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The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 60 - 61
🕑 Added 2025-05-04 22:18:54 +0000 UTCChapter 60
February rolled in with rain and roses, and Jordan took Valentine’s Day like it was a sport, just like he did last year. He fed me an entire pink cake for breakfast, kissed my fingers clean, and spent the rest of the day pressed between my thighs, whispering how amazed he was by my weight gain while I moaned, too full to move.
Then it was my birthday.
Twenty-six.
Which somehow made me feel both old… and like I blinked and lost a whole year. I woke up with a fire in my throat, headache pounding, stomach churning with leftover regret and way too much pleasure. A sharp, hot reminder of just how far I went the night before.
I was naked, sprawled on my side, and stretched across the bed. I moaned—low, drawn-out, sultry without trying. Wasn’t ready to move. Everything ached. Everything throbbed.
Chase was somewhere behind my bare booty, arm slung over my middle, palm splayed wide across my stomach like he wanted to feel exactly how much of me there was first thing in the morning. And yeah, he had to really reach for it now—arm fully extended. That’s how big I’d gotten.
I shifted, groaning as everything wobbled—tits, belly, thighs—all of it sloshing like it had to resettle before I could breathe. Then I rolled to my back, thighs parting, too hot, too heavy, too hurty. Chase pulled back. Pushed up from the bed with that slow exhale.
I watched him cross the room in nothing but black boxers, shoulders tight, fists clenching and unclenching.
On the nightstand—my iced venti mocha, sweating in its plastic cup. A white pastry box next to it. Chase always made sure I had breakfast waiting. Always crawled back in bed to cuddle me awake.
"God," I groaned. "(huff) I feel like (cough) shit."
One hand to my chest. The other already grabbing for my mocha.
I took a long pull—ice cold, extra sweet—caffeine slamming into my system.
I flipped the box open. Six chocolate croissants. Big. Flaky. Still warm.
I bit in as fast as I could. Felt the butter melt, the sugar coat my mouth.
“(chew, chew) Where the (chew, chew) hell is my ibuprofen?” I asked, sharp now even with my mouth full. “And (chew, chew) my cigarettes?”
He didn’t move.
Just stood there.
“(chew, chew) Oh (cough) my God, Chase,” I snapped, coughing into the damn croissant.
“Fucking (huff) move! Can you not (gasp) make me beg for basic shit?”
The muscle in his jaw jumped. His whole body went still, like I’d slapped him. Then he moved. Fast.
Yanked my dresser drawer open. Slammed down the ibuprofen on the nightstand. Snatched a cigarette from the pack, shoved it between my lips, lit it without looking at me.
I dragged deep, lungs burning, head spinning.
Coughed. Winced. Moaned.
Still better.
Still what I needed.
I leaned back into the pillows, and I kept on eating.
Bites. Sips. Puffs.
Yeah, it was my birthday.
But truth?
I made damn sure Chase and Jordan treated every day like it was my birthday.
According to the internet, they were the luckiest men alive.
And obviously that was true.
Still, sometimes I had to remind them.
A sharp word, a look, a little silence that said don’t forget what you’ve got.
Just to make sure they remembered.
Because a woman like me?
You don’t take that for granted.
Not for a second.
That night, I wore black satin.
Knees bare. Belly hugged tight. Boobs front and center—bouncing with every breath.
Chase took me out to El Gaucho, and yeah, people stared. Of course they did.
My face? Still infinitely beautiful, even if it was getting a lot rounder, fuller, softer than it used to be.
I ate like it was my last night on earth.
Started with mac and cheese—ooey, gooey, drowning in butter and cream. Slathered black caviar on warm French bread, then dove into duck fat fries—thick, golden, crackling. Dipped them in truffle aioli like it was sacred. Moaned so loud the next table looked over.
Next up? Filet mignon and Yukon Gold mashed potatoes—velvety, rich, gone in minutes. Then came the penne alla Bettola. Creamy tomato vodka sauce, heavy on the cream, heavier in my belly.
And where any normal girl would've tapped out? I doubled the fuck down.
Chicken strips and waffles—dripping in maple butter, kissed with hot honey. Sweet, spicy, filthy. Ate every bite.
Then reached right over and stole all of Chase’s fries like they were mine.
Dessert?
Molten lava cake—hot, rich, oozing like it missed me.
Crème brûlée after that.
Then three slices of chocolate mousse cake.
Yeah. Three.
The server stared.
Could’ve been the order.
Could’ve been the six inches of cleavage spilling onto the table.
Or maybe it was the drinks—because I kept them coming, one after the other, like I had no intention of stopping.
Coconut rum cream, caramel-slick and sweet, chocolate espresso martini, cinnamon-sugar rim, hot and dirty. Strawberry milkshake, spiked with vanilla vodka, whipped cream, cherry on top—obviously.
By the end?
I wasn’t just full.
I was wrecked.
Oozing out of the slits in my dress like a busted can of cinnamon rolls, my whole body slow, flushed, and soaked in indulgence.
Chase had to haul me up from my chair—hands at my waist, lifting like I was both breakable and heavy as hell. He didn’t say a word, just wrapped an arm around me and held on tight while I waddled, legs chafing, heels threatening betrayal.
By the time we made it to his Range Rover—parked blessedly close thanks to the handicap permit I got after I strained my knee (and kept, obviously)—I had to stop.
Just… stop.
I leaned against the hood, hand on my belly, tits rising like they had somewhere to be, breath short and shallow.
Fingers trembling, I dug into my black leather Bottega—lips already parted, desperate for that cigarette like it was the only thing holding me together.
Chase lit it—his usual calm stretched thin with something that looked an awful lot like concern.
I took a drag—one hand still braced on the hood, my ass sticking out behind me, feeling extra wide, extra heavy, extra huge, extra everything.
“Just… (huff) gimme (cough, cough) a fucking second,” I breathed, lashes low, head tipped, hair falling in my face, still puffing like the nicotine might save me.
He just nodded, quiet, and opened the passenger door once I gave the slightest nod.
Getting in?
Yeah… not graceful.
I lowered myself slowly, dress hiking, thighs spreading like they were done pretending they played nice. Sank into the seat with a deep, exhausted groan, cigarette still between my fingers, smoke trailing out the open door.
Chase went to close it… and paused.
My ass—plush, round, stuffed in tight—was juuuuust barely inside.
He gave it a gentle push with his fingertips, careful, like he was trying not to smudge frosting.
Then he shut the door with a look that said he noticed.
He always noticed.
Seatbelt?
Not even a debate.
I wasn’t about to wrestle a nylon strap over this belly tonight. Not after surviving dessert, heels, and a whole room full of people watching me like I was the main course.
And yeah, I saw it—couple of those guys definitely looked at me like they knew who I was. Cel Monroe, live and in the extra-fluffy flesh. Probably too scared to approach... especially with Chase right there beside me, looking like he’d take a swing at anyone who so much as breathed wrong in my direction.
We pulled up to our building, parked in the garage, and I waddled to the elevator—barely made it.
My buns rubbed together like they were mad at each other—hell, mad at me—and every step sent a fresh ache down my spine. Chase was still at my side, holding me up, while I was panting like when they used to make us run the mile in high school gym class.
By the time we hit the hallway on my floor, I was a tipsy, stuffed disaster, moaning like I was in labor. Not that I’d ever been, but still—close enough.
When we made it inside I didn’t even try to play it cute.
I collapsed on the bed, flat on my back. Dress clinging, belly domed high and tight, chest rising, still trying to catch my damn breath.
“Take (huff) the (hiccup) fucking dress off me (gasp) before it rips open,” I ordered, eyes shut, too far gone to fake anything but need. “And (huff) my shoes too.”
Chase came over without a word, dropped to his knees like it was second nature—like that’s exactly where he belonged when I needed him.
His hands were gentle, sure, slipping off my heels one by one, setting them aside like they were glass slippers. Then he ran his palms over my swollen feet and ankles, thumbs brushing strap marks like he wanted to soothe every inch of pressure I’d carried all night.
Then he stood, slid his hands under my arms, and with one strong pull, flopped me upright.
He grunted. Like I weighed more than he expected, which was understandable considering the dinner I just had.
His hands went to the back of my dress, fingers finding the zipper, tugging it down.
The air hit my skin, cool against my drooping rolls of back-fat, making me shiver in the best way.
Then the zipper caught—right at the curve of my hips.
Because of course it did.
He didn’t stop. Just kept going, rocking me side to side, struggling to peel the fabric out from under my ass, inch by inch.
My body ached.
Everywhere.
Belly bloated.
Lower back screaming.
Feet still throbbing.
But under all that ache?
There was that desire for more. Wild. Wicked. Still rolling hot through me, even after five courses and countless drinks.
“I fucking (hiccup) want you,” I gasped. “And I (huff) want more cake.”
Chase stilled. Just for a second.
Like my words hit different. Like he couldn’t believe I still wanted more.
Laid out beneath him—breathless, tits rising high, arms limp at my sides.
I was done. Spent. Couldn’t move.
I just wanted him.
And cake.
And he gave me both.
Fed me first. My second full birthday cake of the day—thick frosting, soft crumbs, each bite heavier than the last.
I wanted to ride him—like I used to.
But I didn’t have it in me. Didn’t have the stamina. Didn’t have the energy for that anymore.
I needed him to take over.
To handle all of me.
And I needed more fucking cake.
I took another bite on all fours with just my mouth, and he took me from behind.
Hard. Like something in him snapped. Like it was punishment—for both of us.
There was no holding back. Not from him. Not from me.
“I’ve (chew, chew) been such (huff) a pig,” I gasped, breath catching between bites, lips smeared with frosting, voice thick with need. “Can’t stop, (huff) Chase… I can’t stop (gasp) eating.” I lowered my head back into the cake as he drilled into me further. “(chew, chew)I’ve been (chew, chew) such (chew, chew) a bad girl.”
He squeezed the sides of my ass—big, soft, his—fingers digging in like he couldn’t believe how fucking massive and wobbly it was.
I let him fuck me like I was made for it. Like it was who I’d become—this soft, swollen woman under his hands.
Even when I had to turn my face away from the pleasure, lips parted on a moan that came too fast, too full.
And when it was over?
I couldn’t speak.
Could barely breathe.
“I… (huff, wheeze) need (gasp) a… cigarette,” I rasped, eyes half-lidded, chest still rising.
He grabbed the pack, slid one between my lips, and lit it, his eyes never leaving me.
Not once.
Like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. What we just did. Like he didn’t recognize the man who needed this version of me so badly he could barely keep it together.
Then he crawled back in bed, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers he wasn’t ready to face.
I took a drag, slow and deep. Belly rising. Tits heaving.
Then I burped.
A soft one that tasted like chocolate.
And raised a brow. “What’s (gasp) with you? You’ve been so quiet lately.”
As if to prove my point he didn’t answer.
Just gave me a weak smirk—half-hearted, soft at the corners, but empty behind the eyes.
I didn’t push.
Didn’t have the strength.
But that look?
That stayed.
Chapter 61
It was March when it happened.
The big one. I guess it was inevitable.
Four. Zero. Zero.
I’d been circling it since February, hovering like a jet that just couldn’t land. But that last week? Oh—I made the push.
Sydney showed up with four bags of takeout, grinning like it was her birthday. Lizzie brought cake—three layers, mostly frosting, no shame. I did a five-day Feed me to the Finish Line event for my subscribers—nightly stuffings, behind-the-scenes bloat shots that nearly broke my DMs.
By day five, I couldn’t sit up without help.
My belly felt like a loaded suitcase resting on my thighs. Every breath came in soft, shallow pants. I’d fully surrendered to braless living—anything with structure was banned. Even my comfiest stretchy ones were digging in like they had something to prove.
March 3rd.
I waddled to the scale, Chase at my side, hand firm on my lower back, steadying me like he was guiding a queen to her coronation.
Jordan was already in position, camera up, all focus. Silent. Locked in.
I was breathless before I even stepped up—body buzzing with wine, cannabis, sugar, and satisfaction, black cami riding high, squeezing in all the wrong places, belly hanging heavy over my matching panties, skin flushed, thighs jiggling, lungs working overtime.
I stepped on.
The scale spoke.
“Four hundred point seven pounds.”
I froze. Jordan didn’t flinch, didn’t say a word—just kept that camera rolling.
My eyes went wide. My knees nearly buckled.
I stepped off slow, one shaky foot at a time. One hand braced on my thigh, the other reaching for Chase without even thinking, like my body knew he’d be there. Because he always was.
He caught me, hand strong at my waist, holding me up.
Jordan finally spoke, voice low and thick with stunned reverence.
“Holy fucking shit princess.”
His eyes slid to Chase, like he was waiting for him to say something.
But Chase stayed silent.
I held onto him—flushed to hell and high on the number... and also weed I guess.
But I felt fucking deliciously devious.
Couldn’t stop feeling it. The rush of being so much more than I ever imagined.
“Oh my(gasp) fucking God,” I whispered, breath coming fast, heart pounding beneath all that soft, heavy glory.
But Chase?
Still didn’t speak.
And that silence?
It hit heavier than the number.
The next day Chase was even quieter than usual.
And for him, that said everything—or, I guess, didn’t.
He was doing that pacing thing he did back when I hurt my knee—only this time, it was darker. He moved like a man carrying something too heavy to speak, too jagged to swallow.
That kind of quiet only a guy like Chase could pull off.
That slow, storm-brewing kind of quiet. The kind where he wasn’t fighting the world—he was fighting himself.
Me? I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Naked. A little stoned. A little tipsy.
Sprawled across my bed like a heaving altar to beauty.
Still riding the high from hitting 400, I kept scrolling, reading every thirsty comment under my weigh-in video—the one that fucking melted the internet. Hair wild, sexy without trying. I hadn’t really moved all day.
Pillows fluffed just right.
Cigarette burning between my fresh pink nails—long, square, perfect.
Ashtray close.
Tray of cookies closer.
Half a glass of wine waiting on my nightstand, just begging for a man with manners to come top it off.
Speaking of which—
Chase was sitting at the edge of the bed. Fully dressed. Tense. Shoulders locked, like whatever he wanted to say was fighting its way out but he didn’t trust himself to let it go.
“You okay?” I asked, finally—half wine, half THC, and a whole lotta cookies making everything feel floaty except him.
He didn’t answer.
Just dragged a hand down his face like he was trying to rub off whatever he was thinking.
Then he spoke. “I can’t do this anymore.” His voice was like gravel, like it hurt coming out.
I blinked. Took a drag off my cigarette, exhaled—like his words hadn’t just made my stomach twist. “What?”
“Cel…” He shook his head. “I can’t keep pretending this is okay.”
I stilled.
Not because I didn’t expect it—somewhere deep down, I’d felt this coming.
But because he didn’t look angry.
He looked devastated.
“I watched you struggle just to step on the scale yesterday,” he said. “You gasp walking across the room. You’re choking in your sleep, waking up grabbing at your chest like you’re drowning. I don’t know if I’m helping you or hurting you.”
“Huh? (huff) What the fuck (gasp) are you talking about?” I sat up—slow—like every soft, heavy bulge of me had something to say. The sheet slipped down, tits high and flushed.
I took a hard pull on the cigarette, coughed, flicked ash into the tray, and narrowed my eyes.
“So maybe I’ve got, (huff) like, sleep apnea. Sorry that’s such (cough) a burden on you.”
“I love you,” he snapped, voice raw now, finally cracking. “You think I’d still be here—helping you, holding you, cleaning up after you—if I didn’t?”
“Then what (cough, cough) the fuck is this? You all (gasp) twisted up because I said I didn’t want to get married or whatever? Now what, you’re fucking worried (cough) about my health?”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to. I could see it in his face.
I shifted again, my whole body jiggling, the kind of body you sink into and never fully climb out of. The kind he used to worship like it was sacred, like fucking literally an hour ago.
I took another drag. Let the smoke curl out of my lips with a smirk that didn’t reach my eyes.
“It’s not like I’m gonna (pant) keep getting bigger,” I gasped. “It was Feed me to the finish line, remember? I had a goal, (huff) I hit it. But whatever—you love me like this anyway. Said you (huff, gasp) never wanted to deny me (wheeze) pleasure again. You said that. So what (cough, cough) changed? How can you be this (gasp) hot and cold?”
His eyes dropped—
To my belly, full and rising, pressing high into my tits like they were in a fight for space under all that softness.
And in that second?
It hit. Hard.
The silence between us didn’t just stretch.
It broke something.
“This isn’t about how you look,” he said finally, voice quieter now. “I mean fucking christ Celeste. You used to move. Now, you nap after every meal. I have to brace you just to get you off the couch. Everything you do revolves around food. And yeah, I still think you’re beautiful. I still want you so bad it hurts. But we can’t keep going like this.”
I exhaled smoke, chin tilted up.
God, his words hurt.
But I wouldn’t let it show.
I took another drag—nicotine biting all the way down.
“So what (huff) the (cough) fuck are you actually saying?” I rasped, lungs tight, too much booze, too many fucking feelings. “You worried about my weight, or are you still just too fucking scared to just fully admit (gasp) you love it? Or are you really just as brainwashed (cough, cough) as the rest of them?”
He dragged a hand through his hair, wild-eyed, like he was two seconds from breaking—and trying real hard not to. Like God forbid a man cry in front of a woman he could never stop wanting.
His eyes met mine.
Then, like the words were sandpaper in his throat, he said, “I got offered another coaching job. Fresno State.” A beat. “I told them yes.”
The air snapped.
The room tilted.
So did I.
I took another shaky drag, head spinning.
“Wow,” I breathed, voice slurred, cracking under the weight of everything I wasn’t saying. “And you’re (pant) telling me this now?”
“I didn’t want it to go down like this, but I can’t keep pretending—”
“Yes you can’t keep pretending this is okay you (gasp) fucking already said that!”
“Well, goddammit, everything you do still fucking turns me on,” he growled. “And yeah, I love your curves. Love the way you’ve grown. You know I do.”
Then his voice dropped—softer, rougher.
“But I didn’t think you were just gonna blow past 300 without even looking back. And then your family at Thanksgiving? The looks on their faces? That wasn’t judgment. That was concern. Real concern. They’re fucking worried about you! And then that last weigh-in…”
He looked at me like he wanted to pull me closer and push me away at the same time.
“Cel… don’t you think this is getting out of hand?”
He paused, like that was the part that might break him.
“And I’m tired of sharing you. With Jordan. With millions of faceless fucking perverts online. I can’t do it anymore.”
I reached for another cookie, took a bite, chewing fast, never breaking eye contact.
“Then (chew, chew) make more (chew) money, and buy me a condo!” I snapped, voice cutting, even with a mouth full of sugar. “What (chew, chew) other job is going to pay me twenty-five fucking (chew) grand a month? You try making that much!”
“That’s why I’m taking the coaching job!” he growled. “But this isn’t about the money, and you know it.”
He pointed at me—eyes hot, jaw clenched.
“It’s the attention. You’re addicted to it. You want more. Always more. I’m worried you’re not going to be able to stop.”
“You loved it (huff) when I was three hundred,” I shot back, breathy, slurred, every word soaked in spite. “Feeding me. (gasp) Filming me. Fucking stuffing me.”
I took another drag off my cigarette, coughed, shoved another cookie in my mouth like it was proof, and talked right through the bite.
“But now (chew, munch) I’m 400, and suddenly (munch, chew) I’m too much? Suddenly you’re worried?”
His head lifted, eyes meeting mine. “Yeah,” he said, plain and broken.
I didn’t answer. Just stared, chest heaving, tits rising high, with each frantic puff on my cigarette.
“I loved you at one-forty. I loved you at three hundred. I love you now.” he said. “I love taking care of you. And yeah, I love feeding you. Watching you fall apart from just a bite. I fucking love it, Cel. Too much. And I can’t stop. I look at you, and I can’t stop. I’m never gonna be able to tell you no.”
His voice cracked, and when his eyes found mine again, they were soft and sad.
And for one second—just one—I almost caved.
Almost said me too.
Almost admitted I couldn’t say no either. Not to my fans. Not to the hunger. Not even to myself.
Almost told him I didn’t know where I ended and Cel Monroe began.
But I didn’t.
I stayed quiet. Head high. Lips full. Smoke curling from my mouth like I had nothing to explain.
I dragged hard, breath catching.
“If you (cough) wanna leave,” I said, “then go.”
He didn’t move.
“Cel—”
I pointed the cigarette at him, hand trembling, arm jiggling, lungs burning. “Fucking (huff) go.”
That’s when he stood. Slow. Heavy. Like it physically hurt.
He reached for my knee—still under the sheet.
“Don’t (cough, cough) fucking touch me,” I snapped, yanking my leg away. My whole body shaking now. Rage. Pain. Heartbreak.
His eyes went wide. But he didn’t speak.
He turned. Walked to the door.
And didn’t look back.
The Secret Life of Cel Monroe
by Jolene Dubois (2025)
