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The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 49 - 52
🕑 Added 2025-04-12 00:05:02 +0000 UTCChapter 49
I hauled my lazy, wine-soaked ass down to my building’s gym, which was technically smaller than the one in my old place—not that I needed much. A treadmill. Air-conditioning. Maybe a miracle.
I stepped onto that godforsaken machine, hit start, and within seconds, regret set in.
And yeah.
It sucked.
Five minutes felt like five hours. I was sweating like I’d just done a grueling, military-grade boot camp when, in reality, I’d barely managed a quarter mile at a mall-walker pace.
It was bad. Like, lungs-on-fire, heart-might-explode, I’m-too-young-to-die bad.
For a second—just one—I thought about ditching this whole fitness thing and going full Ozempic.
But like I told my fans, I didn’t want to be skinny. 240 was the goal. The sweet spot. Enough to feel sexy and unstoppable—without needing a damn nap after walking up a slight incline.
Plus, pretty sure Ozempic made you lose muscle or something, and at this point? I was already weaker than Muggles, and she spent 80% of her day napping and judging me.
And besides all that?
I wore my weight like a masterpiece.
And my butt?
Other than my face, it was hands down my biggest moneymaker—though, obviously, it was way bigger than my face, but you get what I mean. Proportionally speaking, both were doing the Lord’s work.
My hips were made for comfort and slow, sexy sways—not for treadmills and sweat. My curves? Dangerous. Probably illegal in some states.
But I needed to get healthier.
So, I kept at it. Somehow. Strung a few good days together, then ruined it with a few bad ones.
But currently? Good days.
Three in a row now.
I tried a juice cleanse—hated it. Swapped midnight wine for melatonin gummies—hated that too. Cut back on my massive Starbucks pastry hauls, which meant I needed something in the morning to keep the soul-crushing, stomach-lining-dissolving heartburn at bay.
Landed on breakfast burritos from the café downstairs—and, annoyingly? Not bad. Actually pretty damn good. But they didn’t hit the same sugar-rush, dopamine-blasting high as an iced venti mocha and all the brownies.
I fasted until dinner, white-knuckling through the hunger, chugging way too many skinny vanilla lattes and popping chocolate-covered almonds like they were vitamins, convincing myself that wasn’t technically a meal and that, somehow, this counted as progress.
Then I opened my OnlyFans… and my stomach dropped.
The last video? Oh, it stirred the pot—but not the way I’d hoped. Likes were down. Way down.
Heart pounding, I started scrolling through the comments.
Don’t lose weight! We love you bigger!
Not paying to watch you shrink, sweetie.
Don’t be like the rest of them.
We’re here for the gain, girl. Please hit 300!
My chest tightened.
And when I checked my subs?
They were dropping faster than Seahawks fans after a playoff loss.
Not a dip. A crash.
All the way back to where I was months ago.
Damn.
But also? What the hell?
They didn’t just love me curvy. They wanted me bigger. They weren’t here for Cel Monroe, the indulgent, soft, sensual dream girl—they were here for Cel Monroe, the growing, stuffing, never-satisfied queen of excess.
Not all of them, of course. But enough to make me notice. Enough to trigger that dreaded unsubscribe—the loss of a fan, a customer, a worshiper.
And maybe I should’ve known that. Maybe it should’ve been obvious. But somehow, seeing it laid out like that, the sheer desperation in their words? It threw me.
I had expenses now. Real expenses. A condo, a new car, a life I had gotten used to. I needed to make more money, not less. The plan wasn’t just to get by. It was to blow this thing up, grow my brand, stack cash, get rich, retire young, sexy, queen for life. Never have to lean on a man. Never have to work for someone like fucking Sam Walters. Never have to ask my parents for anything ever again.
And this diet and exercise nonsense? It felt like torture. No alcohol, no sugar, no damn fun—nothing but aching muscles and a growling stomach so empty it felt like it was gnawing itself in desperation.
Then a soft brush of fur. Tiny paws padding gently across my thigh, a sweet little meow pulling me back from panic’s edge.
Muggles gazed up at me, her big blue eyes filled with that pure, unconditional, zero-judgment love only cats could pull off.
I scooped her up, buried my face in her silky fur, felt her steady purr vibrate against my skin, grounding me in a way nothing else could.
Still, I was craving. Wine. An edible. A thick, buttery cake piled high with sugar-rich frosting.
Dragging my fingers slowly through Muggles’ fur, anxiety crept back, sneaky and relentless. Subscriber numbers dipping, tension building tight in my chest.
Muggles lifted her sweet little face and meowed again.
“You hungry, baby girl?”
I set her down, braced myself, then—real, embarrassing effort—rocked forward, hoisted myself off the sectional, and paused, breath coming short.
God.
Then a slow wiggle to the kitchen, thighs rubbing, belly swaying, every soft, heavy curve of me shifting with the movement. Muggles wove between my ankles, purring, approving, as I cracked open a can of Purina.
She dove into her food, tiny and delicate, like she might just blow away if I so much as turned the kitchen fan on.
I bent down carefully, scratching her soft little head. “Yeah, (pant) honey,” I whispered, breathless. “Food’s good, (pant) isn’t it? Yummies.”
She purred louder, then went right back to eating, no second thoughts, no guilt, no hesitation.
I took another breath—slow, shaky, forcing my mind to settle.
I was in control.
My body. My health. My choice.
Just because my cat was eating didn’t mean I had to. I could hold strong. Stay on track. Let Muggles enjoy her meal without breaking my fast.
But then… my fans had spoken.
The money was dropping.
The messages were getting desperate.
And my cravings?
Oh, my cravings were screaming.
No sugar today. No wine in three days. No edibles. Cold turkey, nothing.
And maybe that’s why my hands shook as flopped back on my sectional and I scrolled through the comments again.
Don’t lose that ass!
Don’t change!
Just get softer, babe. Let go.
Not gonna send you money for food if you ain’t gonna gain.
Fucking knew you were too good to be true.
Verlieren Sie nicht an Gewicht!
The DMs were worse. Tempting. Dirty. Cash-loaded.
2 grand to watch you eat a dozen cupcakes if you still doing customs.
$1,200 for a funneling video, please say yes!
My stomach twisted—hunger and panic tangling together until I couldn’t tell the difference.
I could do this. I could stick to the plan.
240 pounds. Healthy. Curvy. Strong.
I could.
Absolutely.
And then?
Then I picked up my phone, opened DoorDash, and hovered my finger over my saved orders.
My nipples tightened before I even tapped the screen.
Just something small. Just one little snack to take the edge off.
An hour later, I was sprawled out on my sectional—silk robe barely hanging onto one shoulder, my belly warm, heavy, stuffed to the brim.
Thighs spread wide, soft and thick, with my belly spilling between them like it had claimed the space for good.
One. Little. Something.
Had turned into a large, extra-cheesy, chicken pesto pizza, a side order of lasagna drenched in béchamel, a buttercream cake thick with frosting, and an entire bottle of red wine.
And just like that, I was off the rails again.
I ate. And ate. And ate.
At first? Total bliss.
Melted cheese stretching like it had a crush on me, sugar sliding down slow and sinful, wine wrapping me in a lazy, tipsy haze while Love Is Blind played in the background—my kind of romance: messy, dramatic, and best served with carbs.
Then came the hunger. Deep, insatiable. Like my body knew I’d try to stop myself tomorrow, so I needed to fill up while I still could.
Then? Autopilot.
Bite after bite, fork sinking into layers of pasta, lips slick, tongue chasing every last smear of buttercream, stomach stretching—but still, still, I kept going.
Muggles watched me with wide, blinking eyes, tail flicking, like even she knew I was lost to it.
The pizza? Gone. The lasagna? Barely a memory. Somewhere in the haze, I’d stopped refilling my wine glass and was drinking straight from the bottle, cake halfway demolished, frosting smeared at the corner of my lips, between my fingers.
And then?
Then it hit.
That fullness.
A heavy, deep ache pressing against my ribs, making my breath go shallow, my skin hot, my skimpy pajama shorts biting into my hips like they couldn’t keep up with me.
I groaned, hand drifting under my tight cami, over the swell of my belly, my toes curled, my whole body buzzing with satisfaction, deliciously spent.
Fuck.
I’d lost control again.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part?
It felt so fucking good.
So fucking goddamn good to give into my cravings.
Then—my phone lit up.
I tried to sit up, reach for it, but collapsed back down with a huff, belly too full to move fast. A burp slipped out, unexpected. I winced, took a breath, then propped myself up, stretching, groaning, fingers closing around my phone from the coffee table.
One new message.
Jordan.
Hey, in SLU right now. Up for a pop-in? Want to see the condo if you’re home.
My breath caught, heat coiling low in my belly, a different kind of hunger sparking to life under the weight of the first.
I stared at the message, pulse hammering.
Because fuck.
Chapter 50
Okay. Deep breath. This is happening.
Jordan.
Of course, the first time he texts me in months just happens to be right after I completely wrecked myself with an all-out binge.
Like, I wasn’t just stuffed. I was food-drunk.
Okay, maybe wine-drunk too.
And now he decides to pop back up? Now?!
Why now? Why tonight? What the hell did he want?
He saw me at the New Year’s party, sure, but that was over a month ago. And before that? Four months.
Since he and Chase stormed out of my old apartment like they were starring in some tragic, tortured indie flick—full of brooding wounded male ego.
But then again, I told them to leave.
That was me. My choice. Because I didn’t want to be someone’s possession, didn’t want to feel trapped in a love triangle that was as hot as it was dangerous, where feelings got messy, where hearts got wrecked.
Didn’t want to lose myself in something too big, too consuming, too damn real.
Now, still sprawled on my sectional, tipsy and glowing from sugar and carbs. My limbs felt loose and heavy as I sank further into the pleasure of breaking my fast and fully surrendering to cheat-day bliss.
I’d almost blocked Jordan when he wouldn’t stop texting, calling, refusing to let go after everything went down.
But I was glad I didn’t.
Because if I was being honest, working from home, wrapped up in my little Cel Monroe kingdom—a queen with no king, no knight—it got lonely.
Maybe it was the wine, the food, the way I felt—drowning in excess, sinking into pleasure the way I used to feel when Jordan would feed me.
Or maybe, I just missed him.
And the way my heart was beating, breath coming just a little too short? Pretty clear that was the truth.
Or maybe I was just that stuffed and that out of shape.
Either way, I texted back. You can come over, but give me 30 minutes. Sent him my address and the code to the building.
Jordan would wait.
He always waited for me.
Didn’t mean I didn’t need to move—fast.
Which, in my current state? Was downright hysterical.
It wasn’t like I had to put on a front for Jordan. He’d seen it all.
Makeup smeared, hair a wreck, tipsy and mid-rant, bloated on takeout, half-asleep in his lap.
He was the first—one of only two men on earth who I’d ever let feed me, stuff me, push me to the point of no return. One of only two men who really knew me.
Kinks. Flaws—not that I’d ever admit to any. Weaknesses.
Jordan knew all about them.
But still, this was different.
This was the first time he’d see me here.
In my space. My new space. My new life.
A place that wasn’t just mine—but Cel Monroe’s.
And it needed to look the part.
I rolled—yes, rolled—off the sectional, groaning as my belly shifted, bounced, poured over my thighs, then heaved myself up, coffee table taking one for the team.
TV off.
Lasagna container. Empty wine bottle. Pizza box. Crumb-dusted cake plate like it was mocking me from across the room.
It all had to go.
Cue wiggling, waddling, bending over, breath coming too short, back straight-up protesting. Thought I was done? Nope. Another fucking container, just sitting there, taunting me.
Muggles, still perched on the sectional, cozy as hell, watching me like I was some kind of fascinating experiment in human struggle.
I finally made it to the trash, leaned against the counter, hand on my stomach, catching my breath.
I should’ve just waited for Jordan to clean up for me, like before.
But no—I wanted to show him I’d changed.
Or that I was in the process of changing.
Well… maybe.
I fluffed the pillows, smoothed the throws, adjusted the dimmer until the condo practically purred.
Oh, and I was out of wine. Unacceptable.
Slowly bouncing and jiggling toward my bedroom, I shot off a text. Bring a bottle of Pinot. You know the kind I like.
Jordan’s reply was instant. Done.
Damn right done.
I smirked, tossing my phone onto the bed before peeling off my cami and pajama bottoms, wobbling into my closet, legs weak, body heavy, belly full to bursting.
Had to look somewhat put together. Even with an entire pizza sitting in my stomach like a fucking lead weight, plus everything else. Not that Jordan would mind. But still, right outfit mattered.
I wiggled into my super-stretchy, barely-worn gray loungewear set—soft fabric that clung like sin. The short-sleeved crop top hugged my arms and tits, lifting, molding, showing off every lush, heavy curve.
The leggings? You already know the drill.
No matter how stretchy, ribbed, or “made for curves” the tag swore they were, they still weren’t prepared for what I was bringing to the table.
I wiggled, shimmied, yanked, hips swaying, ass—so unbelievably, undeniably huge—fighting for dominance.
By the time I finally got them all the way up, I was panting, flushed, hiccuping, a slow, wine-heavy burp slipping free.
The high waist dug in, pressing against the round swell of my upper belly, but in a way that only made my hips look even wider—which, at this point, was fucking saying something.
I turned to the mirror, heart pounding, breath still too short, tipsy gaze dragging over the sheer, bouncy, out-of-control size of my ass, the way it poured into the fabric like the leggings had no choice but to surrender.
Damn.
Worth it.
I flopped down in front of my vanity, burped again, and let my body settle, breasts rising and falling with each deep breath.
Because, Jesus.
I was so stuffed I could actually explode. But the wine had me warm, loose, sinking into it. And the fullness? Yeah, that did things to me. Made me lazy and needy, made heat pool low, made my pussy clench.
I lifted a very heavy, very tipsy arm, dragging a brush through my thick, soft hair, still fresh from yesterday’s wash, full, bouncy, the perfect effortless sexiness.
Makeup? Quick touch-up.
My face was softer, fuller, cheeks round and flushed from wine and indulgence, lips even plumper, lush, impossibly full from the extra weight. Contour to carve, blush to tease, smoky shadow to smolder, gloss to make my already plump lips look almost swollen in a good way.
I leaned back, tilted my head, made a kissy face.
God, I looked fucking hot.
Then—the knock.
Holy. Crap.
My heart leapt, stomach clenched, thighs squeezed together. I grabbed my perfume, spritzed—wrist, neck, between my breasts, because why the hell not?—then wiggled my way to the door, belly sloshing, breath fast and uneven, already buzzing with tipsy anticipation.
I swung open the door and there he was.
Jordan.
Standing tall, gorgeous, smirking, holding up my Pinot like he was some kind of knight in expensive denim.
But beside him, stepping into view—to my absolute, stomach-clenching, breath-hitching, heat-coiling shock—was Chase.
Oh. Shit.
Chapter 51
Chase stood to Jordan’s left, filling my doorway—broad, solid, unshakable. Blue eyes dragging over me. Taking stock.
A lot had changed.
It wasn’t subtle.
“Hey, Celeste,” he said.
My body betrayed me.
God, I’d missed that voice.
It took a second—maybe five—before I could even find my words.
“Chase,” I breathed. Heat climbed up my throat, flushing my rounder cheeks. I turned to Jordan, a knowing smirk twisting his lips like he’d planned this whole damn ambush.
I wanted to hug them—both of them—tell them I missed them, that I’d been a mess, that I needed them.
But I didn’t even know what Jordan was up to, or why the hell they were both here. No way in hell was I letting on that I was lonely.
They came to me.
And if they wanted me—whatever this was—they were gonna have to work for it.
“Um,(hiccup) come in,” I stumbled back, waving them inside. “Quick. (huff) Shut the door before Muggles escapes.”
Jordan smiled, stepping inside like he belonged there, kicking the door shut behind him. “Muggles? That your cat?”
I wobbled toward the living room, body deliciously lazy. “How (hiccup) did you know (gasp) I got a cat?”
Chase’s voice again curled around me. “Saw your latest video.”
I froze. Turned. “You did?”
“Had to subscribe.” His gaze held mine. “Missed you too much.”
A shiver rolled through me, hot and unexpected.
Oh.
I kept moving, trudging toward the sectional. Under the coffee table, Muggles sat, wide-eyed, tiny face practically screaming, Girl, why’d you let these big scary men in?
I nudged the table aside, bent down to grab her—my ass high, hips spreading, belly too big, leggings stretched dangerously thin—and completely forgot the guys were right behind me.
Then I heard it.
That sharp inhale. The kind men make when they see something worth seeing.
Heat crawled up my neck. Damn it.
I moaned, heaved myself up, breathless, holding Little Miss Judgy like I was presenting my royal feline to the court. “Isn’t she just (huff) the prettiest little (pant) thing you’ve ever seen?”
Silence.
I looked up.
Both of them stood there, frozen, jaws slack. Jordan blinked, visibly shook. Chase’s hands flexed at his sides, like he was fighting off thoughts.
Jordan’s gaze dragged from Muggles to me. “Second prettiest thing.”
I tried to glare, but between the wine, the lack of oxygen, and the way he was looking at me—like he’d devour me if I let him—I landed closer to flustered.
Muggles let out the softest little meow, wiggled free, then plopped onto the sectional like she was personally offended by everything.
I collapsed beside her, making damn sure she wasn’t in the path of my ass, then let out a breathy sigh—the kind a queen makes when sinking into her throne after an exhausting day of being spoiled and overfed. Finally, my feet had a break. And I was not moving anytime soon.
Jordan stepped forward, eyes sweeping the space. “Damn, princess. Look at you. Sexy place. Gorgeous. Luxurious…” His gaze dipped lower, towards my hips and thighs. “Bigger than I expected.”
My brows shot up. “Excuse (gasp) me? Bigger than you expected?”
“Shit. I didn’t mean—”
“Relax, Jordan,” I huffed, waving a hand like I had zero responsibilities in this world. “We all know (pant) I’ve gained a shit ton of weight lately… and I’ve definitely—” I paused for dramatic effect, patting my belly with a lazy, satisfied sigh, “been a very bad girl tonight.”
I fluttered my lashes, lips curling. “And yes, I knooow (hiccup) this is, like, the opposite of what I said on OnlyFans about getting in shape or whatever...” I giggled, hiccuped, then shrugged. “Oopsi.”
Jordan just stared, half-concerned, half-turned-on. And yeah—I fucking missed that look.
He lifted the bottle of Pinot like a white flag. “So, uh… want me to pop this open now, or—”
“Obviously,” I said, waving a hand. “Corkscrew’s on the counter, glasses left of the microwave. Help (huff) yourself some too, but I think there’s still beer in the fridge if you’d rather.”
Jordan disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me with Chase.
I blinked up at him. “Y’can sit, y’know.”
Chase sat onto the L of the sectional to my right, leaving space but still watching. Made me hyperaware of everything—my too-loud breathing, the rise and fall of my tits, the way my belly was protruding further onto my lap, my top riding up with every inhale, baring too much skin.
Muggles curled up closer, like she could sense the shift, like she was just as wary of the look on Chase’s face as I was.
“You good?” he said.
“Yeah, (huff) you guys just caught me (hiccup) mid cheat day mode.”
“Oh, uh… well, you look incredible.”
God, Chase nervous and tongue-tied? That was new.
I ran a hand through my hair. “You lie.”
“I never lie.”
A shiver rolled through me just as Jordan strolled back in, handing me a very full glass of Pinot. “Here you go, princess.”
He disappeared back into the kitchen, returned with two beers, tossed one to Chase, then dropped onto the sectional to my left, putting me square in the middle—though there was still space between us. He stretched out, cracking his open. “Guinness, huh?” He took a sip, eyes flicking to me.
“Kept some (gasp) around in case you ever dropped in unannounced again," I said, swirling the wine in my glass, watching the deep red catch the dim light. "At least you (pant) gave me a heads up this time."
Chase popped the tab on his beer, the sharp hiss slicing through the silence.
I arched a brow, tipping my wine glass toward him. “What, (pant) you’re drinking now? No more training?”
“Always training.” His voice was smooth, sure. “Just done chasing pro ball.”
Something pinched in my chest.
I swallowed, my voice softer than I meant. “Oh. Um… I’m sorry.”
My back arched just a little, and then—damn it—a burp slipped out. I slapped a hand over my mouth, eyes wide, then let out a giggly, tipsy sigh.
"Ooo, ’scuse (huff) me."
Jordan smirked over his beer. “You alright?”
I let out a breathy laugh. “Honestly? Tonight’s been a (hiccup) whole thing. I’m stuffed, tipsy, and you have (huff) the worst timing.”
I glared at Jordan, hating how comfortable he looked. “Why (pant) the fuck didn’t you tell me (gasp) Chase was with you?”
“Didn’t want you to freak out.”
I narrowed my eyes. “So, you guys are still friends? Still roommates? How’d you not (pant) kill each other?”
Jordan took a sip of his beer. “What, you really think we’d let you come between us?”
I did, but I stayed quiet.
“Our lease is up at the end of March. This guy got offered a coaching gig down at San Diego State,” Jordan said, jerking his chin at Chase.
I turned to Chase, stomach flipping. “(gasp)You gonna take it?”
"We’ll see what happens."
I took a big sip of my wine. Then another. “That makes (pant) me sad.”
Silence, except for the slow, deep sound of my own breathing as I shifted, trying to get comfortable, tugging my top down over my belly, adjusting my hips.
Jordan leaned forward, eyes locked on my every move. He let out a deep breath. “You are so unbelievably good-looking Celeste. It’s not even fucking fair.”
“Not even close to fair,” Chase added. “Seeing you at the New Year’s party, all those guys hitting on you…” He ran a hand through his hair, gaze lingering, heated. “Almost killed me.”
I straightened, smirking even as my stomach groaned in protest. “Really? (pant) What about those girls you guys were with? They were (huff) draped all over you. Literally.”
Jordan didn’t blink. “Just reminded me how every other woman on the planet is plain and boring compared to you.”
My thighs clenched. Damn him.
“You weren’t exactly sitting alone either,” Chase said. “You seeing anyone?”
The air between us thickened, humming with something big, something that felt like a line I was either about to step over or trip over trying to cross.
I took another sip of my wine, licked my lips slow, a little too slow. “Not (hiccup) anymore.”
I tilted my head. “So, like… wireyou guys (huff) here again?” I waved a wobbly hand between them. “Why tonight?”
“Just, you know, after that last vid you posted… and then, like, your birthday’s coming up…” Jordan said, his voice lower now, more serious. “We had a talk. Decided we wanted to show you we’re still here. That we’re still yours—if you want.”
“Didn’t need your birthday as an excuse,” Chase said, his fingers flexing around his beer, crushing the can slightly, like he was holding back, like he wanted to reach for me but was fighting it.
“Couldn’t stand not seeing you anymore.”
I swallowed, my words slow, my head tilting way too much. “What do (pant) you mean… both of you?”
“You liked it, didn’t you?” Chase’s voice cut right through the wine. “We would’ve kept going if this fucker hadn’t shown up and blown it for all of us.”
Jordan flipped Chase off, took a sip of his beer, completely unbothered.
I let out a sigh, sinking deeper into the couch, wine making me too loose, too honest. My eyes darted between them, my head swaying slightly. “It was my fault,” I muttered, words slurring, thick. “I liked you both… always have.”
I groaned, flopping my head against the cushion, throwing an arm over my belly. “I couldn’t (hiccup) choose. And you needed me to. Otherwise, you’d fight. Get (pant) jealous. Get hurt. And I didn’t wanna ruin your friendship.”
Jordan’s smirk faded. “That’s over, Cel. I’d rather share you with him than not have you at all. You’re fucking worth it.”
The silence stretched, heavy, like we were all—Muggles included—processing.
Maybe this was a mess.
But fuck me, I was liking it.
I took another big sip of wine—too big—then let out a soft little burp, quickly covering my mouth. “Scuse me.”
Jordan grinned. Chase smirked.
I waved them off, downed the rest of my wine, thunked the glass onto the coffee table, and stretched, my top riding up, exposing way too much of my belly. Their eyes caught it.
Held it.
I licked my lips, feeling the heat from both sides. “So?” I blinked slowly at them. “You boys come here (hiccup) just to worship me?”
Jordan’s grin turned wicked. “Came to worship devoutly. Ask for mercy.”
Chase exhaled. Didn’t say a word. But his said everything.
They both wanted me. Bad. Bad enough they were willing to share me?
How drunk was I?
I sank deeper into the sectional, melting into the warmth of the wine, the weight of their attention. Maybe this had always been my problem. Maybe this was why Carson wasn’t enough. Tanner wasn’t enough.
Why giving all of myself to the public was easier than giving all of myself to just one man…
Was having two boyfriends—two friends with benefits—really that crazy?
And like I said before—
Chase and Jordan together?
That was the perfect man.
I reached for my wine glass, lifted it for another sip—except, whoops, already empty. I pouted, then plopped it onto the table with a huff.
Then—another tiny burp slipped out. I blinked slowly, pressed my fingers to my lips, then giggled. “Oops. (hiccup) ’Scuse me… again.”
Jordan chuckled. “You okay, princess? Need a refill?”
I smirked, loving the way their gazes followed every move. “No, not yet.” I let my head flop back against the cushions, stretching languidly. “I need a cigarette first.”
Jordan’s brows lifted. “What? You still smoking those cancer sticks?”
I let my hand flop onto my belly, fingers tracing slow, absent circles over the hugeness of it, drawing their eyes right back.
“Nooo,” I slurred. “I just… indulge occasionally. Helps (huff) my tummy feel better when I’ve (hiccup) eaten too much.”
“I think it’s fucking sexy when you smoke,” Chase said. “Probably bad to say, but…” He exhaled, slow, deep, eyes locked on me. “It’s just the truth.”
My nipples tightened beneath my top. “Mmm, okay who are you, and what have you done (hiccup) with my Chasey bear?”
Jordan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus. You two.”
I tried to push myself up, scooting forward on the couch, leather squeaking under me. Spread my legs, planted my hands on my knees, tried to stand—but barely got my ass off the cushion before I sank right back down.
I moaned, flopping backward. “Ughhh. (gasp) Why is standing so hard?”
Jordan shot up, grinning, reached down, wrapped both my wrists in his hands, and gently pulled me up. “Because queens were meant to lounge in comfort and luxury.”
“Mm, (huff) accurate,” I murmured, draping myself over him like a human accessory, using him for balance, feeling small even though I sure as hell wasn’t.
Jordan chuckled, his grip steady, sure. “Alright, princess. Let’s see this view of yours.”
I caught my breath, turned to Muggles—still curled up on the sectional, giving me her signature unimpressed look. I stroked her head, murmuring, “Be (pant) right back, my little sweetie.”
Chase followed as I led them onto the balcony, sliding open the doors to the crisp night air.
Lake Union stretched dark beneath us, city lights winking, shimmering like liquid gold on the water. Boats drifted, red and green beacons blinking, the hum of the city floating up, thirty-eight stories high.
I inhaled deep, let the air cut through the warmth curling inside me.
Reaching for my pack on the outdoor coffee table, I plucked out a cigarette, placed it between my lips.
Chase didn’t hesitate. Grabbed the lighter, flicked it open, lit it for me, watching me through the flame.
I took a drag and flopped onto my plush balcony sofa, sinking deep, exactly where I belonged.
Jordan turned on the heater like he could read my mind, then leaned against the railing, arms crossed, that knowing smirk on his face as his eyes soaked me in. “Damn, Cel, you really got a setup out here. And this view?” He whistled low, eyes still on me. “Best in the world.”
I exhaled, blowing smoke into the night. “You’re (huff) such a ham Jordan.”
Chase plucked the cigarette from my fingers, brought it back to my lips, holding it there like I was too precious to do it myself. Close. Watching me, eyes intense, like he was memorizing me.
I sucked in my cheeks and took a slow drag, my lips brushing his fingers, making damn sure he felt it. Pulling the cigarette away, I exhaled, tilting my head up at him. “Wow, Chasey Bear, you used to hate me smoking, why the sudden change.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I just don’t ever want to deny you pleasure ever again.”
Oh.
Ohhh.
I blinked, slow, heavy-lidded, head tipping slightly to the side. “Well, damn,” I slurred, lips curling. “I think maybe (pant) football retirement is making you nicer.”
His voice was low, firm. “No. You did that.”
I let out a breathy huff, leaned back, curled my calves beneath my thighs, shifting until I was as comfortable and lazy as humanly possible—like this whole situation wasn’t making my clit throb.
Chase cleared his throat, like he was reining himself in. “That last vid you posted… were you serious? About not wanting to gain? Getting in shape?”
“Ughhh. I was.” I leaned forward, flicked ash into the tray, thinking, hips shifting again, the press of my belly into my thighs making me very aware of how much I’d eaten tonight.
The memory of him making me suffer on that fucking treadmill at my old apartment flashed through my head, making me shudder.
“Yeah, princess, you don’t need to,” Jordan said. “You keep saying you wanna get back to 240, but you are so fucking perfect, just the way you are right now, you don’t even fucking know.”
Oh God. Take my panties. Take them now.
I took another drag. “You really (pant) think so? You both think I’m, like, perfect?”
Chase didn’t blink. “Fuck yes.”
“Mmm.” I dragged out the sound, testing, teasing. “Sooo, (hiccup) Chase,” I licked my lips, tilted my head. “How much of my OnlyFans have you (pant) actually watched?”
“Fucking all of it. Couldn’t stop watching.” He leaned in, just slightly. “I get it now.”
Heat pulsed low between my thighs, and I locked eyes with Chase—held his gaze, let it smolder.
Jordan cleared his throat, shifting the air, pulling us back to something else. “By the way… heard you’re done with Google. So what, this place, all this is OnlyFans money?”
The question dropped like a stone.
I sighed, let my head tip back, blinked up at him—slow, full, too stuffed to care. “I didn’ like… plan it this way.”
Jordan lifted a brow, waiting.
“Planned to stay another year,” I said. “Then my boss—fucking Sam Walters—ruined everything.”
Chase went still. His entire body locked up, shoulders tight. “What happened?”
“He got… handsy.” I shifted, sinking deeper into the throw pillow, flicked ash off my cigarette. “Kissed me. Pushed himself on me at a Halloween party, like… I dunno, a couple years back or whatever.” I let out a humorless, tipsy-ass laugh, took another drag. “Didn’t tell anyone… cept Jenna.” Another puff. “Then it turned into this thing—him (gasp) testing the waters whenever he felt like it.”
I waved my cigarette, words thick, slurred, pissed. “Then (huff) that motherfucker somehow figured out about my OnlyFans. Used it as an excuse, like, oh well, guess you can’t work here anymore—said I was a (hiccup) sex worker, didn’t renew my contract.”
I snorted, flicked more ash.
“Or I guess…” I took another drag, eyes locked on the city like it’d done something wrong. “He just wanted an excuse to fire me before I could (hiccup) ruin his life.”
Silence.
The kind that hangs heavy—just the faint wail of sirens echoing from way down on the street, like the city knew something was off.
Chase’s hands curled into fists.
Jordan’s smirk vanished. “And no one did anything?”
I shook my head, right elbow still propped against the armrest, ass sticking out, belly poking out of my top, spilling into the cushions. I took another drag.
“By the time (cough) I spoke up, it was too late. He denied (hiccup) everything, said I was lying, and by then, I’d already closed on this condo. My word against his, so… you know.” I trailed off, because what the hell else was there to say?
Chase turned toward me, full-on, his entire body vibrating with barely contained rage. “You should’ve told us.”
Jordan’s nostrils flared. “No fucking shit, you should’ve called us.”
I tilted my head, smirking, trying to lighten the mood. “And then what? You two would’ve (gasp) probably killed him, and now you’d be in jail or something?”
“Only if we got caught.” Jordan said.
Chase rubbed his fist into his palm. “That motherfucker still working there?”
I sighed. “Who cares?”
Chase’s eyes burned into mine, dead serious. “I care.”
Jordan nodded. “That dickhead put his hands on you? He shouldn’t get away with that.”
I lifted my chin, because if I didn’t, I was gonna cry, and that was not happening tonight. I’d been too busy thinking about Aaron, too caught up in everything I thought I wanted, I forgot how sweet these guys were—how much I missed them, how they cared about me, how they’d do anything for me.
“Whatever.” I waved a hand, trying to brush it off, like it wasn’t still sitting in my chest like a weight. “Point is, (huff) now it’s all up to Cel Monroe to keep the bills paid. Jenna’s not in the picture anymore, so… yeah. It’s all on me now.”
“I need to get (pant) better at monetizing myself,” I mumbled, stretching just enough to make my top ride up more. “Sometimes I think I’m leaving a lot of money (pant) on the table. Guess I need to, like… take my job more seriously now.”
Jordan pushed off the railing and leaned in. “We’re here to help, princess. If you need us. Always. Forever.”
“Damn right we are,” Chase added, dropping to his knees, his big, warm hands caressing my thick thigh, before he leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to my calf.
Oh hell.
A soft, drunk sound slipped out of me, something between a sigh and a whimper, my clit throbbing, and I barely had the energy to do anything about it.
Jordan knelt too, closer to my head, bracing one hand on the armrest near me, his other sliding through my hair. His fingers rubbed slow circles against my scalp, his voice low. “That’s our job. Making sure you’re taken care of.”
“My mom found out about my OnlyFans too,” I cooed, my head lolling slightly, eyes fluttering shut for a second.
“Oh shit.” Jordan’s fingers stilled in my hair. “What’d she say?”
“She was pissed.” I snorted, taking another drag, hips shifting.“We don’t talk anymore. Think she, like… sorta disowned me.”
“Damn, princess… I’m sorry.” Jordan said.
Chase’s grip on my thigh tightened, his thumb brushing slow, firm circles, like he was trying to ground me without saying a word.
I stuck my ass out a little more, blinking up at them. “If we go back (hiccup) to how things were before… do you guys promise you won’t get too attached? And you (gasp) promise you won’t fight over me?”
Jordan and Chase exchanged a look, something silent, heavy, like they were having a full conversation telepathically.
Then, at the exact same time, dead serious. “Promise.”
I snorted. “Okay, that was (hiccup) creepy.”
Jordan grinned, Chase just shook his head, but neither of them took it back.
Chapter 52
I woke up in luxurious ruin—head pounding, chest burning, useless in the best way, still sunk in too much wine, too much indulgence.
I didn’t even remember crawling into bed.
I moaned, reached blindly for my vape, took several long, deep pulls, let the nicotine do its job, settle the ache, take the edge off.
I yawned, brain still foggy. Then I saw it.
Venti iced mocha. Sweating on my nightstand.
Large Starbucks bag. Neatly folded. Waiting.
Oh my God.
Did Chase and Jordan bring me breakfast?
I glanced down. Muggles was curled up at the foot of my bed, tiny, smug, completely unbothered.
I reached for my phone.
JORDAN: Hope you’re feeling alright, princess. We found your cat food and fed Muggles. Sleep in, enjoy your breakfast. Free this afternoon if you need anything.
I peeled open the bag—bacon gouda sandwich, cheese danish, chocolate croissant, two brownies—and let out a long, deep sigh.
Exactly what I needed to cure my heartburn, my hangover, my entire existence.
They still knew me so well.
I took a sip of my mocha, and let last night slip back into focus.
The balcony, the cool night air, the weight of their eyes on me, the way they looked at me like they already had me again.
They came back to me, and I hadn’t even asked.
They literally asked for mercy.
They just wanted to be near me, wanted to take care of me.
They helped me to bed, tucked me in, had breakfast waiting, and even fed my sweet little Muggles.
Who knew gym bros could be so damn thoughtful?
And Chase—he said he’d never deny me pleasure again. Just thinking about it made my clit throb. God, I wanted them. Both of them.
Question was—could they do it without the ego? No jealousy. No competition. Just me, being treated like the queen I damn well was.
When they came back later that day, they—of course—brought up Sam Walters, tossing around ideas about teaching him a lesson, paying him a visit, making sure he never forgot my name, not that he would anyway.
I shut that down real quick. I had way better things to focus on than some washed-up creep. Like making more money, paying bills, turning Cel Monroe into an empire.
They came back the next day. And the day after that. Taking care of me, bringing me food, making sure I was never without something rich, something indulgent, something sweet.
I forgot all about losing weight, because Jordan and Chase were right.
Why the hell would I want to lose anything when I was already fucking hot and perfect just the way I was?
Obviously—or maybe not obviously—sharing Chase and Jordan didn’t mean sharing them together.
Not like that.
Yeah, technically, we were inching toward ménage-à-trois territory.
And I wasn’t exactly opposed to being the creamy center of that testosterone sandwich—especially if they were flanking me on the sectional, feeding me cake and popcorn, pouring my wine like it was their religion during a movie night or whatever.
But a full-blown, sweaty, everybody’s-hands-everywhere kind of orgy?
Hard pass.
Not. Happening.
Chase and Jordan weren’t those guys. Would never be those guys.
Pretty sure they spent half of college football practice actively avoiding eye contact in the locker room. The idea of them in my bed at the same time?
Nope.
And honestly?
I didn’t want that.
I liked my sexy time separate. One-on-one. Just me and Jordan. Just me and Chase. Both of them mine, each in their own way.
So I kept it simple.
Jordan got me for Valentine’s Day. Chase got me for my birthday.
They didn’t argue.
They were just happy to have me again—however I’d let them.
And God, did I let them.
Valentine’s started with breakfast in bed—thick, golden waffles smothered in whipped cream and strawberries, bacon crisped just right, mimosas that never hit empty. And that set the tone for the day.
Because the eating never stopped.
By afternoon, Jordan was feeding me, whispering in my ear about how sexy I looked, how much he had missed me, his hands stroking, teasing, demanding between bites.
And by night?
I was helpless. Too full, too bloated, too satisfied to move, sprawled across my bed while Jordan worshiped me, fed me again, this time a whole tray of cream puffs, rich and sweet, each one melt-in-your-mouth perfect.
He fed me until I couldn’t eat another bite, then fucked me slow, deep, telling me over and over that I was a princess, that I deserved everything.
Didn’t lift a finger.
Didn’t have to.
He wouldn’t let me.
My 25th birthday with Chase? Different, but just as perfect.
Last year, I spent my birthday surrounded by friends at my old apartment, drinking too much, trying too hard to have fun.
This was better. Just me and Chase, just us, exactly how I wanted it.
A day full of spoiling, food, more food, and just when I thought I couldn’t eat another bite—more food after that.
Then he took me out to dinner and drinks.
Chase made sure I had everything I wanted before I even had to ask, ordering for me, bringing me bites of the best thing off his own plate, making sure dessert wasn’t just an option—it was a requirement.
And letting Chase feed me, stuff me, and fuck me again afterward?
Magical.
Not much changed after my birthday.
Chase and Jordan?
Yeah, they stuck around. As the days rolled on, it felt like at least one of them was always there—rubbing my back, topping off my wine, lighting my cigarettes, and spoiling Muggles like she was royalty right alongside me.
But I wasn’t stupid.
If I had two gorgeous, willing men catering to my every whim, then I was going to make the most of it and put them to work.
Make them help me shoot more content. I needed to grow my brand. More money. More subscribers. And I needed to keep people hooked.
So I got focused.
I launched a Patreon—one more income stream to go with OnlyFans and my plus-size modeling on Instagram. This time, though, I got organized. I made a schedule.
I’d read somewhere that structure keeps subscribers loyal. When people know what to expect, when to expect it, and exactly what they’re paying for, they’re more likely to stay—and spend more.
So I gave it to them.
The $15 tier got a weekly stuffing video.
The $30 tier? A monthly weigh-in, because let’s be real—my fans were dying to see the numbers go up.
And between those? Behind-the-scenes, selfies, flirty updates. All of it.
And it worked.
The schedule changed everything. It kept me consistent, kept them invested, and best of all? It kept the money flowing.
Late February, we filmed a weigh-in for Patreon—and the number lit up: 291.
Two hundred and ninety-one fucking pounds.
And seeing that? Made me wet.
That was it. Switch flipped.
Full push to 300. Because at this point? I had to. Just to see. What I’d look like, how it’d feel. And if it was too much? Whatever. I could always lose it later.
Jordan and Chase? All in.
They filmed, fed me, mapped out every angle, every craving, every twisted little fantasy my fans were begging for. Everything but getting naked—and I gave it all to them.
Made it fun. Made it filthy.
Stuffed myself past full, chasing that high like I needed it to breathe. And honestly? I kinda did.
The more I ate, the hungrier I got. The heavier I got, the harder it was to move. And the more exhausted I felt, the more I just wanted to sit back, sink in, and keep eating.
My lower back ached. My feet throbbed. My ass? So big I had to shift constantly just to get comfortable, just to breathe.
But Chase and Jordan didn’t flinch.
They caressed my massive bloated belly, massaged my aching feet, whispered dirty sweetness while slipping brownies between my lips.
When I was too full, too heavy to move, they lifted me. Propped me up. Held me steady.
Because I wasn’t slowing down.
Queen wanted more—and my knights were right there with me.
It was only early March, and I already felt massive—soft, heavy, full in a way that was downright decadent. Like every step came with a bounce and every mirror begged for mercy.
I had to step on the scale again.
My knees? Yeah, I was pretty sure they’d officially gone missing—lost somewhere under layers of thick, pillowy softness. And my clothes? Forget it. I was bursting out of everything like a sexy, overstuffed cinnamon roll with extra icing.
I’d barely squeezed myself into a pink tank top and a matching thong—both clinging for dear life, hanging on like they were one deep breath away from surrender.
The tank had surrendered somewhere around my upper waist, bunched up beneath my boobs like it knew better than to fight the rest of me. My belly? Out and proud. Soft as velvet, plush and full, hanging low and heavy—like I was well past nine months, but made of cream and curves instead of contractions. Love handles? Spilling soft over the sides like they had something to say. My ass?
Wide. Dimpled. Pure sin.
I looked like dessert.
A walking, jiggling, moaning fantasy wrapped in stretch cotton and not an ounce of shame.
Jordan was behind the camera, grinning like the devil himself.
And Chase? Arms crossed, calm as hell, but his eyes were dark, burning, starving.
He wasn’t just watching.
He was waiting.
Waiting for the number.
299.
Oh, no. That couldn’t be right. A cruel little joke in flashing red. One. Wicked. Pound. Off.
I pouted, lips full and trembling, like the scale had broken my heart.
Jordan chuckled. “Guess we’re not done yet, princess.”
And just like that, it was on.
Chase grabbed his keys, and I called after him, breathy and wild, rattling off every craving in my head like a woman possessed.
No teasing. No slow burn. Just fast, filthy indulgence. And despite being already stuffed, I was fucking starving for it.
Cheesecake—rich, thick, gone before I even tasted it. Cupcakes stacked with frosting—three down and I was still panting, a whole fucking tray of those frosted cookies from Safeway—so soft they barely made it to my mouth before they melted. Two Dick’s Deluxe double cheeseburgers—so fucking good with fries shoved between bites. Milkshakes—three, obviously. Because Chase had two hands and maybe I liked making him work for it and watching him struggle a little. Also? What if two milkshakes just wasn’t enough?
“Open up, princess,” Jordan murmured, slipping donut holes past my lips, his fingers brushing skin like it was on purpose. Like he meant it.
“One more,” he whispered, voice thick with heat. “Just one more.”
And I did. One more. Then another.
And another.
By the end, I was wrecked—completely, deliciously ruined. Belly full and tight, aching in that deep, addictive way. Thighs trembling, hips jiggling, every inch of me heavy, stuffed, and humming with sin and satisfaction.
Breathless. Dazed. Totally undone. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. My pink top? Might as well have been a bra at this point—ridden up, clinging under my tits, doing nothing to hide the damage.
And the thong?
Long gone. Swallowed between my ass cheeks, completely lost to the girth of my ginormous, quivering buns—fighting for its life.
Chase helped me to the scale, arms around me, struggling just enough to make it sexy—like he loved how heavy I’d gotten. Jordan manned the camera again, that wicked grin locked in.
I stepped on.
302.
Three pounds. One day.
And fuck if I didn’t nearly have a full-blown orgasm right there—barefoot, breathless, so full I could barely stand. Skin flushed, thighs trembling, seams straining.
I’d never felt so fat. So full. And I’d never, ever, felt so fucking turned on.
My belly—stuffed past reason—felt like it was still rising. Every breath pressing out, stretching me to the edge, and God, it ached in the best possible way.
Thirteen pounds.
Two. Fucking. Weeks.
And Jordan and Chase?
They looked at me like I was a living dream—sinful, sacred, theirs.
And me?
I didn’t just feel like a queen—I was one.
And oh my God, I’d never felt hotter. Never felt sexier.
And my fans made damn sure I never forgot it.
The Secret Life of Cel Monroe
by Jolene Dubois (2025)
