The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 31 - 32

Chapter 31

Afterward, I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

I was too heavy, too stretched, my body sunk deep into the mattress, limbs useless, belly aching, so stuffed I could feel my heartbeat in it.

Jordan still had energy.

His lips brushed over mine, licking traces of whipped cream from my skin, trailing down my jaw, my chin, my neck. His hands followed, sliding over my belly, rubbing gentle, grounding circles, soothing the fullness like he was still thinking about what he’d just done to me. Like he was proud of it.

I let out a soft, helpless little sound, shifting, but even that was too much effort.

He kissed my forehead, pulled away, and started cleaning up. Grabbed the empty cake tray, the napkins, made sure not a single crumb was left before disappearing into the kitchen.

Fridge opened. Sink ran. Cabinets closed.

When he came back, he sat beside me, murmured something low, something I didn’t catch—then pressed a washcloth to my skin. Warm. Damp. Slow, lazy strokes.

Taking his time. Taking care of me.

Like I was something delicate. Something precious.

“Shit, princess. I’m sorry if that was too much.”

I turned my head, still wrecked from all that cake, wheezing out, “Don’t—(pant)—be sorry.”

I tried to sit up. Didn’t happen. Tried again. Still nothing.

Jordan just stared, watching me struggle.

I scowled. “Don’t (huff, gasp) just sit there like a (pant) dumbass. Help me!”

He gripped my hands, pulled me up, grunting as he steadied me.

I whimpered, my belly bumping into him.

He didn’t let go at first. Didn’t step back. His hands stayed, gripping my waist, fingers digging in like he fucking loved it.

“Be (huff) right back,” I said, twisting away and slipping past him, heading for the bathroom.

Relief hit fast, my body grateful.

But stepping out—stomach still aching, breath short—I still felt him. His touch. His heat. Everywhere.

I reached for my robe.

Jordan grabbed it first, unfurled the silk, held it open, waiting.

I slipped my arms through. Or tried to.

I groaned as he worked it over me, body heavy, arms weak. Whimpered when he finally got me in, knuckles brushing my belly.

He leaned in, mouth at my ear. “Too full, princess?”

I swallowed. Nodded. Shifted on my feet, still adjusting, still needing a moment to breathe.

I turned, grabbed the pack of cigarettes from my vanity, tucked it into my palm as I slowly wiggled toward the balcony.

“Damn. You bought a whole pack? What the hell you doin?” Jordan said.

I lifted a lazy shoulder, tilted my head, looking up at him through my lashes. “Just (huff, gasp) for fun. Helps (hiccup) with stomach (pant) aches. Helps me vape less.”

He exhaled. “Balcony?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded, already turning towards the bathroom. “Meet you out there.”

By the time I stepped outside, the night air cut through the warmth still buzzing in my belly. 

I let my robe hang open, silk sliding over my curves still tender, teasing more than covering. Lit my cigarette, took a pull, inhaled deep, let the smoke swirl through me before exhaling into the night.

The door creaked open and Jordan stepped out, still shirtless, jeans and boxers hanging low on his hips, dark hair damp, like he ran wet hands through it. He held a glass of water and handed it to me.

I took a careful sip. Set it down on the table, heavy, like everything else.

“So… you serious about slowing down?” he said.

I took a drag, flicked my eyes up at him.

“Yeah,” I said, voice still breathy and thick with cake and too much of everything. “Maybe… just (gasp) don’t do this quite so, (pant) oof, (huff) often.”

“So, what? We take breaks? Some moderation?”

I nodded, tapped ash into the open, mostly empty mocha cup that had been sitting out there since this morning. Rolled my bottom lip between my teeth.

“Something (huff, gasp) like that. Maybe just a (pant) couple times a week and that’s it, I can just like (huff) fast the rest of the time.”

I shifted on my feet.

Gasped and moaned, woozy.

Too aware of how heavy my body felt.

Of how breathing took effort.

Of how standing felt like a workout.

I reached for a chair, sank down with a soft, relieved sigh, belly folding over my thighs, robe slipping further open.

Jordan pushed off the railing and took a step toward me.

“Well yeah I guess if I’m gonna keep feeding you the way you love—then just think about balancing things out a little, cut back like you said, but also...”

I raised a brow, blowing smoke, waiting.

“Just hit the gym,” he said, fingers brushing down my plush arm. “Or maybe just take advantage of that fancy workout room you got downstairs. Yoga. Walking. Whatever. Just get some movement going.”

I took another drag, stared out at the city, chewed my lip.

Jordan’s version of encouragement was skating dangerously close to mansplaining and I did not like that version of him.

I liked it better when he just worshipped me.

When he looked at me like I was something soft, sensual—a goddess literally wrapped in silk, a woman too beautiful to ever be questioned.

The truth?

I wasn’t sure I had it in me.

Didn’t know if I was too far gone, too comfortable in this softer, fuller version of myself to start exercising on purpose again.

Didn’t know if I really wanted to anymore.

Because even now—stuffed, sore from everything Jordan had given me—there was a different kind of hunger curling low between my thighs. That liquid ache, the weight of indulgence pressing deep, making my nipples tighten.

I exhaled smoke, flicked my eyes up at him.

Still close. Still watching me. Lips twitching like he knew exactly where my thoughts had gone.

Chapter 32

The weekend was supposed to be about control. A reset. Less indulgence, more balance. Proving I could stop.

And I had.

Okay, better. No late-night binges. No takeout spirals. Held strong against the 2 a.m. whispers of just one little thing, what’s the harm? By Sunday, I actually felt lighter. Not physically—let’s be real—but mentally. More in charge.

Except Chase was still in my head. Eating at me. Making me wonder how bad he really wanted me.

So I texted him. You can come over if you want.

And just like that, I lost the upper hand.

He showed up in dark jeans, black T-shirt stretched over muscle, leather jacket slung over one shoulder like he owned the night. A man who didn’t fidget, didn’t fill silences, didn’t react just because you expected him to.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, steady.

“Hey, yourself.” 

He walked past me, body heat trailing in his wake, scent of leather and something masculine. 

I shut the door, but I felt his gaze.

I had spent some time on my hair and makeup but I wasn’t really dressed.

Didn’t need to be.

The black spaghetti-strap tank, barely hanging on. The purple thong, high on my hips, biting deep, devoured by my ass crack. My huge, soft buns—bulging out, flaring, squished together, thick, round, so big. So lush. 

His jaw flexed. A tiny shift. A flicker of restraint.

I collapsed onto the sectional like I hadn’t just caught him looking. Grabbed my glass of red from the coffee table, took a sip, then reached for my bag of chocolate-covered almonds, tossing a handful into my mouth, sucking the melted chocolate off my fingers before grabbing more.

He sat down next to me and I told him what I’d told Jordan—getting healthier, cutting back, finding balance. That I loved my curves but didn’t want to gain more.

Chase nodded. Too quick. Too easy. Like he agreed, sort of like Jordan. Like maybe he thought I was right.

Such an ass.

I drank more wine, tossed back another handful of almonds. He sat back, watching me eat, watching me drink, watching me like he remembered every bite he fed me.

We talked slow, easy, until OnlyFans slipped out between sips of pinot.

“If I’m really doing this—committing to not getting bigger—I need to do a weigh-in. Obviously.” I popped more almonds, chased them with more wine. 

Chase didn’t blink.

I swallowed, licked my lips. “If I’m serious, tonight’s the heaviest I’ll ever be, so I need to film it.” 

Yeah, I knew I’d said something similar forty-something pounds ago—but this time I meant it. 

My eyes dipped to my soft, exposed thighs, then lifted slowly to his. “Since you’re here, you should help.”

I expected pushback. Chase never outright said he hated OnlyFans, but I knew. Knew it in the tightness of his jaw, the flex of his hands, the broody silence.

But tonight?

No arguments. No attitude.

Just Chase setting up the tripod exactly how I’d shown him.

My heart raced, nerves skittering, as I stood, already flushed knowing he was about to see this side of me.

I brushed into him, soft curves pressing into solid muscle, as I whispered, “Pay (pant) attention to what’s in the frame.”

“I know how to work a damn camera.”

I smirked, hiding nerves beneath pure sex. “Do you?”

He didn’t answer—just stepped back, hit record.

And just like that, Cel Monroe took over.

The nerves? Gone.

My voice dropped, low, sultry, all tease, telling the camera—telling Chase—just how much I loved my body.

Thighs thick, skin like butter, squishing, rubbing, making me ache.

I turned, showing off, flaunting the sheer size of my ass—rounder, curving higher at my back, heavier at the bottom, bulging wide. Then, breathless, I stepped on the scale.

243.

Not surprised. Not even a little.

But my fans?

They’d lose their minds.

I flashed the camera a sultry, knowing smile, let my hands drag over my waist, my hips, my thighs, tracing the extra softness, owning every inch. “So this,” I purred, voice thick, “is what 243 pounds looks like on a girl. And remember, I’m five-four.”

Quietly, I guided Chase closer, letting him zoom tight on the number, then step back, tracking every move, every decadent jiggle of my ass. My nipples tightened painfully, pussy slick, heart racing wild as heat flooded every part of me. Suddenly, working out, cutting back or holding steady was the last thing I wanted—maybe tomorrow I'd care. But not tonight.

Finally, I whispered, “Cut.”

He stopped the recording and lifted his gaze to mine. Those blue eyes locked in, fierce and hungry.

I sighed. “You (huff) know this is (pant) your fault.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re the one (pant) who fed me all that pizza.”

I felt the pull. The kind that made my pulse stutter, made my thighs clench, made me wonder how much longer he was going to stand there looking at me like that before he did something about it.

But then he did what Chase does. The controlled, too-practical, completely ruining the moment thing.

“Do you want to put some pants on and go down to the workout room? Get some exercise?”

How can men be so stupid?

I blinked. “No. Not tonight.”

His lips pressed together. A flicker of something behind his eyes. Then— “Umm, do you want me to get you some food?”

I lunged for him.

“Yes, please,” I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him hard enough to knock the self-righteousness right out of him.

I didn’t let him go for a while. But I did when he offered Rocco’s. Because, honestly? I was never getting tired of pizza.

I was a bad girl.

Let him feed me nearly the whole thing. Let him take me any way he wanted. Let him make me his.

And it was everything.

Now? Now I was wrecked yet again.

I moved onto the balcony, feeling every step. 

I sank into the chair, shifting, trying to get comfortable, failing.  I lit a cigarette, fingers shaking—not from nerves, not from guilt, just pure overindulgence.

And across from me, Chase watched.

Not just looking—seeing.

The way my hips spilled over the sides of the chair. The way I had to adjust just to breathe. The way my chest rose and fell too fast, too shallow.

He wasn’t smirking.

Not like Jordan had been last night, standing right where Chase was now.

A sharp shiver crawled up my spine.

Shit.

I blinked. Looked up again.

Chase. Not Jordan.

Déjà vu wrapped around me. The last two nights blurred together, turning into one long haze. Too much food. Too much pleasure. Too much wine, too much weed. My mind was foggy, sluggish, turning reality slippery.

“If we’re (huff) gonna make (pant) this a thing then we need to space it out (hiccup) more, otherwise (gasp) I’ll just keep getting bigger,” I said.

He let out a slow, measured breath. “Next time, no food. Just a workout. And you’re not seducing your way out of it the second you get tired.”

I flicked ash into the bowl I was using as an ashtray. “Yeah, (huff) okay, Chase.”

My stomach twisted.

Guilt?

Paranoia?

Both.

The smoke drifted between us, and before I could stop myself, the words were already out.

“Don’t (pant) tell Jordan.”

Chase’s eyes sharpened. “Tell him what?”

I shrugged, forced nonchalance, lifted the cigarette to my lips, took a drag like I wasn’t fishing. 

“You know, (pant) about us. Not yet.”

“What is us?”

I exhaled, keeping my face blank. “We’re just (gasp) two people who really (pant) like each other… for now.”

I flicked more ash, leaned back, the chair groaning beneath me, my whole damn world too much.

The weight in my belly, the heat in Chase’s stare—thick, heavy with everything I wasn’t saying.

That feeding was kinky. A fetish.

But with Chase? It didn’t feel like that.

Didn’t feel dirty. Didn’t feel twisted or taboo.

It felt natural.

Effortless.

Like love.

And damn it, I loved being Chase’s feedee. Loved the way he watched me eat, how every bite felt like another thread tying me to him, pulling me in, deeper, tighter, closer.

But I also knew I couldn’t let it take over my life any more than it already had.

Couldn’t pretend I didn’t feel the difference. Couldn’t ignore how much more I wanted. How much bigger my appetite had gotten. How much bigger I’d gotten.

I sighed, guilt curling low in my belly, heavy like the rest of me. “I guess (pant) I just want this (hiccup) to be our little secret.”

Chase didn’t move. 

I wanted to ask if he loved me—really loved me. Not just for the way I looked, not because he saw me like the rest of the world did—just a pretty face, something to admire, too blinded by beauty to ever look deeper.

I wanted to know if he saw me, and still wanted all of me.

I wanted to tell him I loved him.

But then I thought of Jordan.

And I couldn’t.

Not yet.

So I let it sit there. Unspoken.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)