The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 19

Chapter 19

Confidence—and an endless supply of takeout—carried me through February and into March. Decadent meals, indulgent moments, and all the fun I could handle. Work? Total slacker mode. If Sam couldn’t even face me, why should I care? 

My OnlyFans? 

Thriving. 

I’d gotten good at photoshoots—nailing the lighting, experimenting with outfits, trying bolder poses—but Jenna? She was the video queen. Editing was her thing, and those college media classes had made her a pro. She killed it every time.

But lately? Something was off.

Jenna hadn’t been the same since my birthday. I told her it wasn’t my fault—that I’d just had too much to drink—but she wasn’t exactly eager to let it go. Her comments had a little more bite than her usual sass, like she was aiming to make a point without saying it outright. The easy laughter we usually shared? Nowhere to be found. The rhythm we had? Completely off.

She wasn’t passive-aggressive—thankfully—but the signs were there, clear as day: the clipped tone whenever Aaron’s name came up, her eyes darting away from mine, and the way she’d shut me down fast anytime I joked about guys not being able to keep their eyes off me. She wasn’t furious, not exactly, but she was definitely holding onto something, and it wasn’t hard to tell.

She’d completely stopped trying to drag me to her workouts—not that I minded that part. Whatever her deal was, I wasn’t letting it mess with my vibe. Good food, good wine, and a life I loved? That was my focus. Jenna could stew, but I wasn’t apologizing for something I didn’t feel bad about.

Winter dragged on—gray, wet, and miserable—but me? I wasn’t dragging. I was living. Sure, Jenna’s tension hung around like a storm cloud, but I wasn’t letting it rain on my parade.

By late March, on a lazy Sunday, I decided it was time. Time to give my fans the weigh-in video they’d been begging for. This wasn’t about fear or insecurity anymore. It was about stepping into it, stepping onto it.

Owning it.

I wore nothing but a pair of pink panties and a white spaghetti-strap cami, intentionally a couple of sizes too small. 

My kitchen was bathed in golden afternoon light pouring through the windows, warm and inviting, as I set up my tripod. My tiny camisole clung for dear life, straps digging into my shoulders and framing my fullness, while my belly and boobs pushed it upward until it barely qualified as a top anymore. 

I hit record, stepped back, and swept my hand through my thick, soft hair, flashing the camera a playful, come-hither smile. 

"Alright, guys," I said, my voice warm, teasing, maybe a little breathy. "You’ve been asking, (pant) and here it is—it’s time to check my weight. But first, let’s have a little fun."

Grabbing my favorite old pair of light-wash jeans, I held them up for the camera. Size 16s. I’d bought them back in January, sure they’d be the biggest I’d ever need. 

"Okay so, (pant) these used to fit me perfectly like three months ago," I said, giving the jeans a wry, knowing look before turning my gaze back to the camera. "Let’s see how they’re holding up now."

Squeezing them on? Yeah, right. The denim didn’t stand a chance. It barely made it past my thighs before straining against the fullness of my hips. Still, I wasn’t giving up without a fight, or at least putting on a show. 

I yanked and wriggled, determined, even as my entire body jiggled with every pull. My belly—so soft, so much rounder and fuller than it used to be—spilled over the waistband. And honestly? I marveled at it. I’d always been okay with my boobs filling out, but my belly? That was a new love. Feeling its softness, the way it moved with me—it was gorgeous. And, wow, damn it looked big.

I gave the waistband one last try, tugging and fumbling to button them up.

Spoiler: not happening. 

Laughing, breathless, and carefree, I threw my hands up in surrender. "Well, (gasp) that’s a no," I said to the camera, then gave my belly a playful slap. "But hey, (huff, gasp) you wanted real, and here it is. And yeah, I’ve definitely (pant) gained a few pounds."

Tossing the jeans aside after finally wiggling out of them—a task that turned out to be as jiggly as it was hilarious—I felt a rush of excitement.

Standing there in just my panties and camisole, the camera capturing every bulge, every soft line, knowing how many guys would be watching this and eating up every second of it? 

Purely intoxicating. In that moment, with the lens on me and the world waiting to adore me, I didn’t just feel good—I felt like a goddess.

"Alright, that’s enough teasing. Let’s find out exactly what I weigh," I said, turning to the scale, anticipation curling low in my belly.

Stepping onto the cool surface, I cradled my soft, jiggly stomach in my hands, the plushness spilling over my fingers. A thrill shot through me as I leaned forward, eyes locking onto the number. And for maybe the first time, I didn’t just accept it as a consequence of gaining weight.

I loved it.

218 pounds.

I blinked, letting it settle, staring at the number like it was daring me to react. It was piling on fast now, maybe too fast, definitely more than I’d expected.

Sure, maybe I’d been indulging a little—okay, a lot—but instead of panic, something else rolled through me.

Something deeper.

Something that felt decadent.

It felt… delicious.

Sexy.

Beautiful.

And yeah, I’ll admit it—there was something about feeling myself like this that made me feel horny. The way I filled out. The way my body looked—soft, full, every curve more exaggerated. The way it felt—lush, sensual, heavier in the best damn way.

And like I said—and I really can’t emphasize this enough—knowing my fans would see this? Watching every single inch of me—the body I’d eaten my way into, bite after indulgent bite—drooling over the softness, the curves, the parts of me I used to be too scared to embrace?

Yeah. That was the cherry on top.

I tilted my head toward the camera, my lips curved into a slow, confident smile as my hands slid down my sides—deliberate, sensual, and packing enough heat to make even me blush. “Wow, that’s crazy, guys,” I said, my voice low, smooth, and dripping with just the right amount of seduction. “218 pounds. That’s, like, almost 30 pounds in, what, four…five months?”

I tapped my finger to my mouth, pursing my lips. “Honestly, I’m not even freaking out. If anything…” I let my smile turn wicked. “It makes me wonder—what would I even look like if I got bigger?”

I let the words settle, hanging in the air with just enough pause to leave an impact. Then, with a little smirk, I ended the recording, my finger hovering over the button long enough to add a touch of drama. 

After a quick edit, I posted the video to my OnlyFans, riding the kind of high that makes you feel unstoppable—that confidence-soaked, fire-in-your-veins feeling where you know, without a doubt, the world has to stop and stare.

Let them.

Because I’d stepped fully into myself. And the rest of the world?

They could suck it.

Later that night, after I’d demolished an order of chicken chow mein and six—yes, all six—of the most melt-in-your-mouth dumplings from this killer Asian fusion spot down the street, and topped it all off with the last quarter of cheesecake (because why not?), I realized my fridge was looking downright pathetic. And let’s be real, Cel Monroe should never have a sad, empty fridge.

Usually, I ordered groceries. It was easier—no lugging bags up the elevator, no awkward stares, and no guys trying to strike up conversations I wasn’t in the mood for. But sometimes, wandering the aisles, seeing everything laid out, especially when you’re in full-on "eat whatever you want" mode, was its own kind of therapy.

Stuffed, glowing, and restless, I needed out of the apartment. Fresh air. A change of scenery. Something to keep the vibe alive, even if it was late and technically a work night. 

I squeezed into my fairly new lilac velour lounge set—snug in all the right places, with just enough stretch to keep it comfy. The joggers clung to my big plush buns like they were made for them, the tie sitting tight against my soft belly. The cropped hoodie hugged my middle, teasing just a sliver of skin, and zipping it up over my camisole? A minor battle, but totally worth it for the way it made my already big boobs look even bigger.

I swept my hair into a short ponytail, loose tendrils cascading down—just messy enough to feel effortless, but polished enough to frame my face perfectly.

I grabbed my purse and headed for Metropolitan Market, a few blocks down the hill—classier than Trader Joe’s, less annoying than Whole Foods. 

The store was a vibe—quiet, calm, that Sunday evening stillness that made everything feel a little cinematic. High ceilings, warm lights, shelves lined up like a perfectly curated display. That cheesy Wicked Game song floated overhead, like the soundtrack to my own cinematic grocery adventure.

I still couldn’t shake the thought of that number on the scale earlier—218 pounds. It wasn’t just a number. It was a statement. Every indulgence, every choice, every moment I’d said screw it to the world’s expectations and embraced me. 

And here’s the wild part? It didn’t just make me proud. It made me feel… good. Cozy. Warm. And yes, still a little turned on, okay maybe a lot turned on. Like this extra softness wasn’t just something I carried—it was something I wanted. More of it.

What I’d said into the camera after my weigh-in—What would I look like if I got even bigger?—was supposed to be a playful, seductive throwaway line to cap off the video. But now? 

It made me want to buy half the store, stocking up on every single thing I could possibly crave and then some.

I leaned my arms on the handle of my cart, using it sort of like a makeshift walker just because I was so lazy, my hips swaying with each step, ankle-high, heeled boots clicking against the smooth cement floor, my ass sticking out just enough for me to really feel how big and wobbly and heavy it was getting. 

I strolled into the bakery aisle, and it hit me like a warm hug. I grabbed a loaf of brioche, my fingers grazing the soft, golden crust as I let myself linger, pretending to contemplate other options while really just catching my breath. 

Let’s be honest—I was stuffed, and yeah, I had gotten pretty out of shape. Okay, really out of shape. But that little nagging voice in my head? Completely drowned out by how much I was loving myself.

My cart was quickly becoming a masterpiece of indulgence, each item more decadent than the last. A tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream, butter pecan, and Haagen-Dazs peanut butter chocolate—because why stop at one flavor? 

Caramel sauce and whipped cream? Of course. 

You don’t half-ass dessert. 

Then came a box of authentic macarons straight from Italy, two trays of house-made cinnamon rolls with enough cream cheese frosting to drown in, and a full-sized tiramisu cake that I swore whispered my name.

Three family-sized bags of Lays potato chips, a party-size pack of Oreos, and what could only be described as a borderline-ridiculous amount of chocolate-covered almond-butter cups tumbled in next. 

To top it off, I grabbed a bottle of Napa Valley Merlot, (don’t care what Paul Giamatti says in Tanner’s favorite movie) then two Burgundy Pinots—because why settle for one when you can have three? And honestly, buying wine was way more fun when price wasn’t even a consideration.

I plucked a wedgie out of my ass, then leaned into the cart, forearms resting on the handle as I tilted my head, debating—sparkling water or another red? The soft hum of the store’s music buzzed in the background, and I was fully in my zone, imagining the spread I’d enjoy later.

And then I heard it.

“Holy shit, what’s up Celeste!”

The voice stopped me cold, my hand frozen mid-reach. My heart gave a hard thud, and I straightened slowly, gripping the cart like it was the only thing holding me upright. I turned my head.

Jordan.

A few feet away, basket in hand—of course it held nothing but a six-pack of Guinness and a single roll of toilet paper.

Broad shoulders stretching a black knit sweater like it was made for him. Short, dark hair—sharp, clean, no-nonsense. Just like the way he was looking at me.

Eyes locked, open a little too wide.

Neither of us moved.

Heat crept up my neck. Damn it.

“Oh my God, (pant) Jordan! Fancy seeing you here,” I said, keeping my tone light, even though my chest tightened—and not just from all the extra walking.

My cart? Oh, it wasn’t hiding anything, it practically screamed binge mode activated. I should’ve been embarrassed, but this wasn’t the first time Jordan had caught me like this.

His grin was easy, casual, like he didn’t have a care in the world. But I caught it—that flicker in his eyes. They dipped down for just a second before snapping back to my face. Long enough, though. I saw it—the quick once-over, the subtle surprise.

My hips. The way my joggers hugged my ass like they adored it as much as Jordan clearly did. His grin stayed steady, but his eyes? Oh, they lingered.

“Damn, you lookin good these days,” he said. “Why you gotta be lookin like a smoke-show all the time?”

God, he’s such a bro.

“Umm…I don’t know,” I said, tucking a loose curl behind my ear, trying to play it cool—even though my heart did a little flip I refused to acknowledge.

“It’s funny. I didn’t think you could top that dress from your birthday party, but… yeah, I think I like this look just as much.”

I froze for half a second, his words playing on a loop in my brain. Was it the outfit he was noticing—or the way I was filling it out?

“Seriously, Jordan? I just threw this on to be comfy.”

His grin faltered for a moment, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks, but he recovered quickly. “Yeah, well. You look fantastic.”

Clearing his throat, he turned his attention to my cart. “Now that looks like some serious grocery shopping.”

“Wine and snacks,” I said, waving a hand like it was no big deal. I needed to steer this conversation somewhere safe before his gaze completely unraveled me. “You know, the essentials. For when I get lonely.”

“Good call. Always gotta have the essentials.”

But the way his eyes lingered on me, like I might’ve been one of those essentials? Yeah, it hardened my nipples just a little.

“Alright, I’ll let you do your thing. Don’t be a stranger,” he said, warm and casual, but with that teasing edge—like a quiet scolding for the texts I’d conveniently ignored.

He set his basket on the floor, then his arms were around me—pulling me in like it was the most natural thing in the world. The soft knit of his sweater brushed my cheek, warm and solid, his chest pressing ever so gently against my boobs. 

My breath hitched, then his mouth dipped close to my ear, his voice low and teasing. 

“See you around, Cel Monroe.”

I froze. My hands slipped from his back as he quickly stepped away, swooped up his basket, and disappeared toward checkout before I could say anything.

I stood there in the wine aisle, my heart pounding, his whisper playing on repeat in my head.

Holy shit.

Jordan knew.

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)