Jolenedubois
patreon
The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 68
🕑 Added 2025-06-11 20:35:18 +0000 UTCChapter 68
Aaron?
White tee. Blue jeans.
Basically my look in guy form. Jaw sharper than I remembered, but the boyish good looks? Still there—just deeper now.
More defined.
Like life had roughed him up just enough to make him even better. Hair shorter, messier, like he didn’t try and somehow still got it right.
He stopped cold. Like his heart skipped the same beat mine did.
The cigars slipped from his hand, hit the patio with a soft little thud that sounded louder than it should’ve in the heat of that moment.
He crouched fast, muttered, “Shit,” and scooped them up—eyes never leaving mine.
The whole backyard paused. Sydney turned. Lizzie straight-up gasped.
“Wait,” Sydney said. “You two know each other?”
Aaron stood, box of cigars back in his hand, looking at me like I’d stepped out of a dream he didn’t know he was still having.
I tilted my head, exhaled smoke. “We’ve met.”
His gaze dropped—trailing over me like he was seeing everything for the first time.
And his eyes?
They got darker. “Celeste,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
The way he said my name—my full name—sent something sharp and sweet right down my spine. I didn’t like it when Jordan said it.
But coming from Aaron? It grounded me. Centered me. Made me feel seen in a way that didn’t scare me.
“Um...” I lifted my champagne, took a sip I needed more than air. “Came with Sydney and Kegan.”
He let out a breath, still staring, confused. Like I was a magic trick he hadn’t figured out yet.
I hesitated, heartbeat doing dumb things. “Is Jenna here?”
The air shifted. No joke, even the mosquitoes held their breath.
He shook his head. “No. We broke up. A while back.”
Boom.
My heart, the traitor, did a full-on, slow-motion somersault in my chest.
“Oh,” I said, working my ass off to sound neutral, casual, cool. “Didn’t know.”
Which was true.
I actually hadn’t thought about Jenna in a long time. Unfollowed all her socials over a year ago. Deleted the history. Blocked her birthday.
Why?
Because it hurt too damn much to think about him—and how she got to have him.
He looked at me. Really looked. Like there wasn’t a single inch of me he hadn’t noticed.
Then—because the world knows when to drop in comic relief—Lizzie came barreling in like a sugar-obsessed tornado.
“Alright!” she hollered, dropping two boxes on the low patio table like she was delivering newborns. “Cupcakes. Hushpuppies. I’ll grab the charcuterie boards for the bougie bitches. Wine, champagne, and ribs on the way. Y’all are way too sober and not nearly stuffed enough.”
She bent down and started unboxing pastries like she was unwrapping birthday presents.
“Come on, people,” she grinned, eyes wild, lip gloss already smudged. “Let’s dig the fuck in.”
Sydney let out a dramatic grunt, shifting forward in her seat. “Let me grab the bottles—”
Kegan was already up. “Babe, you sit. I got it.”
Sydney smiled. “Thank (pant) you, baby.”
Aaron and I locked eyes again.
He gave me a smirk—the kind that said, we’ll catch up later.
Then he turned and headed off to help Kegan with the food or whatever.
And yeah… I watched him go.
Then?
We ate. And we drank.
I put away two whole bottles of champagne solo. Not a flex—just reality. Autumn kept pace, clinking glasses with me every other bite, moaning over frosting. We talked food like it was love—full bellies, happy sighs, mouths stuffed, zero shame.
Mountains of baked chicken alfredo pasta, bubbling with cheese, scooped straight from those massive Whole Foods trays like we were queens reclaiming our carb-soaked thrones.
Hushpuppies and cornbread so buttery they glistened like gold under the string lights.
And when Mike brought out an ungodly amount of ribs?
Baby back perfection.
Sticky, smoky, caramelized, and falling off the bone like they knew they were the main event.
I tried to play it cool—real careful, real dainty—keeping that sweet, messy goodness far away from my top. But being careful didn’t mean slowing down.
Because I didn’t.
I kept eating. One rack turned into two… then four.
At some point, I lost count. Didn’t care.
Every bite was heaven—sweet, smoky, tender.
I dabbed, I wiped, I blotted like it was a profession. Went through paper towels one after the other. Fingers clean, lip gloss reapplied, white top still untouched—miraculously.
But by the time the sun dipped low, casting everything in that slow, gold-drenched glow you only get near solstice, we were wrecked.
Stuffed. Glossy-eyed. Food-coma tipsy.
The guys drifted over to the fire pit—cigars, whiskey, that low, easy kind of talk only men in their element have.
And us girls?
More champagne and cigarettes.
Autumn and I were chain-smoking like it was post-dinner cardio, passing the lighter back and forth, thighs spread, bellies high, breath shallow. Every drag felt like a blessing. A little relief from the gloriousness we’d just put our bodies through.
Across the patio, Aaron sat near the fire—cigar in hand, elbow on his knee, doing that slow glance-my-way-then-look-away thing.
Like I was the reason the fire was burning at all.
My heart?
Still doing dumb shit.
“Holy (burp) crap, I’m so full,” Sydney groaned, patting her belly like it hadn’t just doubled in size.
“Fucking (pant) me too,” Lizzie wheezed, looking at her like she was a fertility goddess in a maxi dress. She wiggled over, wrapped her arms around Sydney’s swollen gut, and kissed the top of it.
“God, you look (huff) so stuffed, Syd,” Autumn said, breath hitching between drags of her cigarette. “But I guess (pant) I do too.”
I rubbed my own belly—huge, bloated, and aching in that sweet, don’t-stop kind of way.
I was stuffed full, my belly rounded out so big it had claimed half my lap, pressing mercilessly into my jeans. Denim digging hard right at my navel like punishment—punishment I deserved and, yeah, punishment I loved.
Painful.
But sexy.
“The food (gasp) was so good,” I groaned, letting my head fall back, smoke curling from my lips as I melted deeper into the patio sofa—and into Autumn’s warm, soft hip. “I see why you (hiccup) married Mike.”
Autumn fluttered her eyelashes, expressionless. “And now you see why I’ve gained weight every single year since.”
“It looks good on you,” I said—and it did. Dead serious. Even if, way down deep, I couldn’t really picture letting myself get that big.
Then again… once upon a time, I couldn’t picture hitting 200 either.
Or 300.
Okay—400.
But whatever.
“Thanks,” Autumn said, tipping her champagne glass at me with a wink.
Across from us, Lizzie snatched up a napkin and started fanning herself like she was about two seconds from swooning, cheeks flushed, eyes glued right to me. “I gotta say, Cel,” she said, “watching you blow up this year? Hottest. Thing. Ever.”
Sydney leaned in, sipping her bubbly, her eyes dancing with mischief. “How’s it feel,” she teased, “now that you’re creeping up to my level?”
I blinked, my cigarette frozen halfway to my lips.
Excuse me?
Her level?
Bless her heart, but no. No, no, no. Not even close. No offense, but I was way too pretty for that kind of comparison. Different leagues, different games. Plus, hitting 500 pounds? Honestly, now that I really think about it? Yeah right. Cute story, though.
I tried to shrug, but honestly, I was so full, it was more like a half-hearted flop. “I don’t (huff) even know,” I said, shifting, my jeans giving a heroic groan under the effort. “Guess I’ve been over 400 since, like, March? But honestly?” I took another lazy drag from my cigarette. “I don’t know if it’s fully (pant) sunk in yet.”
I tugged at my bra strap, the damn thing digging into my back-fat like it was ready to burst open. "Most days, (huff) I don’t even (pant) feel that big... until I’m wrestling myself into an outfit like this and damn near (hiccup) die trying."
“Totally worth it,” Lizzie said, fanning herself again. “And holy fucksticks, you gain weight gorgeously. Like, still going to your hips and thighs and boobs? Are you kidding? Your face even got hotter somehow.”
“You guys (pant) are gonna make me blush,” I said, giggling as I took another drag from my cigarette, trying not to puff too hard and pass out from fullness.
Lizzie sat back down in the chair across from me. “So, (burp) what’s up with you and (burp) Kegan’s friend?” she asked with a knowing look. “You two can’t stop (burp) looking at each other.”
I blinked, trying for innocent but failing miserably. “You (gasp) mean Aaron? I don’t (pant) know what (hiccup) you’re talking about.”
Autumn smiled, eyes twinkling with champagne and mischief. “He’s (pant) looking at you right now.”
I didn’t even turn my head. Just took another slow sip, let the bubbles burn all the way down, settled deep and fizzy in my too-full belly.
Because I knew. Felt it. That heavy, locked-on stare. Heat from across the patio like I was being peeled out of my jeans with nothing but his eyes.
“Whatever. (huff) I need to (pant) go pee and freshen up,” I said, setting my glass down and stubbing out my cigarette. I spread my thighs, shifted forward, tried to stand…
And couldn’t.
Too heavy.
“Don’t even (burp) try, girl. You’re (gasp) too stuffed,” Sydney mumbled, patting her own belly like it was proof.
“Yeah, (huff)... but—” I gasped, trying again.
“Ohhh Aaaaaron,” Lizzie sang out toward the fire pit, wickedness lighting her eyes brighter than the fire. “Cel needs a rescue!”
I turned to her, eyes huge, cheeks flaming. “What the hell are you doing?”
She shrugged. “Manifesting.”
I leaned forward, braced my hands, thighs shaking, and gave it one last, stubborn shot.
“Ennh! (huff, gasp) Oof—”
And then, like the grand finale of a fireworks show—
Pop!
The button on my jeans shot clear off like a champagne cork at midnight, and the zipper went rogue, unzipping itself faster than a runaway bride.
“Oh (huff) shit,” I wheezed, eyes huge.
Lizzie choked out a laugh. “Was that your button?”
I bit my lip, nodding miserably, cheeks hotter than a jalapeño margarita.
And then?
Across the yard?
Aaron stood.
And he started walking.
Toward me.
Cigar still between his fingers. Confused look on his face like he’d totally hadn’t just Jedi-mind-tricked my jeans wide open.
And, God help me, I think he had.
I leaned back in full-blown, breathless defeat. The waistband of my jeans peeling down beneath the swell of me, my bodysuit stretched so tight over my belly it looked one deep breath away from bursting like an overinflated beach ball. The snap between my thighs? Hanging on like a prayer, felt like it was next.
“Don’t worry,” Autumn whispered beside me, cool and composed, champagne in hand. “You look (pant) super cute right now. Own it.”
And then Aaron was right in front of me, all stormy eyes and slow-burning heat. “You need my help Cel?”
The Secret Life of Cel Monroe
by Jolene Dubois (2025)
