The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 33 - 34

Chapter 33

And that’s how it went that summer.

Jordan came over a night or two a week. Same with Chase. Sometimes more with Chase. 

Which wasn’t something I was analyzing too hard.

I was doing better. Showing restraint. Control. The guys were too, in their own ways. Keeping me on track, making sure I didn’t spiral.

Jordan was all about positive reinforcement. "Do what makes you feel good, princess." Soft words. Easy. Happy to let me skip a workout if I so much as sighed and mumbled I’m just really exhausted today, baby. Happy to let me order DoorDash instead, stretch out in bed, be lazy. Always happy to tell me I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Fed me—maybe not stuffed me, but there was food. There was sex. There was some maybe-we’ll-actually-work-out kind of effort, but mostly? Jordan was there to make me feel good. Encourage me.

Chase was different.

Chase didn't do gentle.

His rule was simple—if I was gonna indulge the way I loved, if I wanted him spoiling me rotten with pastries and cake and all things sweet, then I'd better be ready to move my butt.

If I slacked off, he didn't hesitate to call me on my shit.

If I half-assed it, he made me do it again.

And if I tried faking effort—yeah, Chase saw straight through me. No mercy. No excuses. Just that deep, rough voice pushing me to finish every miserable second of my ten-minute treadmill torture. Slow walks, baby weights—stuff most people wouldn’t break a sweat over—but for me? Complete and total agony.

When Chase finally figured out just how out-of-shape I’d gotten?

When he caught on to how quick I was to collapse onto my sectional, moaning dramatically about achy thighs, sore feet, worn out from doing pretty much nothing—his patience ran real thin, real fast.

He would feed me when I asked, but he made damn sure I paid for every single bite, like the sexy, bossy, pain-in-the-butt he was.

Still, it was scary how lazy I’d become.

I used to rock yoga and pilates, cared if my jeans got too tight, watched to make sure my ass wasn’t getting too big, took the stairs just to squeeze in more steps.
Now just pulling jeans on got me winded, and my ass had officially claimed its own zip code.
Even thinking about the stairs at work made me wanna lie down and take a nap.

And my appetite?

Totally out of control.

It was like the more I ate, the hungrier I got. I'd finish one meal, and bam, it was like my stomach hit reset, blood sugar spiking, craving carbs like nobody's business, needing more—always more.

I used to be that girl. The one who picked at salads, left half a sandwich sitting sad on the plate, went almost a whole day without eating because discipline. Said no thanks to dessert because I was “full.”

But let’s be real—I was never full. I was terrified.

Terrified dessert would go straight to my hips. Terrified one extra bite meant jeans that wouldn’t zip. Terrified I’d wake up and see the scale up five whole pounds overnight like my body was out to betray me.

Back then, I guess I had self-control.

Now? I’d gone from just a bite to bring me the whole damn thing.

And Chase refused to let me forget that once upon a time, I went on hikes. That I didn’t need a damn assist just to get off my sectional.

So yeah. I needed to get healthier.

Didn’t mean I had to be happy about it.

And maybe…maybe I liked how he pushed me. How he didn't blink at my drama. How my whining, my sighs, my full-on meltdowns didn't faze him one bit. Like he knew exactly what he signed up for—and wanted it anyway. Like he actually got off on handling my shit, my attitude, and my very real (totally legit) complaints that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't built for exercise anymore.

But also?

Very. Fucking. Annoying.

June turned to July. And things with Jordan and Chase kept rolling. I stuck to my plan. Mostly. Problem was, they each thought they were the only ones feeding me. 

But I was being fed by both of them. More nights than not. Which meant the rest of the time, I had to try. Cut back. Skip meals. Have a cigarette instead of reaching for a snack. 

I still hit Starbucks most mornings, but I’d managed to dial it back—iced grande mocha instead of a venti. No food, definitely no brownies. Baby steps. Just trying to look at indulgence like a normal person. Like it didn’t have to be crash diet or all-out binge. 

Just eat when your hungry that's all. Save the real indulgences for Jordan and Chase. Didn’t always work and I knew I could always have David bring me food at work if I got peckish later. And even though I was getting some exercise—well, sort of—my weight wasn’t exactly stabilizing. Not yet.

But aside from that little work-in-progress, everything else? On point.

I was cranking out Cel Monroe content with Jenna, going all in now that I was paying her. Filming for OnlyFans, doing elaborate photoshoots, making high-end Instagram posts, blowing up my engagement.

And it was working.

My follower count exploded.

Not just trickling in—flooding.

And now plus-size clothing companies were sliding into my DMs left and right—sending me pieces, paying me to showcase their stuff. And not just any brands.

The kind that actually got it.

The ones that knew their customers didn’t want to hide behind drapes of fabric but wanted to own their curves.

And my fans ate it up.

More money.
More attention.
More obsession.

Jordan. Chase.

Although never Chase and Jordan at the same time, obviously.

And Jenna.

They were all in on it—helping me create content, keeping my audience hooked, making sure Cel Monroe was completely, utterly irresistible.

I was doing more body positivity content. 

Didn’t really do mukbangs or custom stuffing videos anymore. Didn’t need to.

Now? It was all about loving your body as it is, living in it, owning it.

But you better believe I filmed myself eating a burger in a bikini—licking sauce off my fingers, slow, indulgent, making every bite look like an experience.

Showing my belly rolls. Letting them exist. Proving you could eat in a swimsuit, love every second of it, and still be drop-dead gorgeous.

No sucking in. No apologizing.

Hot girl summer and fries?

Yeah. I was making that a thing.

I had it all. The lifestyle. The indulgence. The Cel Monroe magic.

And I wasn’t about to stop.

Which is why, when Mom and Scott hosted a Fourth of July weekend BBQ—

I showed up prepared.

Enter Jordan.

Would’ve had Chase come, but that felt too real. Too easy to slip into a relationship, and I wasn’t there yet. Also, Chase was in California doing some football thing.

Jordan was easier.

Not my boyfriend. Not my date. Just… a friend.

A very hot friend.

Six-foot-two, golden tan, built like a dream, with a smile that could melt chocolate—hell, probably steel. The kind of man who made women conveniently forget they had a husband, or even basic manners.

And my family?

Oh, they noticed. The men swarmed him instantly, talking his ear off about U-dub football, how much he benched, and all that macho crap. But it was mostly the women who couldn’t tear their eyes away, looking at him like dessert had just been served.

Which was exactly my plan.

The second we stepped into the backyard—the kind straight out of a real estate magazine, perfectly manicured, sprawling, with a view that stretched over the whole damn country club—Mom locked in.

Me? Rocking my cuffed jean booty shorts from Torrid (2X, when we all knew a 3X would’ve been smarter), denim struggling, thighs thick, soft, a burger away from popping a damn seam. White tank stretched tight, boobs working overtime—

Mom?

Eyes wide. Lips pursed. Already judging.

I knew it was coming. That comment, perched on the tip of her tongue, ready to swoop in like a vulture eyeing roadkill.

Then?

Jordan slung an arm around my shoulders, dropped a kiss on my neck, all casual, all mine.

And just like that, her lips snapped shut.

No lectures about my weight. No unsolicited concern for my health. No “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?” like she’d so graciously dropped at Easter.

Because she wasn’t looking at the way my thighs spilled out of the hems of my shorts, the front button pressing deep into my soft belly, the sheer amount of cleavage I had on display in my tiny top—pushed up, high, daring anyone not to stare.

Nope.

She was looking at Jordan.

At the way he wanted me.

And so was Claire—suddenly real uninterested in Brandon, who was off manning the barbecue with his meat thermometers like some unpaid intern, completely oblivious.

And the way Jordan held me? The way I leaned into it? The way his eyes dragged over me like I was hotter than the damn grill?

Oh, I milked it.

Smiled slow. Sipped my beer. Let Jordan work his charm, let him steal the spotlight right off me and my “concerning and shocking” weight gain.

So instead of dodging the unspoken You’re getting so fat comments, I let him do the work.

And me?

I relaxed.

Leaned back in my chair, let my thighs spread, owned my space.

Dug into my burger, my potato chips, my extra-large helping of mac and cheese, taking my time, taking pleasure in every bite.

Took a long sip of my fourth beer, already thinking about how I’d unbutton my shorts on the ride home, how Jordan would slide his hand over my belly, how he’d murmur something low, filthy, into my ear.

I sighed.

Because if my mom only knew how many thousands of people were obsessed with me. How much money I was making.

But also—God forbid if she ever found out.

Chapter 34

July kept rolling, and it was a damn good time.

Rooftop parties. Late-night BBQs with friends. Long, boozy dinners that somehow morphed into even boozier brunches. Then there was that weekend at Jordan’s dad’s summer house in Lake Chelan—prime waterfront, big-ass boat, and enough space to host the kind of shenanigans that only happens when you throw too many hot people together with no supervision.

Aaron, Jenna, me, our friends Rylee and Gavin—plus Chase and Jordan.

Yep. Both of my guys. At the same time.

Insanity.

Because while Chase and Jordan still hadn’t put two and two together, they were damn well getting suspicious.

They weren’t saying it outright, but I caught the looks. The subtle tension. The way one of them would ask, What’d you do last night? in just the right tone, like they were waiting for me to slip.

Like they knew.

Except they didn’t. Not really.

Because if they did? It would’ve been chaos. Instead, it was just two men side-eyeing each other, convinced the other one was acting weird, both absolutely clueless that I was the reason why.

And then there was Aaron.

Gotta say, he looked real good with his shirt off. Not football-muscly like Chase and Jordan, but lean, toned, built just right. Especially with his long hair dripping wet from the lake, sun catching the angles of his abs in a way that was almost rude.

Meanwhile, Chase and Jordan had turned the whole damn weekend into their own personal Alpha Olympics. Jet skis, wakeboards—hell, even cannonballs became a flex-off. Bigger splashes, faster turns, harder landings, like the lake was their battleground and the prize was… what? Bragging rights? My attention?

Or, let’s be real, proving who had the bigger dick.

Spoiler: Not telling.

And Jenna wasn’t the type to warm a bench.

She hopped straight onto an inner tube, gripping tight, laughing wild, screaming louder, bumping and crashing into Rylee, holding on for dear life as Aaron pulled every trick he had to send her flying.

Me?

I just leaned back, let the sun soak into my skin, sipped my hard lemonade, and worked my way through way too many ice cream bars.

Because if someone had to be the goddess sprawled out, soaking up the heat, making men suffer?

It had to be me.

And suffer, they did.

I hadn’t dared a bikini yet—despite my confidence behind the safety of a screen, I wasn’t quite there in public.

But I was getting there.

Because this swimsuit might as well have been one.

Black, sleek, obscene. A one-piece in name only, slashed open at the sides, barely holding on, barely holding me in. My belly spilled soft between the gaps, round, full, folding into thick, heavy rolls when I sat, pressing deep into my lap as the boat rocked beneath me. 

It stretched tight, digging into hips that were too wide, squeezing thighs thick and dimpled, spilling over the edges of the seat, jiggling with every sharp turn, every bounce over the waves. 

And I wasn’t hiding a damn thing.

And my boobs? Jesus.

The single strap slashed across my chest, fabric pulled dangerously tight, struggling against gravity, barely keeping me in. My creamy white skin, gleaming under thick layers of sunscreen. Because if I was gonna bake out here, I sure as hell wasn’t coming out looking like a lobster—especially not with these slashes in my suit.

Yeah. I’d probably end up with tan line stripes like a zebra if I wasn’t careful.

Jordan was blowing up another innertube, cheeks puffed out, looking seconds from passing clean out. Chase stood at the bow, wrestling with the anchor, muscles flexing big and powerful, muttering curses under his breath like that anchor had personally pissed him off.

Meanwhile, I was stretched out, soaking up the heat, trying to get comfortable despite the heinous lack of proper seating on this boat.

I held out the bottle of sunscreen, slid my Gucci shades down my nose, and smirked. Slow. Teasing.

“Come on, boys. Don’t be lazy. I need someone to get the spots I can’t reach.”

Jordan made a wheezing sound around the tube’s mouthpiece, like he forgot how to breathe.

Chase?

Dropped the anchor.

And came straight for me.

Big hands smoothing over my shoulders, sliding down my back, fingers pressing deep, massaging like he was working something out—and maybe he was.

I let my head drop forward, sighing, soft, just enough to let him know I felt it.

Then Jordan took over.

Jenna, off to the side, shooting me major side-eye the whole time.

Jordan’s touch was different. Slower. Lazier. Fingers teasing along my calves, rubbing deep into my ankles, then sliding up, working lotion into the soft, sensitive skin behind my knees. Taking his sweet damn time. Grip firm, indulgent, deliberate—like he was savoring it.

I would’ve had them get my ass too, but I didn’t want to use up all the sunscreen—plus, that might’ve been the thing that finally sent Jenna over the edge. Instead, I gave them glimpses. Let them ache for it.

Stood up, stretched, reached into the cooler, bent just right, slow, on purpose, pulling out another Dove chocolate-dipped ice cream bar.

And they watched.

All of them.

Watched as I dropped back into my seat, ass slamming down, legs spreading wide, and licked melted chocolate from my fingers.

Chase had to take his Oakleys off.

Jordan leaned back, dragging his eyes over me, slow, knowing.

I arched my back, long and lazy—because if they were gonna suffer, might as well make it hurt.

And Aaron?

Yeah. That man still hadn’t learned his lesson.

Watching me like he forgot Jenna—his girlfriend—was sitting right there.

But I had zero shame. Zero regrets. Full Cel Monroe.

Back at the office, my job was… well, optional.

I barely did anything. It was mind-numbingly boring. The kind of boring that made time crawl and had me checking the clock every five minutes like that would somehow make the day go faster.

And honestly? I was eating just to stay awake.

Which, shocker, wasn’t exactly helping my let’s-not-gain-more-weight plan.

David—my sweet, pathetic little office puppy—scurried around, fetching me matcha lattes, baked goods, whatever I so much as hinted I wanted. Like he was winning me over, like I was about to swoon over his desperate little gestures when, really? All he was doing was contributing to my bottom line.

And yeah, I meant that literally.

Because that bottom line?

It was getting a little too bottom-heavy.

Most of the weight I was gaining settled in the usual places—hips, ass, thighs. And if I wasn’t careful? My office chair came up with me when I stood, forcing me into this awkward little wiggle while pressing down on the armrests just to get free.

Yeah.

That was a thing now.

But work was stupid.

Five days a week in the office, like we had assigned seating and a goddamn hall pass to use the restroom.

So I did nothing.

Ate my snacks. Scrolled my phone. Pretended to work while waiting for my real job—Cel Monroe—to blow up even more.

And I told myself maybe I’d wait until my contract was up before I ruined Sam Walters and went to HR.

In the meantime I was gonna enjoy the fact that I was getting paid to sit there, look hot as hell, and do absolutely nothing at all.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)