The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 22 - 23

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Chapter 22

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open, and I lurched out, already out of breath, wiggling my way toward Reboot like I wasn’t about to explode out of my outfit. I tried to act casual, like I wasn’t trying to suck in, wasn’t fighting with my cami that kept rolling up like it was shrinking in real time. Like I wasn’t out of breath from being so full.

Kyler saw me immediately.

His gaze lingered, just enough to make sure I noticed, before his mouth curved into that damn smirk. He grabbed a mug, slid it under the espresso machine, leaned a little too casually against the counter.

“You look…” He let it hang, steam hissing, eyes dragging over me slow, definitely enjoying the show. “Awake.”

I took a deep breath, my breasts heaving. “Don’t (huff, gasp) start with me, Ky.”

Kyler blushed, pulled my mocha, slid it across the counter like he hadn’t just been an ass.

But I wasn’t done.

I grabbed two thick slices of banana bread from the pastry case without thinking, took my mocha of survival, and stormed out like a woman with zero shame and no regrets.

By the time I collapsed into my chair, I was hot, slightly sweaty, and one wrong move away from flashing half the office.

I yanked at my cami, tried to tug it lower. Nope. Barely budged. Too tight. Too clingy. Gripping everything—including the new little folds of back fat that liked to appear depending on how I was sitting. And as if that wasn’t enough? The neckline was already dangerously low, cleavage way past office-appropriate, my bra screaming for attention underneath.

Who was I kidding? I was absolutely not making it through this day.

I tore into my banana bread, demolished it way too fast, sipped my mocha like it held the meaning of life, and completely ignored Vanessa’s judgy side-eye as she strutted past.

Then came David.

Lurking. Mouth open. About to say something stupid.

“Hey Celeste, I need to—”

I lifted a hand, cutting him off before he even thought about finishing that sentence. Because frankly? I had bigger needs.

I shifted, just enough for my cami to stretch tighter, lower, locking onto him with a look that said, I need something, and you’re gonna give it to me.

“David.” I gasped, dragging my fingers through my thick, glorious waves, giving them a shake, like I was about to star in a shampoo commercial instead of being wedged into my chair like a snack too big for its wrapper. “Perfect (pant) timing. I need a favor.”

His throat bobbed. His gaze flickered.

Not to my eyes.

Lower.

Busted.

“You’re (pant) going to the cafeteria,” I murmured, voice breathy, still too full from the Starbucks alone. I fanned myself, exhaled slow, breathy, full of I’m just a little too warm, a little too full, and wouldn’t it be nice if someone took care of me?

“You’re getting me (huff) waffles. Extra whipped cream. All the berries. Double (pant) bacon.”

David froze.

Brain buffering.

Eyes betraying every single inappropriate thought currently derailing whatever dumb thing he was about to say. “Actually, I can’t right now, Celeste. I’m in the middle of something—I was just going to ask if you knew that Sa-”

I cut him off, lips parting, fingers trailing over my collarbone—or at least where my collarbone used to be, now covered and cushioned under a new layer of fat and softness. Great for boobs. Terrible for keeping my cami in check.

“David, (pant) I’m not even joking—go get my (pant) waffles right now,” I said, my voice coming out breathier and more frantic than I meant to.

But damn it, this was urgent. I needed to feel stuffed. If Jordan were here, I’d already have my food. Now that was a man who knew how to treat a lady.

David’s eyes went wide then dropped down to my cleavage again.

Idiot.

“Celeste, I really—”

I lifted one finger. "Do I (huff) look like I care?"

He swallowed hard, gave one last glance at my hips, then nodded.

“Okay, Celeste. I’ll go get you more food.”

I sighed, all soft and satisfied, then—quick as a wink—snatched up the last crumbs of my banana bread.

And with a very contented chew, I watched him scurry off toward the cafeteria like a man who knew better than to test me again.

I told myself I’d stay until lunch.

Make an appearance.

Answer some emails, do something that looked like work, and then bail.

By 11:30, I was struggling.

Total food coma.

Too stuffed. Way too horny for work. And still floating just a little—from that last little hit off my THC vape in the restroom—just enough to make everything feel warm, soft, cozy.

Energy crashing, my sugar-fueled high nosediving straight into something slow, sweet, and wickedly indulgent.

A daydream wrapped in silk and sin.

The banana bread? Gone.
The waffles? Gone.
The bacon? Not even a lonely little piece of fat left behind.

And yet—my brain? Already thinking about lunch.

Insane.

But honestly? I was also thinking about Jordan.

Thinking about being fed. Being watched. Being wanted like that again. Thinking about going home, grabbing my toy, climbing into bed, and eating more.

Heat pooled low in my belly. I shifted, hips pressing into the armrests more than they used to, thighs spreading, the pressure there, distracting as hell.

Staring at my schedule. Processing none of it.

Buzz.

My phone lit up.

Sam Walters: Whiskey room. Now.

I froze.

Holy. Shit.

No.

Not today.

Today of all days?

Absolutely not.

Stared at the screen, willing it to disappear. I was too bloated, too lazy, too over it. Even standing felt like it would be an accomplishment at this point.

I should have ignored him. Should’ve blocked his number. Should’ve marched my very well-fed ass straight to HR—but let’s be honest, that was probably a much longer walk than just stepping into the elevator and floating up to the Whiskey Room.

I grabbed my vape, let out a breathy moan—way louder than I meant to—as I shoved out of my too-snug chair, feeling every soft, heavy, indulgent inch of me.

The first few steps? Slow. A little hurty. But I was determined.

This needed to be handled.

Once and for all.

I spotted Sam through the blinds, a vague outline against the glow of the canal behind him. 

I pushed open the door, wiggled my way inside, already winded, feet aching, back screaming, my green ankle boots clicking against the wood floor. The door swung shut behind me. 

TheWhiskey Room—Google’s attempt at a high-end speakeasy, all dim lighting, polished wood, pool table, pinball machines flashing in the background, and a micro-kitchen stocked better than most apartments.

Sam sat in his chair, parked by the windows, stretched out like he had nowhere better to be. The pool table sprawled in front of him, the bar just to his right, a half-finished drink sitting abandoned at his side.

His eyes dragged over me, taking the scenic route down and back up again.

And there it was. That flicker. That realization.

Yeah, he saw it.

I was bigger. A lot bigger. Like thirty pounds since Halloween bigger.

I sighed, took a slow pull from my vape, blowing it out just as slow, watching him watch me, daring him to tell me it was against the rules.

Then, with a sway, I sauntered forward, stopped, and let my hips squish into the pool table as I leaned in, planting myself there.

Vape clutched in my fingers, arms crossing under my cleavage, pushing my boobs up just enough to keep his eyes exactly where I wanted them—rising, falling, heaving with every breath I took. “This (pant) better be good.”

“You want a drink?” he asked. 

I huffed out a laugh, shifted to my other hip, letting my curves settle, then fanned myself with my free hand. “You really (pant) think a drink is gonna fix this?”

No way was I drinking at work.

With him.

But then?

My feet throbbed. My belly felt swollen. My head still had a dull ache. And honestly?

Whiskey sounded pretty damn good.

I took another pull from my vape. “You know (pant) what? Yeah. Actually, (pant) I do want a drink.”

“You do?”

I moved. Slow. Boots clicking against the floor as I made my way around the pool table, letting my hips wiggle just enough as I crossed the room, near his space, but not in it. Not close enough to touch.

Just close enough to smell my perfume and to make a point.

Dragging a lazy finger over the bottles lined up behind the bar, my back still to him, my ass pointed his way, I let the silence stretch. Let it settle thick between us, let it say things neither of us were going to.

I spun, lips curving, voice all breath and honey, smooth as the whiskey I was about to drink.

“Whiskey sour. (pant) Crushed ice. Extra sweet, extra lemon, (huff) with the Knob Creek.”

Sam pushed up from his chair, rolled his shoulders like he was shaking something off. 

I stepped aside, drifting to the far end of the pool table. Giving him room—but not too much.

He reached for the whiskey, poured it neat into a shaker, added syrup, ice. Smooth. Practiced.

I puffed on my vape and watched, ankle curling around the other, fully aware of what he was seeing—painted-on tights, skinpy cami, not an ounce of shame left to give about how stuffed I was, how big my ass looked, how much space I took up, how every inch of me was right there for him to take in.

He shook the drink hard, poured it over crushed ice, then turned, stepping forward, glass in hand.

I pushed off the pool table with a gasp, met him in the middle, took the glass from him, the cold seeping into my fingers. Brought the little straw to my lips, took a sip and let it burn all the way down.

Damn.

Exactly what I needed.

I backed up, squished my ass against the pool table, Sam standing right in front of me, only a few feet between us. I set my glass down on the green felt, and said, “You gonna talk, (pant) or are we just standing around playing bartender?”

His eyes locked onto mine. “Are you going to tell on me?”

I let his question sit there, marinate, then propped myself up and wiggled my entire ass onto the pool table, settling in with a breathy sigh, grateful to take the pressure off my feet.

My hips spread—soft, wide, unapologetic—and the table let out a groan beneath me.

A little too loud.

Then, as if on cue, my stomach joined in—grumbling, churning, making itself known.

Way too loud. Embarrassingly loud.

From last night? From this morning?

Maybe from the whiskey?

Sam’s eyes flickered—down.

To my thighs. To where my upper belly spilled over my waistband.

I let him sweat.

Let him think.

Who cared if he heard my tummy making noises?

Because we both knew—if I so much as whispered the word, he’d leave his wife, his family, burn his whole damn life to the ground for me.

And he knew it.

That made me feel something. A little proud. A little dangerous.

That I had that kind of pull. 

“Of course I’m going to (gasp, huff) tell on you. Tell HR, tell Sergey… might even have to (pant) tell your wife, too.”

His jaw clenched. Something flickered in his eyes—ugly, desperate. “It’s your word against mine. Nobody saw us, Celeste.”

I sucked in my belly, but let’s be real—not much was sucking in at the moment.

He smirked. Like he thought he’d won. Like I was still that girl from last year—shy, pleasing, easy to manipulate.

"You think they’ll believe you over me?" he sneered, leaning back against the bar, eyes dragging over me, dissecting, picking apart. "Look at yourself. You’re getting so fat. I’m actually worried you’re gonna break the table."

Heat flared up my spine. My left hand clutched tight around my vape, sharp enough to keep me steady, sharp enough to keep me in control.

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with people?

Why do they act like fat is the worst thing a woman can be? Like it’s right up there with murder? But a woman with curves—real curves, actual tits, an actual ass— is supposed to be embarrassed?

Like I can’t literally see the outline of his fucking boner through his pants while he’s trying to fat shame me.

Sexist. Hypocritical. Bullshit.

He wasn’t winning this.

I shifted my hips, arched my back, pushed out my tits—owning every. Damn. Inch. The table groaned beneath me, not my problem. "You know what, Sam? I am getting fat. And guess what?"

I wrapped my lips around my vape, took a drag, watching his throat bob, like he was trying to swallow his own dick but couldn't choke it down. 

"I love my (huff) curves. And I know you do, too."

His brows furrowed. "What?"

"Don’t even pretend you don’t like it," I said, voice breathy. "The whole reason we’re here is because you couldn’t control yourself around me at the Halloween party."

I took another pull from my vape, exhaled in his direction. "You want me. Bad. Admit it."

His hands twitched. Like he wanted to grab something.

Maybe me.

"Go ahead, Sam. Keep looking. The way your eyes are glued to me right now? Says everything."

I grabbed my drink, took one last slow sip, then went to slide off the pool table—tried to, anyway. Wiggled my ass, shimmied my hips, but yeah… not happening.

One hand clutching my drink. The other gripping my vape while also trying to push off, with nowhere near enough leverage.

I put my drink back down—almost tipped it over, almost fell backward in the process.

Holy crap.

Too full. Too heavy. And oh my God, what if the damn table actually broke?

Sam stepped forward, eyes wide, mouth tight.

“Jesus, Celeste,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Let me help you off before that thing collapses or you break the seal.”

I glared at him. Hard.

But yeah, okay, fine—I reached out my arms.

His hands wrapped around my wrists, strong, steady, and with a couple of tugs—and some wiggling on my part—he hauled me to my feet.

I let out a breathy gasp, and for half a second?

I felt it.

The way my breasts almost bumped into him, the way his hands lingered on my wrists, the way his body tensed like he was fighting the urge to let me fall right into him.

It was a little embarrassing, needing his help to get off the table. And his comment about me breaking it? Pissed me off.

But also?

It kind of turned me on that he actually said it.

That I had gotten that curvy.

I took one last pull from my vape, exhaled straight into his stupid face, then turned on my heel, wiggling away, not sparing him another damn glance.

“Wait, we still need to talk,” he called after me, voice tight, desperate. “We can talk money if you want. Please, Celeste!”

I tossed a smirk over my shoulder. Like I needed his money. “You can just go (pant) right ahead and kiss my butt Sam.”

Let him keep sweating. 

Jenna’s head popped up the second I passed her desk, brows lifted, eyes narrowing, clocking my whole I-wish-a-bitch-would attitude. Probably debating whether she even wanted to ask.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yep. I’m outta here.”

I snatched my purse, left my empty mug, plate, fork—whatever—sitting like someone else’s problem. Preferably David’s; and wiggled straight back to the elevator, arms crossed, hip cocked, fully done with the day.

Doors slid open. Garage air hit me as I strode toward my Jetta like I had somewhere better to be.

Because I did.

My car. My apartment. My bed. Food.

By the time I collapsed into my driver’s seat, I let out a deep breath, pulled out my phone, and opened DoorDash.

Because I needed something waiting for me when I got home.

Something hot. Greasy. Indulgent.

Burger. Shake. Fries. Something for dessert.

Work? Over.

Sam? Irrelevant.

If he thought he could shame me, if he thought calling me fat was gonna break me, make me feel weak, anything but powerful as hell in my own curvy body—

The same body that’s probably running through his head right now, haunting his pathetic dreams?

Yeah.

He had no fucking idea who he was dealing with.

Chapter 23

The rest of the week passed in a haze—food, pleasure, indulgence—every bite pulling me deeper into something I wasn’t even pretending to fight.

Jordan? Practically begging to come over 24/7.

And yeah… I let him.

My handsome, secret feeder and lover. Just for me. Too personal, too wicked to share. Not even Jenna knew—though part of me wanted to tell her.

But keeping it a secret?

That was half the fun.

Almost every night that week, he showed up, drowning me in my own deliciousness, giving me exactly what I needed.

Distraction. Satisfaction.

And a whole lot of pleasure.

Sam? His bullshit? His words still sitting in my head like a challenge?

Blocked out. Ignored. Shoved aside like an empty plate after a feast.

If he thought I was fat now?

Oh, he had another thing coming.

I kept Jordan around for three reasons.

One—protection. My ass was drawing so much attention in public, it was getting concerning. Like, full-on stalker vibes. Men following me to my car after a shopping trip, acting like they’d never seen a woman this hot before and couldn’t handle it. It was good to know Jordan was always a text away, ready to drop everything if I needed him.

Two—because he made me feel good.

Three—because he fed me.

And he did it all like a damn pro.

One night? A whole box of éclairs—cream thick, lush on my tongue, every bite rich, decadent, sinful. Jordan beside me on the couch, holding me close, hands on my thighs, between them, in me when I wanted, or guiding me to the bedroom when I asked.

Lustful eyes. That awestruck look playing at his lips. His thumb brushing the corner of my mouth when I went to lick away the excess, his other thumb gently massaging my pussy, like he couldn’t help himself.

And he kept bringing me food.

And yeah, I took mercy on him—didn’t let him drain his wallet on me. Didn’t need Jordan going broke when my fans were more than happy to pay for my indulgences.

Pasta. Fried chicken. Cupcakes. Pizza.

Jordan was always a text away. Always ready. Always making sure I had more.

And as the days passed, it wasn’t just about pleasure.

It was business. 

The curvier my content, the more subscribers I kept, and every extra bite meant more money flowing in. Sure, there are plenty of “hot girls” on OnlyFans, but not many are brave enough to embrace every luscious curve like me. My fans adored Cel Monroe for exactly that—they loved seeing me well-fed, and they made sure I stayed that way.

So I let them. And I ate. It wasn’t merely the extra cash—it was the promise of potential freedom.

Freedom from ever having to slave away at a soul-sucking corporate job again. From dealing with predatory bosses like Sam. From answering to anyone but me.

Jenna still had access to my OnlyFans, and I know she checked in every now and then, but she wasn’t helping me make content like she used to.

Too busy. Too protective of Aaron. Too obsessed with getting in shape lately.

Which, honestly? Annoying as hell.

So, to make up for losing her photography skills, I sent Jordan out to buy a real camera.

High-end. Top-tier.

Something he swore he could figure out how to use.

I didn’t even blink at the price.

My fans? They’d cover it fast.

High quality. High definition.

Better lighting. Better sound.

More clips, more photoshoots, keeping them hooked. Hungry.

Wanting. Oh, always wanting.

No feeding content. Though the idea of it did cross my mind.

But my fans wanted me, not some 6’2” ex-linebacker messing up my perfect frame.

April rolled on like the last few months, only now? Even more indulgent. No exercise. No pretending.

Even the thought of getting up early, hitting the gym with Jenna again? Gone. Replaced by opulent feeding sessions with Jordan.

Multiple times a week now.

Him watching, worshiping, bringing me more.

And damn, did it make me feel like a queen.

Very Cel Monroe.

I fell into a rhythm—rolling into work late, leaving early, ironically hiding the results of Jordan’s feedings in Jordan’s oversized hoodies.

Jenna probably knew I was seeing someone, but she didn’t ask. She’d just assume it was another wild Bumble fling, and I liked it that way. For now.

By the time May hit and Seattle finally started warming up and drying out, I looked in the mirror and saw a woman transformed—softer, fuller, bigger than ever. 

And I knew it was time for another weigh-in video. The kind that had my fans throwing money just to watch the numbers climb.

And they had.

And trust me—I was feeling every damn pound.

I told Jordan to set up the scale, light it soft and golden, just the right amount of shadows—enough to tease, to highlight, to make it art. And most importantly? To keep quiet.

They were here for me, not him.

He smirked but did as he was told.

The camera rolled, and I stepped into frame, wearing nothing but a pink cami and boxer set—skintight, obviously.

I gave my usual preamble—how I couldn’t stop eating lately, how I felt softer, fuller, heavier. Ran my hands over the curve of my deep-set navel, my round, flaring hips, my extra-juicy ass.

Showed off the new stretch marks—climbing higher, spreading wider.

Then, with a deep breath, I stepped onto the scale.

226.

And damn, did that number do something to me.

Did something to Jordan too.

Because the second we were done filming, he had his hands on me. Arms wrapped around me, pulling me in, grabbing hold of my belly like he needed to touch it, feel it, claim it.

And he could now. Actually grab it, lift it, knead it in his hands, smush his face into it like he was starving for it.

And me? I was right there with him.

Because the way he touched me there, the way he held me, the way he worshipped every new inch of me?

Yeah. That worked me all the way up.

Like my body was different, sure—but the way it responded? That was new.

Softer. Fuller. Hotter.

And oooff, I wasn’t about to fight it.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 

by Jolene Dubois (2025)