The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 20 - 21

Chapter 20

My heart was still racing as I tossed the last of my bags into the trunk. Fucking Jordan. Somehow, it had never crossed my mind that one of my fans might actually be someone that knows me.

I tossed my purse inside and flopped into the driver’s seat with a clumsy whooomff—hips pressing into the sides, belly settling heavy in my lap. Let out a huff, trying to catch my breath, my mind spinning over every word, every look, every damn second of what had just happened.

I took a long drag from my vape, letting the heat settle in my chest before I exhaled slow, steady. Think, Cel. If he knows—then what the hell was the point of holding back? 

I had to find out more.

The way he’d acted. The way he’d whispered, like it was a secret only he got to keep, like he wanted to keep it—he was daring me to take this somewhere.

Without giving myself time to overthink—I grabbed my phone. Thumb hesitated for all of half a second before I fired off the text.

ME: Come over?
JORDAN: Sure.
He responded instantly, like he’d been waiting.

ME: But first, go to Rocco’s and get a large chicken pesto. Bring your beer too.
JORDAN: Done.

I stared at the screen, my breath catching, a shiver running down my spine. My heart flipped, and so did my stomach—though, let’s be real, there wasn’t much room for flipping, considering how stuffed I already was. I sent him the code to my building, then tossed my phone onto the passenger seat with a shaky exhale, my pulse pounding.

Why pizza? Because pizza is the best, and Rocco’s? Hands down the best in town. Didn’t matter if I was still full.

Also I wanted to see if he’d actually do it. 

And deep down, I knew he would.

I needed time anyway. Time to get home, freshen up, fluff my hair—because if Jordan was coming over, knowing I was Cel Monroe, maybe even expecting Cel Monroe…

God, it was embarrassing. So embarrassing.

How much did he know?

How much had he seen?

It was also kind of thrilling.

My pulse picked up even more just thinking about it.

By the time I made it back to my apartment, I’d managed to haul exactly one bag inside—the one with the ice cream and a bottle of pinot, obviously. Priorities. And to be fair, the other bags were heavy.

I collapsed onto the couch, letting out a huff, just needing to get off my feet and catch my breath for a second. My phone sat on the coffee table, practically mocking me as my brain spun, stuck on what I’d just set in motion. 

What was I even doing?

I pushed myself up, smoothing down my joggers and wiggling out of my hoodie, leaving me in just my skimpy white camisole.

I popped an edible, hoping it would take the edge off, then shoved the ice cream in the freezer.

After opening and pouring myself a big glass of the pinot, I made a beeline for my vanity, the floor creaking under me louder than I remembered. 

Great. Even my apartment was keeping tabs on my weight now.

A quick touch-up on my makeup, a few swipes of mascara, then I let my hair down, fluffing it into loose waves that looked effortless but took just enough effort to be perfect.

I sucked on a breath mint and swiped on a little deodorant—just in case—when my eyes caught on the softness of my shoulders, the way my collarbone had all but disappeared, the way my breasts pressed into my upper arms, creating that little crease.

Damn.

It was kinda shocking, how much bigger my arms were than they used to be—especially since I was probably weaker now than I was a year ago. But soft wasn’t bad. 

Soft was lush.

Staring at my reflection, I let it sink in again, it was like I couldn’t stop thinking about it. 218 pounds. It sounded so heavy, like I should be freaking out, full-on fat-girl status.

But that’s not what I saw in the mirror.

I saw curvy, hot girl energy.

Yeah, maybe I was flirting with chubby—hell, maybe we were in a full-blown relationship at this point—but my weight had settled exactly where it should. Hips. Thighs. Ass. Fuller. Rounder. Juicier.

And yeah, my belly was getting pretty soft, and my face? Definitely rounder than it used to be.

But let’s be real...

I didn’t look fat.

I looked damn good.

My top wasn’t hiding anything, the hem riding up just enough to expose the soft pudge of my love handles, creasing into my waist—still narrow, or at least narrow compared to my hips. My body was all softness and curves, full and voluptuous in a way that felt almost unreal.

Sexy wasn’t even the right word. It was more than that.

Maybe two words. Maybe just a name.

Cel Monroe.

The knock came—sharp, electric—sending my heart straight to my throat. One last spritz of Gucci Guilty Love Pour Femme, my newest indulgence, the one I had to have—warm, sweet, just the right amount of sinful, making me smell as damn delicious as I looked. A deep breath, wine in hand, and I swung the door open,

And there was Jordan.

Pizza box in one hand, six-pack of Guinness in the other—grin smug as hell, like he knew all my secrets and was damn pleased with himself about it. Dark eyes locked on me, seeing straight through everything I thought I was hiding, peeling me open without saying a single word.

“You’re fast,” I teased, stepping aside to let him in, my voice just a little too light to pass as casual.

“Didn’t want to keep you waiting. Especially if you’re hungry,” he said, that grin deepening as he strolled in. He set the pizza and beer on the counter, his eyes sweeping the room before locking back on me.

And staying there.

His gaze dipped, and I felt it—warm, heavy, like a physical touch. He didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes lingered on my camisole—low-cut, showing way more cleavage than I’d officially planned. Okay, fine, I’d planned it a little.

His Adam's Apple bobbed as his gaze trailed down my bare arms, buttery smooth, impossible to miss. Impossible to ignore.

For a second, his grin faltered, like he wasn’t ready for what he saw. But just as fast, it was back—that maddening smirk that sent a slow, lazy flip through my stomach.

I took a slow sip of my wine, letting the silence stretch before I finally spoke.

“I need your help.” My voice came out smooth, a little breathy, laced with just enough pout to wreck him.

The talk about Cel Monroe could wait.

Tonight? I had a feeling I could get him to do just about anything. And that thought? Yeah, it intrigued me. Really, really intrigued me.

His brow lifted, curiosity sparking in his eyes. “What now?”

“Groceries,” I said, grabbing the keys from the counter and dangling them in front of him. “Still in the car. You know my spot. The fob’ll get you in.”

He shook his head as he took the keys, his fingers brushing mine just long enough to send a shiver up my spine. “Anything else, princess?”

I shifted my weight to one hip, sticking my ass out and letting a wicked smile curve my lips. “That depends on how quickly you get back.”

“You’re trouble, Cel.”

“But you love it,” I said, smirking as I took another sip of wine.

The door clicked shut behind him, and I let out a deep breath. Pressing my fingers to the cool glass of my wine, I tried to calm the nerves buzzing under my skin. 

This was fine. 

I was fine. 

When Jordan came back, arms full of grocery bags, I had fully claimed the sectional. Boots off, plate in one hand, slice of pizza in the other, wine glass perched precariously on the armrest, the pizza box spread open on the coffee table next to the bottle and some paper towels. Full queen-of-indulgence mode.

He paused, gave me a once-over—one part admiration, one part are you serious right now?—before shaking his head and setting the bags on the counter. 

“Damn, Cel, you really gonna eat all this?” he asked, unloading trays of cinnamon rolls, lining them up beside the sink like he was curating a bakery display.

With my calves tucked under me, I took another bite of pizza, damn good by the way, talking through a full mouth, feeling bold. Feeling devious. “Why? (chew) Think it’s too much? (chew, chew) Think I’ll get fat?”

He abandoned unloading groceries as if beyond his control, his smirk deep and knowing, as he strolled over. “Would you care if you did, Cel Monroe?”

I grinned, chewing slow, loving the way his eyes stayed locked on me. “Oh, (chew, chew) I don’t think I’d mind. I might even like it.”

He sat down next to me, shaking his head like I was some kind of puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. “How are you so impossibly beautiful?”

I shoved the last of my pizza slice between my lips. “Mmm…just (chew, chew) a gift, (chew) I guess.”

He chuckled, but even as we joked, the tension sat between us. He didn’t push, and I didn’t crack—not yet. But I felt it. He wasn’t leaving without going deeper.

And for once, I didn’t think I wanted to stop him.

“So, what is up with you?” he asked, grin all kinds of cocky. “You call me over just to boss me around? Use me for free pizza? Or…” He leaned in slightly, eyes sparking. “Do you have a secret you’re just dying to get off your breast, I mean chest.”

I smiled, not feeling as nervous or embarrassed as I thought I’d feel. The edible—plus the wine, let’s be real—already had me loose, dreamy, fully sunk into my Cel Monroe vibe, like I was floating in a world where everything was warm, easy, and just a little wicked.

I untucked my legs and set my plate on the coffee table, heart kicking up. Then, straight out with it. “How long have you known?” 

He cleared his throat, shifted beside me like he was trying to get comfortable but couldn’t. “Umm… after your birthday party,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, voice low, unsure. “I saw this video of you on YouTube. Someone put together this… shrine thing to Cel Monroe.”

I blinked. Holy crap. Maybe he didn’t even know about the OnlyFans stuff? Doubtful. Very doubtful. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

I sat up a little, nerves tangling with curiosity. A YouTube video about me? That made me a little uneasy, but honestly, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Part of me wanted to tell him to whip out his phone and show me right now. But first, I needed to figure out just how well he really knew Cel Monroe.

“Wait. How’d you find it? What were you searching for?”

His cheeks went pink. Jordan-freaking-blushed.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking anywhere but at me. “I think I typed in ‘curvy models’ or ‘curvy hot girls’ or something like that. You know, after seeing you at the party, I couldn’t sleep, and—”

“You couldn’t sleep after seeing me?” 

“Well… yeah.”

I lifted my chin, keeping my composure, but inside? I was thriving.

“Okay, so you saw the video. And then what?”

“Whatchu talkin’ bout?”

“Don’t lie.”

He sighed. “I know about the OnlyFans, Cel.”

I snapped my fingers. “Knew it.”

“Well I mean, the YouTube vid mentioned it. And then, come on—how could I not sign up?” he said, eyes locked on mine. “Especially knowing my money’s going to you.”

My smirk stretched as I leaned back, letting that settle, the air between us humming, electric. “So… you’re one of my subscribers? How much have you seen? My content—you’ve seen everything?”

“Everything,” he said, eyes dragging over me like he couldn’t get enough. “Once I started watching, I couldn’t stop. You’re so fucking good on camera. And those eating videos? Damn near killed me.”

His hand landed on my thigh, heat sparking straight through me.

“You’re amazing, Cel. Every. Fucking. Inch.”

I swallowed hard, pulse skittering. "Did you see the video I posted today?"

His hand pulled back, head snapping toward me, eyes widening just enough to give him away. "Yeah. Watched it right before I rolled out for the store."

I took another sip of wine and shifted on the sectional, felt it—all of it. The way my hips stretched wide, claiming most of the cushion, the give of it deflating under my huge butt. I swallowed, heat creeping up my neck, fingers fidgeting against the softness of my admittedly massive looking thigh. “So, you saw that I’m 218 pounds?”

“Chyeah. That was like the hottest ten minutes I’ve ever seen in my life. Had to hit the store for a six-pack just to cool off.” No hesitation. No embarrassment. Just fact. 

I licked my lips, fingers drifting over my belly. “I’ve gained so much weight, Jordan.” Fishing. Testing. Wanting him to say something—something that made it okay. Made me okay. Though, not gonna lie, that hottest ten minutes comment? Yeah, I liked that.

His gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it burned hotter, darker. His hand brushed along my back lingering where my fat poked out around the thin straps of my top, he was in a trance, like he was settling in. Like he was enjoying this.

“I think you’re turning into a goddess,” he said, voice low, rough.

I took another sip of wine. “Does Chase know about any of this?”

“No,” he said quickly, his tone firm. “Or if he does, he didn’t hear it from me.”

“Good, keep it that way.”

His lips twitched, like he wanted to grin but knew better. Instead, he tilted his head, his gaze dipping just slightly before meeting mine again. “What do you want, Cel?”

The way he asked, all heat and curiosity, sent a slow, lazy roll deep inside me, warm and wanting.

And God help me, I wasn’t ready to let him off the hook just yet.

It had been simmering in my mind for months. Maybe longer. Maybe ever since Jenna mentioned feeders last summer, or whenever that was. The idea took root, lingered, curled up in the back of my head, whispering.

Because Cel Monroe? She was the queen of indulgence, of decadence, of taking what she wanted without shame. And what could be more indulgent than being fed? 

Not just eating—being fed. And if Cel Monroe was gonna be fed? Then obviously, it had to be by a hot guy.

And Jordan wasn’t just hot. He was perfect for this exact moment. The fact that he knew who I was? That he’d seen me, watched me, subscribed to me? That I ran into him at the MetMarket like it was some divine intervention?

It wasn’t just perfect. It was a sign.

And the whole damn thing? The idea of it? The way he was looking at me—curious, heated—had me wickedly excited, and so turned on I could barely sit still.

But more than that—the way he saw me, really saw me. All the stuff I put out there, no hiding, no shame.  He knew a lot, and still, he looked at me like that.

It was a rush. Freeing. Like I’d been waiting for someone to see me, completely, exactly as I was… and still want it.

I stretched my arms over my head, letting out a lazy, exaggerated sigh, tilting my chin just enough to watch his eyes flick down. “I want you to feed me the rest of the pizza.”

His brows shot up, surprise flickering for a split second before that cocky grin of his slid right back into place. “You serious?” 

“Dead serious,” I said, downing the rest of my wine in one big gulp, setting the glass on the coffee table, then sinking back into the sectional, letting my body melt into the cushions.

The waistband of my joggers dug into my belly, but I was too comfortable to care.

I let out a breathy gasp, slow, indulgent, dripping with satisfaction—then flashed a smirk. “And since you know who I am, you better treat me like royalty. And queens?” I fluttered my lashes, all innocence. “They definitely shouldn’t have to feed themselves when they’re feeling tired and lazy.”

He stared at me like he was still trying to figure me out. Then, slow and steady, his grin widened. "I like the way you think," he said, his tone doing things to me it probably shouldn’t.

Back in college, he saw me as the hot little blonde—the toned, petite girl he teased and flirted with, the one he always kept an eye on at frat parties, stepping in when some guy got too grabby or when I had five too many. We made out a few times, I let him have me once, but I never felt fully connected to him. Liked him better as my protector than my lover.

Now?

Now, I was fuller. Softer. My curves exaggerated—voluptuous, opulent. And he’d seen it all. Every new inch of my growing T & A. Every provocative pose. Every bite, every stuffing, every mukbang.

And he loved it.

Jordan could have any girl he wanted. 

Any girl.

But he was here—because I told him to be here.

The heat in his gaze, the way his eyes went dark, the tick in his jaw as he took me in—yeah. He was into it. He wanted to feed me that pizza just as bad as I wanted to be fed.

And now, finally, I felt connected.

He shifted closer, his right hand sliding along my lower back, his left reaching for the pizza box. Grabbed a thick, cheesy slice, pulled it free—cheese stretching, gooey, decadent.

Then he turned back, eyes locked on mine. Dark. Waiting.

He held the pizza in his huge left hand, thick crust firm, but curved just enough—New York style—tilting it toward me.

Like the pizza was male, thick, giving, and my mouth was female, soft, warm, ready to receive. A perfect fit. An unspoken connection. A need about to be filled.

“Open up, princess.”

My toes curled. Pulse jumped.

I leaned in, lips brushing the warm, gooey edge as I took a slow, sensual bite, eyes locked on his. His fingers hovered at the edge of my lips, warm, steady, controlled.

Like there was nowhere in the world he’d rather be.

The first bite savored the moment between us, his hand lingering just long enough for me to catch the clean, warm scent of him—soap, cedar, and something so Jordan it made my stomach flutter.

This was weird.

But not bad weird. 

Weird in a way that sent a ripple of heat through me, low in my belly. Something erotic, effortless, something that settled into my pelvis like it had always belonged there.

When he brought the slice back up for another bite, I chewed faster, eager for more. His fingers barely shifted as he held the slice, his eyes fixed on me, full of heat, his lazy smirk so smug it was practically sinful.

It was all intoxicating—the way his gaze didn’t waver, the measured pace of his movements, the strange but undeniable intimacy of the moment. 

“(chew, chew)More,” I demanded, nudging his hand when he hesitated, my eyes still locked on his. “Come on, (chew) keep up.”

He didn’t argue. Just brought the slice back to my lips, watching as I took another bite. And another. 

And another. 

The food, the way his eyes burned into me—it all mixed into something magical, something that was making me wet.

I glared, moaning straight into his eyes as he continued to feed me. “You’re (chew, chew) such a pervert. So, (chew, chew) what’s the deal? You follow a bunch of girls on OnlyFans, or am I special?”

“Just you,” he said, his tone steady, like it was a fact he’d been holding onto for a while as he shoved the last of the crust between my lips. “You are special.”

I leaned back into the couch, letting him grab another slice, enjoying this too much to wonder if I believed him or not. My joggers stretched tighter, the waistband sinking lower below my belly, but I didn’t care. Wouldn’t want it anyother way.

I took another big bite.

"You’re really gonna eat this whole thing?" he asked, eyes wide.

“Oh, (chew, chew) I’m definitely eating (chew) the whole thing.”

Bite after bite, slice after slice, he fed me and fed me. 

His eyes barely strayed from mine—except when they dipped, dragging over my stomach, watching it swell, or when he reached for another slice, fingers brushing my lips each time he lifted another bite to my mouth.

My belly stretched tight, full, the weight of indulgence settling in. The pizza disappeared fast, but it felt intimate. Charged. Like we’d slipped into our own world, where nothing outside this sectional existed. 

Just him. 

Just me. 

Just the pleasure of being fed, of taking, of having. Like my appetite had no limits. Like I was floating, completely lost in it, in him, in this, wanting more, and wanting more now.

I gasped, licking a bit of pesto from my lip as he reached for yet another slice. But this time, he hesitated.

I sucked in a breath, eyes narrowing, heat flooding through me. Desperate now. Needing more. "What the (gasp, pant) hell are (hiccup) you waiting for?"

His lips twitched, but his voice stayed even. “I don’t know. Maybe you wanna take a break?”

I scoffed, tilting my chin up, full-on indignant. “What (huff, gasp) did I say about treating me (pant) like royalty?” I nudged his knee with mine. “More.”

His eyes widened. “You’re gonna regret this.”

“Doubt (pant) it.”

He lifted another slice, brought it to my lips, and I took a big bite. Desire flushed through me, my pussy wet, my stomach inflated like a balloon—so full it ached, pressing heavy against my lap, pushing up into my ribs. 

But still, I chewed. And chewed. And chewed. Like stopping wasn’t an option. Like I needed this—every last bite.

“Mmm…I want (chew, chew) to drink (huff) your (chew, chew) beer too,” I gasped, dreamily between bites.

“Okay, just gotta grab them from the kitchen.”

He started to stand, but the second his hand moved to take the half-eaten slice from my mouth, I grabbed his wrist, holding tight.

“No! (chew, chew) Not yet.” My chin lifted, lips in a pout stuffed full of pizza, eyes glossy, wide, and downright begging.

His whole body went still, eyes darting between me and the pizza like he’d just stepped on a landmine. Then, quick as a snap, he was nodding. “Okay, okay—shit, sorry, Cel.”

He quickly pushed the crust back into my lips, eyes locked on every bite like this was some kind of final exam and failing wasn’t an option. The second I swallowed, he shot off the sectional, practically sprinting to the kitchen.

Didn’t even take a breath before he was back, Guinness in hand, cracking it open with the kind of urgency that said he knew—knew—his feeding privileges were on the line if he didn’t move fast enough.

He dropped back onto the couch, handed me the can, eyes wide, voice low. “No way you can drink that whole thing and finish the rest of the pizza.”

I glanced at the box. Two slices left.

I locked onto his gaze, took a long sip of the Guinness, swallowed like I meant it—then let out a soft, airy burp behind my hand, eyes never leaving his.

I licked my lips. “Challenge (hiccup) accepted.”

I drained the first can between bites, Jordan still feeding me, bite by bite, my lips closing around the pizza as I washed it down with rich, smooth beer. It settled inside me heavy, thick alongside the pizza.

I burped again, gasped, then let out a slow exhale, handing him the empty can, the little ball thing inside rattling at the bottom. “Give (huff) me (hiccup) another beer,” I ordered, my voice slower now, thicker, drenched in indulgence. “And feed (gasp) me that (hiccup) last slice.”

I couldn’t sit up anymore. I was too full, my body weighing me down. My camisole? Useless. Ridden up so high it had straight-up surrendered, nothing but a scrap of fabric clinging to my boobs, leaving my belly bare—exposed, all my fat oozing out in seemingly every direction.

My thighs, snug and warm, pressed tight as I sank deeper into the sectional. My head dropped to his shoulder, loose, hazy, beyond stuffed, beyond dreamy—but still, that compulsive need to finish twitched in my pussy.

Jordan handed me the beer, cracked open and cold against my palm, then grabbed the last slice, holding it in front of me, watching me, waiting.

I took a big bite, my tits heaving, nipples hard, desperate for it like I’d never needed anything more in my life.

His arm tightened around me, steadying me, holding me up. He exhaled, his grip sinking into my side. One hand still held the pizza near my lips, but his eyes? They were locked on my belly.

“You’re (chew, chew) staring,” I gasped between bites, my voice labored, words staggered between chewing and the slow smacking of my lips, my heart thudding in my chest.

“It’s hard not to,” he said, gaze darkening in a way that sent a slow, curling shiver up my spine. His fingers flexed against my squishy love handles, his other hand bringing another bite to my lips, watching as I took it, chewed, swallowed.

“You’re gonna pop,” he murmured, the shock in his voice unmistakable, but there was something else there too. 

The way he said, pop, instantly made me warmer and wetter, and I thought I could come undone from just this. Just from the indulgence. From being fed. From being stuffed full.

I swallowed, and took another bite. “Yeah (chew, chew) Mmhmm,” I let out, my words slurring, my pussy soaking, my head tilting up to meet his gaze.

His right hand slid lower, slipping around my hip, pulling me closer. Then he reached back and slid it between my pillowy thighs, digging deeper, fingering me through the velvet of my joggers. His eyes softened, but that fire? Still there.

"You look like you’re about to pass out," he said, amusement thick in his tone, but his touch? Firm. Ardent. Intentional as he pulled the fast shrinking slice away from my lips with his left hand.

I lurched forward, snatching another bite. "Keep (chew)feeding (chew) me," I gasped, shifting against him, the fullness settling deep, heavy. 

By the time I finished the last bite, my belly was stretched tight, popping out over my lap, stuffed, pregnant with his food baby. I sank into the couch, let out a slow, labored heaving gasp, took one last sip of Guinness before slumping into him.

Jordan took the empty beer from my hand, tossed it into the now empty pizza box, then let his fingers caress into the softness of my back, kneading, gripping, holding me steady like he needed to feel me under his hands.

“I can’t wait any longer,” he said, his voice dipping low, thick with something dark, something heated. His gaze swept over me, and damn if it didn’t make my pulse flutter.

I blinked up at him, head swimming, body warm, sweating, heavy, buzzing—from the excess, from the indulgence, from the pizza, the wine, the THC, the beer. From him.

“Wait (pant, huff) for what?” I wheezed, my voice slurred, lazy, thick with agony and satisfaction.

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched me, that steady look sending a flush straight to my cheeks. Then, in one smooth motion, he leaned in, his fingers sliding along my jaw, tilting my face toward his.

"For this," he murmured, voice rough, low, right as his hand slid to my belly, like his touch alone could ease the stretch, settle the food, ease the pain.

Before I could respond, his lips found mine—soft at first, testing—but that didn’t last.

His hand drifted down, skimming my side—gentle, steady, grounding. My palms pressed against his chest, holding me steady as the kiss deepened, as his grip tightened, as he pulled me in like I belonged there.

I shifted, my swollen belly pressing into him, the ache sharp, stretching me too tight. Too full, too heavy, too bloated,—I needed relief. Needed him. My fingers found his belt, desperate, clinging, like his touch might be the only thing keeping me from bursting.

His hand slid up, cupping my breast. My nipples were hard, but Jordan? Harder. His thumb swept slow over my silky skin, dragging, teasing, his touch both sure and reverent, like he was committing every inch of me to memory. 

And just like that, the tension that had been simmering between us all night snapped—undeniable, pulling me under like a rip current I had no desire to fight.

When we finally broke apart, my breath was shallow, my head spinning.

“Told you, you’re trouble,” he said.

I let out a labored, yet dreamy sigh, sinking back into the couch, into him, into the warmth of the moment wrapping around me like a cocoon. “And (huff, gasp) I told you, you love it,” I whispered, my voice raspy, sultry, breathy, gasping.

I couldn’t believe how much I’d eaten and it felt so good it hurt.

 My belly was beyond stuffed and it stole my breath, heat prickling at my skin. And I was drunk—on all of it. It was all a blur, like some wild, out-of-body experience, except I felt everything. Heavy. Hot. Satisfied in a way that went deeper than just being stuffed.

“You okay?” Jordan asked, eyes wide, voice rough with something between concern and straight-up awe. “That was more impressive than your chicken nugget video.”

I groaned, flopping my head back against the couch. “Shut (hiccup) up. Do not talk (gasp) about (pant) food right now.” I gasped, pressing a hand to my stomach like that might somehow fix the way it was stretching, full to the point of delirium.

Jordan grinned but wisely didn’t push. Instead, he rubbed a warm palm over my back, gentle but firm. “Come on, you gotta burp, it’s alright.” His voice dropped, coaxing. “Do you need anything?”

I let the burp out, my whole body jolting with it. “Yes.” I blew out a breath, eyes fluttering shut like that might help, then snapped them back open to glare at him.

He stared at me, eyes wide, borderline panicked. “What do you need, princess?”

I pointed weakly at the coffee table. “Hand (hiccup) me my vape.”

He snatched it up, passed it over fast, like it was life or death. I took a deep pull, hoping—praying—it’d do something to ease the ache in my stomach, tight and swollen, every breath a struggle.

Jordan watched, eyes dark, voice dropping to a low, sexy growl. “What else do you need?”

Another puff, shallow, tight. “I need you to help me to (pant) the bedroom, I—” I sucked in a breath, winced. “I feel (hiccup) like I’m..ooofff… gonna (hiccup) explode, (huff) but I really need you (gasp) to fuck me tonight.”

Chapter 21

The alarm on my phone blared, slicing through my food-drunk haze like a knife.

Nope.

I hit snooze with a dramatic sigh, burrowed deeper into the sheets. My body? Too heavy. Too full. Too wrecked from last night to even think about moving.

Honestly, it was a miracle I even remembered to set an alarm.

Five more minutes.

Then ten.

Then—

Shit.

I heaved myself upright and immediately regretted it. My stomach groaned in protest, stretched tight, still stuffed, still heavy, a slow, deep ache of indulgence pressing into me.

From Jordan.

I vaguely remembered him leaving, pressing a kiss to my cheek at some ungodly hour before sunrise, murmuring something low, something possessive, before the door clicked shut behind him. But last night?

That, I remembered.

Him. Watching me. Feeding me. Holding a slice of pizza to my lips like it was the most important thing in the world.

And then—taking me. Owning me. Having his way with me.

Fucking me slow, and sweet, accommodating my fullness like it was something to be cherished, adored.

Letting me sink into pleasure, melt under his hands while he did all the work.

Dreamy. Orgasmic. Bliss.

Like I said before, sex when you’re curvier is great.

But sex when you’re ultra-curvy, big boobs, huge ass, belly completely stuffed—after the kind of feeding foreplay that starts with pizza and ends with absolute ruin?

Life-altering. Mind-blowing. Next-level amazing.

And me?

I’d taken it all.

Every bite. Every moan of satisfaction, of excess, of surrender. Every glance he threw, dark with something that wasn’t just want, wasn’t just need, but something closer to worship.

And now?

Yeah. I was paying for it.

But worse than that. I wanted to do it again.

Bad.

Because Jordan loved it.

And I loved it.

Which was dangerous as hell.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, still naked from the night before, took a deep drag from my vape, held it in, let it swirl in my lungs like nicotine had the power to fix my life.

I sighed, exhaled slow, watching it curl like a lazy whisper in the morning light. Then, I leaned forward, reached for my other vape—the fun one. Took a long deep hit, let it settle, warmth blooming sweet and slow inside me.

Because if there was ever a morning to wake and bake?

This was it.

I coughed. Let the buzz roll in, toes brushing the cool hardwood, my belly spilling onto my lap like a little beachball of blubber. Heavy. Round. Soft.

My hands felt small holding it. It was insane how big it had gotten. And yet? Fascinating. Like, how did this happen so fast?

Outside, the rain tapped lazy against the window, the city murmuring beneath a sky thick with gray, the morning air heavy, damp, moody.

Then? Coffee.

Not mine. Someone else’s. Down the hall.

But God, it smelled divine. 

I needed that coffee. 

I needed a shower. A reset. A new metabolism.

What I had?

A food coma and a Monday I was absolutely not ready to deal with.

I put my hair up and staggered to the shower, praying hot water and maybe a sliver of self-respect could undo the damage—the sluggishness, the dazed, glazed-over haze of too much, the fact that I had let a man feed me like a damn goddess.

Tried to shake it off, but the battle was real as I wrestled with my green thong, then my green tights—the stretchiest pair I had left, and still, they refused to budge past mid-thigh.

Sucking in. Wiggling. Shimmying.

Full-body combat, like I was trying to zip a suitcase already stuffed to bursting.

My thighs? Pressed together like old friends who refused to part ways.

And these tights? Not helping.

And my butt? Dear God.

I twisted, got the full view.

Soft. Plush. So big it was almost surreal. My thong? Completely gone. Swallowed up, straight-up eaten, lost to the abyss.

A few dimples showing up where my thighs met my cheeks? Sure.

But the shape? The way it curved, dominated my figure, how it jutted out, high and round and obscene?

Holy. Shit.

My butt was huge. Enormous. And, honestly? I loved it.

But right now? It was a problem.

Moaning. Panting. I fisted the waistband, planted my feet, and gave one last yank—gasping, jiggling, fabric stretching for its damn life until it finally, barely, made it over my soft, oversized buns.

Victory.

I exhaled, basking in the win, hands on my hips, breasts heaving.

Then I looked at what was next.

Pink sports bra.

Lately, my boobs had gotten out of control—sports bras were the only things keeping them in check. Less adjusting, less fighting with straps, less risk of spilling out in the middle of a meeting and making HR’s day a nightmare.

Except not today.

Arms weak, body already too warm from the shower, sweat prickling my skin, but I yanked, tugged, twisted, cursed, damn near dislocated a shoulder before—finally, finally—shoving myself into the stupid thing.

And then I wiggled into one of the white camisoles I’d pulled fresh from the dryer.

Should’ve grabbed a t-shirt. Something loose. Something forgiving.

But I was too foggy, too hazy, too tired to go searching.

Not even sure I owned anything loose anymore.

The camisole was tight. Too tight. Hugging every inch of me, stretched snug over my breasts, clinging to my belly, riding up way too high—flashing more than just a teasing sliver of my waist with every deep, heaving breath.

And now? I was panting, overheated, and officially over it.

And it was only Monday.

I rolled up to Starbucks, vaping like a maniac, half-asleep, half-dying, a little high, wedged into my seat—which, no joke, seemed to be shrinking by the day—fully over it, and rattled off my shameless order like a pro.

Iced Venti mocha. Ham and Swiss croissant. Sausage, egg, and cheddar sandwich. Two—no, three brownies. Pumpkin loaf. Screw it. Iced lemon pound cake too!

The barista hesitated, eyes flicking over my no doubt desperate face, then to my order, like she was seconds from asking if I needed a wellness check or just a moment of self-reflection. But I wasn’t here for judgment. I was here for caffeine, carbs, and the kind of indulgence that made Mondays suck less. I tapped my phone, snatched my two bags of pure, unfiltered don’t-ask-questions-just-hand-it-over, and tore into the croissant before I even pulled out of the drive-thru.

By the time I pulled into the parking garage, it was gone.

All of it.

And considering my drive wasn’t even long enough to justify a snack, let alone a full-on feast, the fact that I’d demolished every last bite before I even hit the parking garage was both deeply disturbing and wildly satisfying.

Whatever. Priorities.

I parked as close to the elevators as I could, flipped down the visor, and unzipped my makeup bag, nestled right there on the passenger seat—somewhere between a pile of Starbucks wrappers and all my best intentions.

Time to work some magic.

I turned down my podcast—not off, just low enough to focus—Redhanded, two British crime junkie girlies still casually discussing murder like they were rating cocktails, their voices an oddly soothing soundtrack to my morning from hell.

Quick swipes of mascara—because no matter how excessive last night had been, my lashes? Always on point. Concealer under the eyes, patted in fast, erasing the evidence, even as Jordan’s texts kept lighting up my phone, reminding me. A swirl of blush, higher than usual, because my face? Yeah, it was rounder. Softer. Fuller. Enough that I swept a little contour under my jaw, a last-ditch effort to keep up the illusion, making it look like I hadn’t spent the night being hand-fed slice after slice, moaning my way through melted cheese and soft crust like it was the best foreplay in the history of ever.

Then, hair.

Fingers through the waves. A shake. A little fluff. Thick, soft, dirty blonde, buttery highlights catching the light just right, making me look fresh. Unruly but sexy, like I woke up like this instead of doing a quick rearview mirror tousle-and-go.

Satisfied, I put in some eye drops—so I didn’t look so stoned—tossed my gloss, Laneige, vanilla, obviously, back in my bag, shoved open my door, and hauled myself out of my Jetta.

Stomach full. Head buzzing, but with my boots hitting pavement I was at least feeling a little more grounded.

Ready to survive most of the day… or fake it till lunch.

Then I froze.

Where the hell was my hoodie?

Shit.

I had been so flustered and overheated, wrestling into this outfit that I’d completely forgotten to grab something to cover myself.

I frantically puffed on my vape, trying to chill the hell out, but nope—suddenly feeling too high, and a little paranoid.

No hoodie. No escape.

Just me. My too-tight cami, my painted-on tights, my pink sports bra shining through like a damn neon sign. Absolutely zero ways to hide.

And worse? I was completely out of food to drown out my panic.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)