The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 29 - 30

Chapter 29

I didn’t really know what to do with myself the rest of the day, what to do about Jordan, so I just stalled. Lounged. Stretched out on the couch, scrolling, zoning, doing absolutely nothing.

Took an edible.

Ordered burgers and fries.

Not one, but two milkshakes—vanilla and chocolate, because I wasn’t in the business of making hard choices today.

I tried to relax.

Even went out on the balcony again, lit up another cigarette. And this time? Much better. Just took a slow drag, let the smoke curl, mixed it with the warm air, the city humming below.

I should’ve been out in the sun, pretending to be productive—maybe even taking a little walk, like those girls who wake up early, drink green juice, and somehow find time to journal about gratitude before work.

But nope.

Instead, I stayed inside. Priorities.

A little self-care.

Red light therapy.

A hot, steamy salt bath—the kind that wrapped around me, softened everything, made me sink deeper, heavier, lazier.

Followed it up with a long, slow shower. Let the water beat down, rinse away the last traces of sleep, of last night, of anything that wasn’t right now.

Blow-dried my hair, smoothed on lotion—rich, thick, buttery—the kind that worked to heal my stretch marks and left my skin glowing, soft, smelling like warm sugar and indulgence.

But still…

I couldn’t stop eating.

Wasn’t even hungry.

Maybe I was eating to numb the responsibility of holding both Chase’s and Jordan’s hearts in my hands. Like they were just sitting there, waiting for me to decide.

I wished they’d just be cool and let me have them both. Two feeders, two lovers. Keeping me full, keeping me satisfied, helping me with my OnlyFans content.

But maybe that was just a dream.

Some perfect world that wasn’t reality.

And honestly? I did need to slow down.

I said 240 was my limit for a reason.

I was already struggling. Not used to being this wide, taking up so much more space. Any bigger and I might have to upgrade to a bigger chair at work. Maybe even a roomier car.

And truthfully, I wasn’t feeling as healthy as I should.

Lethargic. Lazy. Tired all the time. Heavy all the time.

And the heartburn, the shortness of breath? Driving those points home.

Maybe I just needed to adjust to myself at 240.

Maybe it’d get better.

Maybe I’d settle into it, let my body catch up to where my mind hadn’t yet.

Could I actually stay at 240?

Could I stop?

Because the thought of going back to depriving myself sounded horrifying at the moment, and the thought of the indulgence ending seemed even worse.

If it weren’t for Jordan, would I have texted Chase? Told him to come over, do it all over again, let myself sink right back into it?

Probably.

But I just couldn’t.

Better to let Chase wonder, let him stew a little, make him work for it.

So, I caved and just told Jordan he could come over. Why fight it?

And honestly I did want to see him.

Or maybe I just didn’t have the energy to tell him no.

Because today I wasn’t in the mood to make decisions.

Wasn’t in the mood to think at all.

Not about the fact that it wasn’t even dinner time yet and I’d already ordered three full meals, spent the whole damn day eating myself stupid, high off an edible, DoorDashing like I had a personal chef on speed dial. Because the idea of not having something—something warm, rich, salty, sweet, something to fill me up, keep me distracted, keep me grounded—felt like staring into some emotional void I had no interest in facing.

I tried not to think about that second cigarette either, the one that made me feel extra indulgent and, if I was being honest, a little turned on.

Okay. A lot turned on.

Because feeling extra lazy, extra indulgent?

Maybe I liked that.

No. I shouldn’t like that so much. Needed to stop liking it so much.

Maybe I just needed to be honest with Jordan.

(Well… not the Chase part.)

Tell him I needed to slow down. That I wanted to keep my sexy, curvy self right where I was, hold steady at this weight, find some balance.

Maybe no splurging tonight.

No feeding.

That was the plan.

Until another text.

JORDAN: At Whole Foods. There’s a big strawberry cake here. I forget, you like strawberries?

ME: GET IT!

And just like that.

Plan? Dead.

Chapter 30

Jordan barely made it through the door, arms loaded down—one hand gripping a plastic bag stuffed full of the Mexican takeout we’d decided on, the other carefully balancing a massive cake in its plastic container.

He kicked the door shut with his boot, eyes scanning the place. Empty takeout boxes stacked on the coffee table. Crumpled napkins. A half-melted milkshake sweating on the coaster.

“Damn, princess…” His gaze flicked over me—stretched out on the sectional, satin sleep shorts digging into my hips, matching nightie clinging, thighs pressed together, belly soft, full, settled. “You been sittin’ around ordering food all day again?”

90 Day Fiancé droned on—some woman sobbing, some guy looking lost.

I kept my eyes on the screen, voice slow, sweet, effortless. “Yeah. And you’re going to take out the trash for me.”

He let out a long-suffering sigh, setting the cake on the counter before coming around to drop the takeout bag on the coffee table, shaking his head like I was exhausting.

“Always waiting on me to clean up after you.”

I smirked, lifted a brow. “And?”

He grumbled under his breath but moved, grabbed the trash bag, started clearing the coffee table, tossing out empty takeout containers like this was his job. Went back to the kitchen, bent down to scoop up another stray DoorDash bag off the floor.

Then—he stilled. “Didn’t know you had a Rocco’s craving.”

I turned, peeking over the sectional, and there it was.

Folded pizza box, sitting right next to the trash can.

Shit.

I forgot Chase put that there.

"Yeah, well… I was hungry."

He gave me a look. "You should’ve called me up for that."

I sighed, curling back into the sectional, stretching lazy, like this conversation wasn’t making my stomach twist.

Maybe Jordan thought of Rocco’s as our thing.

Instead of our first date, the first time he fed me.

Didn’t have the energy to unpack that.

"I eat food outside of you being here, you know."

He shook his head, smirked, and headed for the door.

When he came back, we talked while I ate.

Warm, gooey enchiladas melting on my tongue, nachos adding crunch, salt, spice—everything rich, indulgent, perfect.

My legs draped over his lap, his right arm stretched over the back of the sectional, his left hand tracing lazy circles on my thigh.

He barely touched his burrito. Just sat there, watching me devour bite after bite, eyes heavy. “What happened to you last night? You and Jenna go out or something?”

My fork hovered mid-air.

Shrug. Bite. Chew. Swallow.

I licked my lips, reached for my wine, took a sip, rolled it over my tongue—tried to look unbothered.

“Uh, no,” I cooed, setting the glass down. “Just wasn’t feeling great. Went to bed early.”

“Weird.”

I shifted, my bare legs still draped over his lap, the move pressing me deeper into the cushions. “Whatever. Called in sick. Needed a personal, self-care day.”

His eyes flicked down, taking in the way I was sprawled across him, satin barely holding on, hips spilling, belly full, oozing out of my top. His lips twitched, amusement flickering, but I cut him off.

“Okay, so I’ve been thinking…”

“Uh-oh.”

I kicked him, toes nudging his thigh. “Shut up. I’m serious.”

I sighed, stretching just enough to make the satin slide up my belly even more. "I think I need to slow down with the indulgence a little.”

His head tilted, eyes locked on me.

"I'm like 240 pounds, Jordan,” I continued, voice lower, softer, a little more tempting.

His eyes dipped. Dragged. 

Didn’t say a word.

"I never—ever, ever—thought I’d get this big.” I licked my lips. “But I didn’t think I’d look this good being this big either.”

I twisted and reached for a nacho, dragged it through thick, creamy cheese, twirling it slow, teasing, before I popped it into my mouth.

"And (chew, munch) I think I wanna (chew) stay here at this weight. I really love the way my body looks right now. Try not to get any bigger, you know? Maintain. Maybe get a little more physically active.”

He took a breath. "You’re at 240?"

I rolled my eyes, letting my head tip back, my neck arch, knowing exactly what that did to him. "Yes, Jordan, 240. I know, I carry it well. I get it.”

"Fuckin right you do."

"Focus. I need to cut back."

He sighed, looking confused. “So… no cake tonight?”

I hesitated. Paused.

Took another sip of wine.  "I mean… maybe not the whole cake."

I finished all three of my enchiladas.

Saucy, cheesy, slow-cooked chicken soaking up every ounce of that rich, smoky, spicy red sauce.

I finished the nachos too—loaded down with queso, sour cream, guac, layers of refried beans and shredded beef, the kind of crunch that hit just right.

And by the time I was done?

I was stuffed and settled deep into the sectional, body languid, stomach tight, every inch of me full and slow.

Jordan made himself comfortable. Pulled me against him, big hands running over my skin, lips brushing over my shoulder, teasing.

We fooled around a little.

Lazy. Unrushed.

Not much effort on my part because, well, I was too full for effort.

But when I muttered, “You can cut me a little slice of cake,” voice all breathy, thinking just a few bites would be enough to scratch the itch?

Yeah.

That was bullshit.

Because once he cut me a slice—just one, just a little piece, set it on a plate, sat beside me?

None of my self-imposed limits mattered.

Because once Jordan started feeding me?

Once he brought the fork to my lips, slow at first, letting me moan through every bite, watching me chew, watching me swallow, watching my eyes flutter shut as I melted into the taste?

I couldn’t stop him.

And he sure as hell wasn’t stopping himself.

Every bite had me sinking deeper, deeper, deeper into bliss.

Jordan’s voice came low, rough, wicked. “So pretty, taking it like that.”

I licked whipped cream off his finger, eyes locked on his, letting him see exactly what that did to me.

He fed me the last bite, then set the empty plate on the coffee table like we were done.

Before he could move, before he could even think about the bedroom, I grabbed the plate, pushed it back into his hand.

“More.”

His lips twitched.

But he did it.

Cut another slice.

Fed me every bite.

By the time I finished that one, my head was hazy, belly full, body soft and lazy against him.

But still, I wanted more.

Needed more.

"Again," I gasped.

His grip on the fork tightened.

But he didn’t argue.

Another slice.

More forkfuls.

More moans.

More whispered praise.

More of everything.

Until it wasn’t enough.

Until the fork was too slow.

My body was too heavy and too weak to stand without him.

I tried. Let out a soft, helpless sound, shifting on the couch, pushing to sit up— but my limbs felt like liquid, my stomach so stuffed I could barely move.

His eyes flashed and then, his hands were on me. Pulling me up, lifting me with effort, because I was completely wrecked from everything he’d given me. I melted against him, body pressing into his, hands gripping his arms, thighs squeezing together, warm and needy.

Didn’t have to say a word.

He already knew.

Jordan didn’t let me go.

Didn’t stop touching me.

Didn’t stop watching me.

Not as he walked me backward, step by step, pulling me through the apartment, my ass jiggling against him.

Not as I turned, tugged my nightie over my head, let it slip to the floor at my feet.

I stood by the bed, fingers hooking into the waistband of my satin boyshorts, sliding them down like I was unwrapping the gift of my ass just for him. Let them drop, stepped out, bare, warm, knowing exactly what I was doing.

Then I crawled onto the mattress—sinking into plush heat, my body heavy, full, aching.

Paused.

Turned my head, ass high, eyes locked on his.

“Bring (gasp) the cake.”

“Fuck me.” His curse was low, guttural. Raw.

He moved, fast. Disappeared into the kitchen, came back with the plastic tray—half the cake still left—and a clean dish towel slung over his shoulder. No pillows, no distractions. Tossed them to the floor, spread the towel near the headboard, set the cake in front of me.

I crawled forward on all fours, and when I dipped down, lips brushing the thick, sweet mess, took a bite—when I let the frosting smear my lips, my chin, let him watch me eat like that, body rocking, savoring every second—

Jordan lost it.

Clothes hit the floor, fast and careless. His hands gripped my wobbly hips, fingers digging in, holding me right where he wanted me.

His mouth found the small of my back, trailing kisses, squeezing my ass harder when I moaned.

His hardness pressed against me, then inside, effortless, deep.

And I sank deeper into the cake.

Chewing fast, the flavors rich, the cream thick, my stomach bursting with fullness, with pleasure, with him.

And when he finally took me?

He didn’t hold back.

Didn’t go slow.

Didn’t stop until we were wrecked, ruined, completely spent.

The cake?

Gone.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)