyed me way more than it should.

Married, sure. But when had that ever stopped anyone from hitting on me?

Whatever.

His loss.

The night before my Google contract renewal meeting, I stepped on the scale—269 pounds.

And God, the thrill shot straight between my thighs.

Watching that number climb, knowing it meant tits fuller, ass rounder, belly softer, heavier—more of me to love, more of me to take up space. And on top of that? I now officially owned a condo.

So yeah, I was celebrating.

Cupcakes, ice cream, wine, two edibles—every bite, every sip melting into a warm, sugary blur of pure excess.

As I drifted off—belly full, perfectly satisfied—my French-tipped nails traced my deepening navel, Aaron’s voice whispering through my mind, pulling me deeper into feedee fantasies I shouldn’t want as much as I did.

Chapter 40

The next morning hit hard—wine-soaked, cake-heavy, hungover enough to swear off cupcakes forever.

Well… almost forever.

Dragging myself out of bed took effort—major, thigh-rubbing, breathless effort. My head pounded, belly bloated beyond reason, but I pulled it together.

Shower. Blow dry.

Hair? Full, fluffy. Falling just right.

Makeup? Flawless. Heavier than usual. Last night’s mischief erased like it never happened.

From the chin up I was bright-eyed, deceptively fresh—despite the little double chin that wasn’t so little anymore.

From the neck down I was pure, sinful excess.

The dress? Sage-green, stretchy, the neckline plunging deep, gold hoops straining, barely holding on, the fabric pulling tight over my boobs, shifting with every breath.

My belly pushed forward, the fabric clinging for dear life, molding to every curve, dipping under my navel before rounding out again, spilling where it wanted, stretching the dress past its limits.

I smoothed my hands down wide, cushy hips, white knee-high boots shining beneath me, every inch of me wrapped in confidence, sex, and opulence.

Damn.

Hungover? Absolutely.

Bloated? When wasn’t I?

But none of it mattered.

I was irresistible—too much in the best damn way.

Getting into my car was becoming an event—strategic wiggles, careful tugs, ass pressing tight against everything, thighs spreading wide across the seat, hip nearly brushing the door.

I lit up, took a long, shaky drag, arm hanging out the window as I twisted, felt every roll fold deliciously, the sheer size of me undeniable.

Still, I hit Starbucks—but no sense tempting disaster like last year's anxious, way-too-stuffed, miserably bloated fiasco—escaping with just a venti iced mocha and two brownies. Because restraint was necessary sometimes.

Nerves twisted tighter with every step toward the elevators—Sam, Vanessa, the money bleeding out for that condo—all of it pressing in.

So I caved.

Pulled out my THC vape, took a long, slow hit.

Truth was, a stiff drink—cold, strong, reassuring—would’ve been better. But the vape did the trick.

Instant calm. Instant relief.

Enough to walk through those office doors, chin lifted, cleavage out, daring anyone to judge me.

I’d barely set my purse down on my desk when my phone buzzed.

PERVERT: Whiskey room. Now.

Sam Walters. Yeah, I'd renamed him something more fitting. Seriously, what the hell did he want now?

I didn't reply, just drew in a deep breath, lifted my chin, and went. Cursing the elevator for being too slow, cursing myself harder for getting embarrassingly winded from the short walk down the hall.

I pushed through the door.

Sam stood by the bar, eyes locked on me, stunned, as the latch clicked shut behind me.

His gaze dropped, dragged down, froze.

Saw it. All of it.

The extra curves, the big belly, the way my hips poured into my dress, the gold hoops at my chest straining to hold me together.

His eyes widened, throat twitching, like he was trying to swallow down the shock, the want, the goddamn devastation of seeing me like this.

Bigger. Softer. Heavier. Curvier. Sexier.

His voice finally came.

"Just wanted a quick chat before your renewal meeting." A pause—like he needed a second to breathe. "Vanessa’s voiced some concerns about your recent… performance. Figured we should get clear, set expectations, make sure we’re aligned moving forward."

He stepped closer.

His eyes dropped to my mouth, looking like he was remembering something he shouldn’t be remembering.

"Care for a drink?"

I tilted my head, blonde hair sliding like silk over my shoulder, lips pouty—not sweet, dangerous.

It was like he knew my weaknesses, knew exactly what I needed.

Still morning, but my head throbbed, nerves fried, patience gone.

And honestly? Never understood why anyone in their right mind would turn down a drink.

Especially when it was poured by a man trying desperately to buy my silence.

I let his eyes drag down one more time, then met his gaze head-on. "Care to bump up my pay?"

His mouth twitched, amusement blending reluctantly with resignation. “I suppose we could arrange that. He stepped closer. “You’ve kept quiet, Celeste. Let’s stay aligned on that front, too.”

“Then make me (pant) what you made last time.”

He nodded. “Whiskey sour. Extra sweet.”

He turned to the bar, reaching for the Knob Creek. I watched him as he mixed, each shake, each clink, each crack of ice echoing like some twisted warning bell in my head.

When he handed me the glass, his fingertips brushed mine, sending a hot shiver up my spine—not the good kind. The kind that made you want a scalding shower and a fresh restraining order.

I took a long sip through the straw.

Damn.

Strong. Way stronger than the one he made me last time.

He watched every move, eyes glued to the rise and fall of my cleavage, his attention all over every soft curve like he was starving and I was the only meal in the room.

Practically drooling, the want in his gaze burned, thick, obvious, searing my skin like a brand.

Then—he shifted closer.

Crowding me, swallowing the space between us, wrapping me in the overpowering stench of his awful cologne—thick, musky, suffocating.

I stiffened, stomach turning.

This motherfucker.

“Celeste,” he said. “If I asked—asked real nice—would you let me kiss you? Not like before. Nothing forced. Just…asking. Please, Celeste. Goddamn, just one kiss. You got no idea how badly I want it—how fucking crazy you make me.”

I stared at him, stunned into silence, pulse skittering wildly. 

“Get a (pant) fucking grip, Sam.”

I drained the glass, setting it down on the pool table with a satisfying thud, making it crystal clear we were done playing. “Here’s how (huff) this is gonna play out—my raise approved, my contract renewed, and you keep your hands—and (pant) your mouth—to yourself. Are we perfectly aligned now?”

His jaw clenched so tight I thought it might snap, frustration shadowing his eyes, but he jerked his chin in a single, tense nod. 

“Good,” I breathed, twisting away, knowing full well his eyes were glued to my perfectly shaped butt as I wiggled out the door.

But even as I walked away, there was something that set my gut twisting, prickling my skin with unease. Shaking it off as best as I could, I returned to my desk, tension simmering.

“David!” I called, my voice coming out poutier than I meant, high and breathless, like a little girl who'd lost her favorite teddy bear.

He was at my side in a flash, eyes sweet and worried. 

I sighed. “Get me some of those yummy looking scones from the pastry case. And—and tell Kyler or Jess I need an iced chai. You know how I like it, extra sweet.” I fluttered my lashes, sinking heavily, a bit clumsily, into my chair, squeezing myself between the armrests like they were hugging me too tight.

David disappeared and returned swiftly, three cranberry orange scones on a plate and the chai in hand. I attacked the pastries as anxiety twisted tighter in my chest. Jenna’s gaze lingered across the aisle, soft but wisely silent.

The second I finished those scones, my phone flashed.

Go-time.

Chapter 41

Deep breath, Cel. Contract renewal in the bag. Raise locked and loaded. Just hold it together.

Hands braced, I pushed up, but my chair fought back, until with an embarrassing moan, I broke free, swaying slightly in my white boots.

“Fuck,” I panted softly, tugging frantically at the hem of my dress. “Why didn’t David just order (pant) me a damn chair without fucking armrests?”

Pulse hammering, I made my way—or more accurately bounced, wobbled down the hallway. By the time I stepped into the conference room, I was out of breath, chest rising and falling fast, nerves jangling.

Sam sat at the head of the table, radiating that smug self-satisfaction of a man convinced he was the center of the universe, when he was really just another pawn in their game. Vanessa stood stiffly beside him, sharp eyes slicing through me with judgment so cold I felt it straight down to my butt.

"Celeste," she said, gesturing to the tiny-ass swivel chair at the end of the table. "Please have a seat."

I glanced down.

And blinked.

This wasn’t just small—this was comically, insultingly tiny. Like something yanked straight out of Barbie’s Dream House, clearly not designed for a woman with hips that could crash an algorithm.

Can we stop letting skinny, stupid men design chairs, please?

Panic flared hot and fast.

I inhaled—carefully, because the seams of my dress were hanging on by sheer willpower at this point—and lowered myself gingerly, knees bent at an awkward angle, already praying to whatever higher power was out there.

The second I landed, cold metal arms clamped down, biting into my hips like a goddamn vice.

Heat surged up my neck, my breath coming too fast, fingers gripping the armrests.

Sam was watching, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, that smug amusement burning like acid.

“Omigod,” I gasped, breaths quick and sharp, cleavage bouncing wildly with every desperate move. After what felt like an eternity, I was able to cram my butt into that grossly undersized seat—armrests digging mercilessly into my upper hips and sides, softness oozing out everywhere else, dress riding dangerously high—I lifted my chin defiantly, acting like it was no big deal.

Vanessa cleared her throat. “Umm, we need to address some serious concerns regarding your recent performance.”

I swallowed hard, trying—and failing—to steady my breath. “Concerns? What (huff, gasp) exactly are we (pant) talking about here?”

Sam leaned in. "Let’s cut the crap. It’s come to our attention that you have quite the online presence. We know about your OnlyFans side hustle Celeste." He paused, let his eyebrows arch just enough to twist the knife. "You are a sex worker. Not exactly on-brand for Google, now is it?"

Shock punched me straight in the gut, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard it felt like I’d been drop-kicked.

How the hell did he find out?

And how long had he known?

And why the fuck hadn’t he said anything in the Whiskey Room?

I blinked at him, breath heaving, brain scrambling, then barked out a disbelieving laugh.

"What (pant) the fuck?" My voice shook, thick with fury, disbelief, pure unfiltered rage.

"Sex worker?" I spat, eyes burning into his smug, punchable face. 

He smiled. "Your contract prohibits public behavior detrimental to Google's image. We are not renewing your contract and your employment is terminated immediately. I suggest you start looking for opportunities elsewhere."

My jaw dropped, chest heaving, hands shaking.

"Are you (huff) joking?! It’s body positivity! (gasp) Empowerment! Confidence! Not whatever (pant) twisted shit you're implying!"

My eyes narrowed, realization hitting hard and heavy.

"You liked it, (pant) didn’t you?"

He shifted in his seat, gaze dipping to my tits rising and falling with every furious breath.

"You (gasp) subscribed, (huff) didn’t you?" I laughed, bitter, sharp, shaking my head. "You’re (pant) such a fucking pervert."

"Ah, see?" he said. "Pervert, huh? So you are a sex worker."

Then, because he was the absolute worst, he sniffed the air dramatically, smirk going wolfish and cruel.

"Are you really trying to gaslight us while smelling like happy hour? Drinking on the job now, are we?"

Vanessa stiffened, her disapproving glare hitting like a goddamn sledgehammer.

I looked back at Sam, heart hammering, mind reeling.

I could not believe what I was hearing.

"You handed me (huff) that drink yourself, you ass. Literally (pant) minutes ago!"

Sam tilted his head, mock disappointment dripping off him, like I was pathetic, like this was somehow beneath him.

"I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about." He said, shaking his head, voice full of faux concern. "Accusing your manager of enabling your drinking habit? Not a good look, Celeste. Frankly, it's a disappointing tactic."

Something inside me snapped.

The anger burned through humiliation, through fear, through the sheer fucking audacity of this man.

"You (huff) lying ass." My voice dropped, low, dark, lethal. "Halloween party. You cornered me. (huff) Grabbed me. Kissed me. Forced your hands—your mouth—on me. Told me (gasp) to keep quiet about it."

Vanessa’s eyes went wide, her head snapping to Sam like she’d just been slapped with a truth she hadn’t prepped for.

Not part of her carefully crafted takedown.

"Sam? What is she talking about?"

He barely blinked, cool as ever, flicking a dismissive hand.

"Let’s not entertain dramatics from a girl with alcohol on her breath."

Then he turned back to me. "Celeste, your weight is out of control, you’re a distraction to the employees, and funny how this allegation conveniently surfaces now—right as your job performance is under scrutiny. What’s it been? Almost a year since the Halloween party?"

A slow, theatrical sigh. A shake of his head. The full performance.

He shrugged. "To be perfectly honest with you, it’s sad."

Sad.

My vision tunneled, the room tilted.

Breath too fast, too shallow, sweat trickling between my breasts, down my back.

"You—you—" I gasped, panting, words strangled in fury. "Twisted (huff) son of a—"

I pushed up, ready to storm out with dignity, with my head high—

But the fucking chair had other plans.

The frame clamped down tight, my hips brutally pinched, locking me in place like some kind of sick joke.

Panic exploded.

My dress twisted up, the green fabric sliding too high, cleavage spilling dangerously close to a full-blown wardrobe malfunction.

"God, (huff, gasp) why is it so (pant) freaking hot in here? And what the fuck is (huff) with this chair?" I gasped, near hysterical, tits heaving with every desperate attempt to wrench free.

Vanessa’s gaze darted away, face flaming in secondhand embarrassment.

Sam just leaned back, arms crossed, watching me struggle like this was the highlight of his goddamn day.

I finally wiggled free, nearly stumbling forward.

My breath came fast, those flimsy gold hoops straining, fighting a losing battle against my cleavage, against the heavy, soft weight of me.

But I squared up anyway.

Chin high. Shoulders back. Boobs pushed out.

Sam’s gaze dragged down, taking in the full swell of my hips. “Consider this your exit interview. Pack your personal effects, exit the building immediately, or security will assist you.”

I fanned myself, breath still too ragged, too fast, body too hot.

I licked my lips, let my voice drop, low, sultry, breathy.

"Have (pant) fun watching me on OnlyFans (gasp) tonight…"

His jaw tightened.

I arched my brows. "I know (huff) you’ll be dreaming about me, still wanting that kiss. Probably jerking off to me, (pant) all alone, telling your wife you had more (huff) work to do—like the pathetic little loser you are."

His smirk slipped, just for a second.

Satisfied, I turned on my boots, my ass pointed towards his face, giving him one last show.

Then I wiggled away and slammed the door behind me.

Fuck this place.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)