Jolenedubois
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The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 24, 25, 26
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 18:00:12 +0000 UTCChapter 24
The next day, I met Jenna for brunch at Portage Bay Café, a place we used to hit religiously back when my life wasn’t a full-blown, no-brakes, popcorn-worthy circus.
I think we both missed how it used to be.
This? Our little peace treaty. A break from work, from everything. Just us.
She was already there, sipping what looked like tea, scrolling her phone.
I wiggled in slow, extra careful—partially because my heels were sky-high, mostly because my outfit deserved a damn entrance, but also because it was way too easy to forget just how wide I was now.
But that didn’t mean I didn’t notice the looks I was getting.
The second I stepped in, half the restaurant froze.
Heads turned. Eyes locked. A waiter—poor thing—got so distracted, he overfilled a lady’s coffee, sending it spilling right onto the tablecloth.
Men? Hopeless.
Gray knit skirt-set, skintight, hugging every inch like it was hand-painted on me. Sleeveless, low-cut, buttons screaming for mercy, boobs bouncing, ass trying its best not to knock over someone’s latte. One deep breath from catastrophe.
My arms? Bare. Softer. Wobblier.
And Jenna? Brows lifted. Eyes dragged up, down. Smirk locked and loaded.
“Damn, Cel. We get it. You’re the main character.”
I slid into the booth with a heavy, bouncy whoomp, skirt riding up—not that I bothered fixing it.
“What (huff, pant) do you mean?”
She just stared. Processing.
Her gaze locked on my arms jiggling as I reached for the menu, then dipped to my ridiculous cleavage, that top button undone, the others holding on for dear life.
Like she’d somehow forgotten how busty I’d gotten lately.
I ordered Swedish pancakes, a side of bacon—four strips, none of that two-strip nonsense— a cinnamon roll, and a Bloody Mary, not too spicy.
Jenna—who had gone even more full Miss Fitness lately, like she hadn’t once been the girl ordering bottomless mimosas and extra hashbrowns—went for something green, light, boring as hell. Packed with protein, definitely lacking in joy.
Like she was too good for carbs now?
Her loss.
Brunch was in full swing, our food hitting the table shockingly fast—a miracle, considering the place was packed with Seattle weekend warriors, probably fresh off some four-mile sunrise hike before "earning" their guilt-free eggs.
Idiots.
Jenna and I ate, talked, laughed, covered the usual—work, life, her wanting to go to Europe this summer but not sure if she could swing it.
We’d already beaten the Sam thing to death over the past month, and at this point? Even Jenna seemed done.
But Jordan? Still hadn’t said a word about that.
I finished my entire, giant, delicious cinnamon roll—cream cheese frosting dripping over the edges—then moved right on to my pancakes, thin like crepes, smothered in lingonberry jam, not missing a beat.
Jenna, clearly over watching me do nothing but eat, was scrolling her phone. Brows lifted, smirk forming. “So, I see Cel Monroe has done another weigh-in.”
“Yep.” I dragged my fork through the melting butter, swirling it into my stack of fried dough, then popped the bite into my mouth, letting the sweet, buttery perfection melt on my tongue.
“And?”
I swallowed, licked a bit of jam off my lip, then shrugged. “Two-twenty-six.”
She full-body recoiled, choked on her tea. “Get out! You do not weigh 226.”
I laughed, shoved in another bite. “(chew, chew) What?”
Jenna slammed her mug down, eyes locked on me like she was trying to make sense of the number, like maybe she’d misheard. “Jesus, Cel.” Her voice was sharp, stunned. “Babe. That’s… that’s a lot. Like—a lot a lot.”
She blinked. Paused. Like her brain couldn’t compute. “A year ago, everything except your butt was tiny. Tiny! And now—”
Her gaze dragged over me, catching on the buttons of my top, stretched tight, holding on for dear life.
“I mean… how is your body even handling it? How did you even gain that much weight so fast?” Another blink, another pause, then, blunt as hell—“I mean, I know I haven’t said anything for a while, but babe… this is more than just filling out. You’re literally blowing up.”
Well, damn.
Thanks for making me feel great about it, Jenna.
She let out a breath, shook her head, then waved a hand at me like I was some impossible equation that just didn’t add up.
“And, like… how the heck does your face still look so good? When I get bigger, I end up with a big fat moon face, and how the hell do you still have a waist at 226?”
I shrugged, stirring my Bloody Mary—second one, first went down fast—twirling the celery like it held the meaning of life.
“I know (pant) it’s a lot,” I cooed, voice low, like I was confessing something scandalous. “I’m actually getting stretch marks. On my belly. My ass. It’s wild. But you know what? It’s just what my body does, and I’m not gonna beat myself up about it.”
I took a sip through my straw, then shot her a what-are-you-gonna-do look.
Jenna sighed, eyes sharp. “Be real. Is this still just for fun? Or… something else?”
I leaned in, because if I could tell anyone, it was her. “I don’t know.” Let it hang. Let the words settle. “But I like the way Jordan feeds me.”
Her fork froze mid-air. “What? Wait. Jordan? Feeds you?”
I half-smiled, half-blushed. “Uh-huh.”
“Hold up. Jordan’s been feeding you? We’re talking about food, right?”
“Um…yeah?”
“How the hell did that happen?”
“He found me on OnlyFans. Well, technically, he found a YouTube video about me first. But anyway, he was a—you know—a subscriber.”
She gripped her tea. “Oh my God.”
“I know, he’s such a perv.”
“Okay, but… what do you mean, YouTube?”
I sighed, poking at my pancakes. “People are making videos about me. It’s like, total free advertising, but also, kinda pisses me off.” I took a big bite. “Like, (chew, chew) I don’t wanna get (chew) too famous, you know what I mean?”
“Wait, wait, wait. So Jordan knows about everything?”
“Yep.”
“He doesn’t think it’s weird, like all the eating stuff?”
I giggled, stabbed another piece of pancake, and ate. “Are (chew) you kidding? He (chew, chew) encourages it. And I think he’s like seriously even more in love with me than before, so I gotta be careful.” I licked my lips. “What can I say? Two of my favorite things—food and sex—all wrapped up together. And let me tell you Jenna, it’s unbelievable.”
“Holy crap, Cel. So, like… are you and Jordan a thing now?”
I popped a piece of bacon into my mouth, and shrugged. “I (chew, crunch) told him I just wanna keep it casual—friends (crunch, chew) with benefits, you know? ‘Cause honestly…” I took a sip of my Bloody Mary, then licked my lips. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Chase again, and I really want to invite him over and make him feed me. Like, can you imagine?”
“Celeste,” Jenna said, lowering her fork. “Make him feed you?”
“I mean, I wouldn’t tell Jordan about it. He’d probably get super jealous at this point.”
“They. Are. Roommates. Best friends! In love with you since forever. And you wanna—what? Make them feed you and collect them like Pokémon?”
“Why should I have to choose just one guy anyway?”
Jenna stabbed her fork into her eggs, like they’d personally offended her.
“I. Cannot. With you.”
Then she pointed her fork straight at my heart.
“You know you only want what you can’t have, right? The second you get Jordan even more wrapped around your finger, suddenly it’s all, ‘Ooooh, but Chase.’”
“Yeah, well, (pant) maybe I just get bored with guys too easily.” I took another bite of my pancakes. “By (chew) the way, (chew, chew)I really want you to help me manage OnlyFans again.”
Jenna’s brow lifted. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. (huff) I need help with Cel Monroe’s Insta. Wanna hit a million followers— or close—by this time next year. And I miss you getting all hyped about making content with me.” I leaned in, voice dripping with persuasion. “You know how crazy I am. (pant) I need someone to keep me on track. Plus, Jordan has no clue what he’s doing, and let’s be real—he does not know my angles the way you do.”
She leaned back, arms crossed, giving me the look. “Can’t argue with that.”
“And let me pay you this time. Ten percent of whatever I make each month. Plus, (huff) my content’s getting leaked, so I need you on that DMCA takedown shit. Oh, and my DMs? Out of control. (pant) I can’t keep up—it’s a full-time job just dodging creeps.”
“How much are you even making now?”
I rolled my eyes, took a slow sip, let the suspense hang for effect. “Enough to make it worth your while.”
Her lips parted, and I could see the wheels turning. But then, because she was Jenna, her eyes narrowed, voice dipping into concerned bestie mode. “Cel, you know I love making content with you, but just… be careful. Don’t get too obsessed again. And, you know… health and balance and stuff.”
“Don’t worry. (huff) I already told Jordan—I’m stopping at 240. Just gonna maintain, stay hot, curvy as hell.” I leaned back, letting my hand rest on my full, round belly, just below my breasts. “Oof, (pant) at the rate my boobs have been growing, another ten, fifteen pounds? They just might finally stand a chance against my ass.”
Jenna shook her head, exhaled long, deep, still looking at me like I was some unsolved mystery.
“Oh my God. I still can’t believe you’re really doing this.”
I smiled. “Damn right I am.”
Chapter 25
Talking about Chase with Jenna, seeing that look on her face, actually made me pause.
Did I really just want what I didn’t have?
Jordan was always ready to drop everything and come worship me like the goddess I was. He played his role perfectly—brought me dinner, dessert, and fed me until I couldn’t take anymore like it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen.
But Chase?
Maybe I needed to block him out. Push him from my mind. Or at the very least, shove the thought of him feeding me so far down it never had a chance to surface. Because the more I thought about it, the weirder it got.
With Jordan, it was easy.
He was already into it, already looking at me like I was the only thing that mattered.
Always making me feel like the center of his world—almost too much so.
But I had no clue how I’d even bring it up with Chase. Didn’t know if he’d get it, if he’d want to get it. And honestly? I wasn’t convinced he’d be cool with the whole OnlyFans thing either.
Which was stupid. Obviously, I wasn’t doing nudes. I had total control. But still… something told me Chase wasn’t the type to see past the idea of it.
And then there was Jordan. If he found out? Yeah, that’d be a whole other mess.
God, I hate it when Jenna’s right.
Weeks passed. One indulgence after another. More content—OnlyFans, TikTok, Insta—sometimes with Jordan behind the camera, sometimes Jenna, always with food.
And the more I indulged, the more my body changed.
It wasn’t gradual. It wasn’t creeping up on me. It was all-consuming.
Every time I walked past a mirror? I looked for it.
Every time I bought pants in a bigger size? I thought about it.
Every time I squeezed my widening ass into my Jetta, breathing heavier from just existing? I felt it.
Deep down, I knew I was gaining too much.
And yet, I couldn’t stop.
It was too much fun. Too much pleasure, too much of everything that made me feel good.
And the worst part?
The bigger I got, the less I wanted to move at all. Like another little switch had flipped in my brain, and suddenly, something as simple as parking became a whole thing.
Before? Couldn’t find a spot close to the elevators at work? Annoying.
Now? Horrifying.
Like, genuinely upsetting. Followed immediately by rage—the dramatic, world-ending, try-not-to-burst-into-tears kind.
Because it meant I’d actually have to walk more than, oh, I don’t know… a hundred feet that day.
I told myself I’d slow down, find some balance.
But then Jordan would show up with takeout and that look in his eyes, and suddenly, I was sinking into my sectional, letting him feed me bite after bite, enjoying every second.
He wanted more, wanted to go deeper with me—of course he did. But, like I told Jenna, I’d made it clear. Not looking for serious. Not looking for a boyfriend. Didn’t want to be trapped in a relationship I couldn’t get out of again. Not yet.
He smirked, nodded, tossed out something cocky about how he wasn’t worried.
But I knew.
If it were up to him, he’d want me all to himself. The problem was, I still couldn’t stop thinking about Chase.
Blocking him out? Not so easy.
The harder I tried, the harder it was.
Chase was different. Quiet. Brooding. Built like a Greek god, but didn’t act like it. Walked into a room, and instead of demanding attention, it just found him. And that? That was intriguing as hell. I wanted to know what went on in his head. More than that? I wanted to know what it would be like to have him watching me.
Feeding me.
For all I knew, Chase had no clue who Cel Monroe was. No idea about the videos, the fans, the money rolling in.
Honestly? Aside from the occasional like he threw on my super PG, neck-up, “girl-next-door” selfies on my personal Insta and Facebook, he probably had zero idea how much I’d filled out since February.
And if he did? He definitely wasn’t seeing the full picture.
I mean, Jordan wasn’t sitting around spilling details of his late-night adventures with Cel Monroe to his roommate. Guys don’t do that, right? But what if Chase wasn’t into it? The feeding, the indulgence, the sheer decadence of it all?
Worse—what if he was?
The thought sent a thrill through me. A new kind of hunger. One I hadn’t indulged yet.
May was a blur—food, pleasure, zero self-control. The kind of laziness that made a sloth look like an overachiever.
Work? Bare minimum. Effort? Nonexistent. Most mornings, I was either hitting my THC vape or popping an edible just to make it through. And if Vanessa ever dared to call me out on it? Please. I’d tell her to go have a chat with Sam, see if he had any complaints about my performance.
My appetite? Out of control. If I thought I was big at 200 pounds back in January? That was straight-up cute compared to now.
And Jordan’s feeding sessions? Yeah… let’s just say, they were leaving their mark. In more ways than one.
My belly? Getting big. My thighs? Thick and soft as hell. My ass? Straight-up ridiculous. Barely squeezing into my favorite lounge shorts—on the rare occasions I even bothered with them.
And my boobs?
Busting out of E-cups now.
Finally had the kind of cleavage that made every outfit dangerous.
Putting on heels? Getting difficult.
Taking them off? Even worse.
Because like I said before, even my feet and ankles were getting fatter.
Had to start buying shoes in eight-and-a-halves instead of eights.
Which was just wild.
Almost as disturbing as my shoes? The heartburn.
Morning. Midday. Middle of the damn night.
Never used to have it, but lately? That slow, sizzling burn would hit out of nowhere.
And the only cure? Food. Fast.
Something rich, buttery, carby. Because somehow—somehow—eating made it better.
And then there were the family reactions.
Not that I saw my family much, but they were on my personal socials. And yeah, they noticed things.
A “quick” FaceTime with Mom? Could spiral into a full-blown intervention—health, weight, the usual. But better that than her finding scandalous photos of me online, so I dealt. Smiled. Nodded. Let it roll off.
And Claire? The look. The one that said, I don’t get it. And knowing her, she never would.
But that didn’t stop her from sending texts. Links.
The "mental benefits of exercise." Factoid spam about how "one extra pound adds four pounds of pressure on your knees and joints."
Whatever.
Probably crap she got from Brandon. Claire wasn’t even curvy. And lately? She was turning into Miss CrossFit. She was right that she didn’t get it.
But I wasn’t about to explain it to her.
People at work? Side-eyes. Whispers. Stares.
Some concerned. Some judgy. Like my body was the latest office scandal, and my ass had a bigger plot twist than Game of Thrones.
The guys? Still drooling. Still staring.
Like their eyes were glued, like I’d single-handedly redefined what it meant to have an ass. Like they’d never seen a woman truly, fully, unapologetically fill out a pair of leggings before.
And the girls?
Still jealous.
Still threatened.
Because for all their shocked gasps, their muttered “Can you believe how much she’s gained?” whispers, their hushed "Should we say something?" discussions over sad little protein shakes, the truth was, they knew.
I still looked damn hot.
Like, really hot.
And I felt it.
Sexy. All. The. Time.
And my fans? Never let me forget it. Every comment, every tip, every wild-ass fantasy spelled out in my DMs—constant reminders that I was, in their words, the hottest fucking chick on the planet hands fucking down!
And that?
That just made me want more.
More food. More indulgence. More praise, money, attention. Another couple pounds? A few more inches? Why not? The way they worshiped me, begged for it, threw money at me for it—it made it so, so easy to just… keep going.
So yeah, by the first week of June?
I was already pushing my self-imposed limit.
Weighed myself—not filming, just curious, just checking—238 pounds on a Thursday evening, standing alone in my bathroom after a lethargic, boring-ass day at work.
But standing there, staring at that number?
I didn’t want to stop.
I wasn’t ready to stop.
Because stopping meant giving up the food, the feeding, the lifestyle.
It meant giving up being worshiped.
And I wasn’t about to do that.
Jordan? Devoted. Always down to feed me, stuff me, kiss me all over, eat me, and fuck me senseless.
But I needed more.
And more meant Chase.
I didn’t care what Jenna thought.
Maybe what I really needed was two boyfriends—which, honestly? Intriguing as hell. Because between Jordan and Chase, I’d have the perfect man.
So, after stepping off that scale—238 staring back at me—feeling disturbingly turned on, knowing I was by far the biggest I’d ever been, almost 40 pounds heavier than was at the beginning of the year—so insane I could barely process it—I couldn’t stop myself from texting Chase.
Even if I tried.
Me: Come over?
Chase: Tonight?
Me: Duh.
Chase: Alright, 20 min?
Me: Make it 40.
Chase: See you then.
Chapter 26
Chase always said I looked good in jeans.
Which, obviously, I did.
But, with that in mind, I stuffed myself into a pair. Just for him.
Which, let’s be real, jeans hadn’t been happening much lately. Because my butt? Yeah, it had leveled up even more.
Like, seriously leveled up.
I’d bought these jeans last week. Light blue, distressed, high-waisted skinny capris. Super cute. Super sexy. The kind that made you feel like you had your life together, even if you didn’t.
Size 20. Apparently, I’d blown right past 18, straight into full-on plus-size territory.
They were the biggest I’d ever bought and also they had some stretch to them.
And still? Still?!
They felt tight as hell, noticeably tighter now than they were a week ago.
I shimmied, wiggled, practically performed a whole squat routine trying to get them on. Held my breath, sent up a prayer, finally—finally—got them buttoned over my cushy belly.
And when I did?
Clung like a second skin.
Hugged. Every. Single. New. Inch.
So much so that my thighs were actually bulging through the "fashionably distressed" holes above my knees and left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
Okay. Maybe they were way too tight. Maybe riding up in places they shouldn’t. Maybe cutting off circulation to my thighs. Maybe walking was about to be a whole production.
But damn. I looked good.
My ass? Huge. Wide, round, high, full—straight-up impossible to ignore. So in-your-face it made me blush.
And Chase?
Let’s just say, I knew he was gonna love me in these jeans.
The knock came, and I went straight for my perfumes.
Tonight, Chase was getting Guilty Love—sexy as me.
One spritz.
Then another.
I adjusted my skimpy light brown cami, the silky fabric clinging, dipping low, straps barely hanging on. Checked DoorDash—pizza almost here.
Perfect timing.
Then I pulled open the door, head high, hips swaying, confidence locked in—like I wasn’t freaking the hell out inside.
And there he was. Big. Built. Blond hair messy, like he’d just dragged his hands through it. Blue eyes sharp, assessing. Hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, like he wasn’t standing there looking like a damn dream.
I grinned, flirty, full trouble. “Oh my God, (pant) look at this sexy stranger.”
He looked at me, wide-eyed, like I’d just knocked the wind out of him. Like he wasn’t expecting all this.
“Umm, not my fault,” he murmured, voice a little rough, a little unsure. “You’re the one who’s always busy.”
I batted my lashes, stepped back, and let him in.
Big, controlled movements, gaze flicking over the scene of indulgence that was my apartment—open bag of cheddar & sour cream potato chips on the coffee table, a half-eaten cheesecake slice on the counter, next to an empty bottle of wine, next to another half-full bottle.
Could I have cleaned up? Sure.
Did I?
Nope.
I wanted Chase to see me exactly as I was. No filters. No hiding. Just me.
His eyes took me in again.
Then went to the wine and cake.
Then back to me.
Like he was measuring every inch that had deepened, softened, thickened in the past four months. “You good?”
I didn’t answer.
I just launched myself at him.
His arms caught me instantly. Hands pressing into my back, fingers flexing, pausing—just for a second—where my bra dug into my new softness.
Like he was feeling it, processing it. The way my back rolls now curved under his palms, the way my little shoulder blades had disappeared into plushness. The way my lower back smoothed out, love handles squeezing my waist before flaring into the huge, round fullness of my hips and butt.
I sank into him, breathless. Not just from moving, from standing so long, from all the extra of me—breasts heaving, squishing into his chest, belly soft against his stomach and pelvis, molding into him.
"Better now," I said.
“So what’s up?” His voice was low, amused. “You just miss me or something?”
Before I could answer—
A knock at the door.
Chase released me, brow furrowed.
I stepped back and grinned, pure mischief.
“That,” I said, sauntering past him, hips swaying just a little extra—because, yeah, I knew damn well his eyes were glued to you-know-where—“would be the pizza.”
I pulled open the door, pressed my little knees together and bent down low and slow, making sure he got the full show.
Not that bending in these jeans was exactly easy.
Tight as hell, as my hips flared out wide, testing the seams. But worth it if Chase was watching.
And yeah, I knew he was watching.
I grabbed the box, straightened—maybe with a little too much effort—then glanced back at him with a breathy smirk.
I wiggled over to the coffee table, set the pizza box down next to the chips, flipped the lid.
Golden crust, bubbling cheese, greasy, pepperoni covered perfection. Just what I was craving.
I inhaled deep. “Mmm… God, it smells so good. C’mon, Chasey Bear.”
I Swayed my way to the kitchen, grabbed my wine glass, refilled it almost to the brim, because restraint? Not in my vocabulary tonight.
“You want (pant) some pinot or something else to drink?” I called over my shoulder, voice embarrassingly breathy. “Sorry, I’m outta beer.”
Chase cleared his throat. “Uh… actually, I’m pushing the weights pretty hard right now. Staying off alcohol while I’m training. Got another camp comin up at the end of the month.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Did I get it? No.
Did I care? Also no.
“Well, just come sit and eat,” I said, grabbing a couple plates and napkins, wine in hand as I wiggled back to the sectional, lowering myself down carefully.
Curling my legs under me? Not happening. Not in these jeans. I was already pushing the limits—better not push my luck.
He sat down beside me to my left, settling in easy, but his eyes? They flicked my way just as I grabbed my first slice, took a slow, indulgent bite, and let out a moan that could’ve been straight out of an OnlyFans exclusive.
“Sorry, I already ate,” he said. “Plus, I’m off processed stuff right now. Just while I’m training.”
I swallowed. “Really?”
I turned toward him, taking my time, letting my gaze drift. Chest and shoulders stretching his hoodie, that perfect V taper narrowing to his slim waist. Strong. Capable. Just the way a man should be.
“Ooohhh,” I purred, tilting my head, lashes fluttering just a little, just enough. “What exactly you got goin’ on under that sweat-shirt these days?”
He blushed.
Then his eyes dipped.
Down to my thighs—spread wide on the sectional, thick, soft, plenty of bare white skin peeking through the frayed holes.
The seams of my denim stretched even tighter in my seated position, my legs brushing his. His, firm and still. Mine, pressing into the space between us, taking up room, owning it.
Like even sitting still, I was more.
Was I disappointed he wasn’t eating and drinking with me? Maybe, but that was only because I wanted him to loosen up. Honestly I thought it was kinda hot.
The discipline. The focus. Two of the sexiest things about men, period.
Maybe he wanted to save his appetite for my pussy later, and let’s be real.
More pizza for me. More slices that he could bring right up to my waiting parted lips and feed me, one after the other. God it made me wet just thinking about it.
I took a quick pull from my vape, then another big bite of pizza, moaned, slow, deep, dramatic. "Mmmm… Oh (chew, chew) my God, you’re (chew) making me feel like such a pig."
His head snapped up, like I’d just spoken blasphemy. “I’m sorry, I’ll eat. I don’t wanna make you fee—”
I held up a hand, cutting him off with a smirk.
“No, it’s okay.”
I puffed on my vape again, then leaned forward, swapping it for my glass of pinot on the coffee table. “I (gasp) like that you want me to have all the food and all the wine.” I took a long, slow sip.
“How many of those deep are you right now?”
“What?” Another sip. “Why? You trying to get me drunk, Chase?”
“No, it’s just… you doing okay?”
I took another bite of pizza. “Yeah.” (Chew, chew.) “Why?”
"I don’t know. It’s just… you’ve changed a lot since, you know, well, I guess since you moved into this place.”
“Changed?” I let out a soft, breathy laugh, swirling my wine in my glass like I had all the time in the world. “Of course I changed. I freed myself. I changed my whole mindset, got out of an engagement I didn’t want. Started living life on my terms.”
I leaned back, attempted to cross my legs—failed. Jeans cutting in, thighs too thick, belly too much.
Not happening.
I shifted my hips instead, arched my back just enough, wine in one hand, pizza in the other, letting my curves settle exactly how I wanted.
Then I brought my slice to my lips, smirking.
“So tell me,” I said, taking a bite. “What (chew, chew) exactly are (chew) you trying to say?”
“Celeste, you were blackout wasted on new year’s eve, and at your birthday.” His voice was low, firm, careful. “You’re tipsy now, clearly drinking alone before I got here. I just want to make sure you’re not all up in your feelings again.”
I turned toward him, took another bite, spoke around a mouthful of pizza. “Oh (chew, chew) God Chase. (chew) I know you think I’m like (chew, chew) a delicate little flower, but I can take care of myself” I waved my slice like it made my point. “And it’s not like I even drink that much.”
I shoved the rest of the slice into my mouth, but then I saw it.
That look.
The way his gaze dropped again and took me in. The way my belly curved out from beneath my breasts, heaving with every breath and every chew, testing the button of my jeans.
I felt it before he even said a word.
I finished chewing, downed the rest of my wine in one big gulp, then leaning forward, I set my glass on the table next to the pizza, wiped my fingers clean with a napkin, then grabbed my vape.
“Ohhh… I get it now.” I took a deep pull, exhaled slow. “Be honest, Chase,” I purred, then took another hit—then another—lips wrapping soft around my vape, watching him the whole time. “This is about my weight, isn’t it?”
His mouth opened.
“Umm—”
I knew it.
I held up a hand, eyes sharp, lips soft.
“Don’t even say anything, Chase. I’m happier now than I ever was when I was skinny. Is that so crazy?”
I took another puff, then slid my free hand down my hip, over the soft, glorious curve of it, reveling in how right it felt.
“This? This is what my body naturally does, okay?”
“Okay.” His arm was already sliding around my shoulders, pulling me closer. Like all he wanted was to protect me from the world.
“But I mean… wine, cake, pizza, you sure you’re not—”
“Shhhhh.”
I pressed my finger to his lips, silencing him with a smirk.
“You’ve been drooling over me since the day you met me,” I purred, shifting closer, my blue eyes locked on his. “I see the way you look at me. The way you’re looking at me right now. Admit it.”
“You’re right,” he said, voice low, rough, like the words scraped their way up from someplace deep. "I have been in love with you since the moment I saw you walking into the Rec in those pink yoga pants. You’re still the only perfect 10 I’ve ever seen, thought you were too good to be real. I just… I want to make sure you’re happy. Healthy. Because I really do care about you Celeste.”
I twisted away from him, placed my hand on my hip again, letting my French-tipped nails tap slow against my ass.
Then I shifted.
Just enough so our jeans brushed.
Just enough so he felt it.
“Healthy? Are you telling me you don’t like this?”
I turned. Arched my back, let my curves settle into place, then—oops—shoved my ass harder into his leg.
Okay, maybe with a little more force than I meant to.
“I guess it is maybe just a little bigger than it used to be,” I mused, biting my lip.
He let out a sharp exhale, like he’d been holding his breath. Like I’d just knocked sense into him.
“You have the sweetest ass in the whole damn world. You always have.”
A slow, delicious heat curled low in my pelvis.
God, I could hear him whisper that into my ear for the rest of my life on repeat.
I swiveled back around, the leather cushion under me letting out a little squeak. “I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I really like it, being softer. Curvier. Not trying to suppress my appetite all the time.” I let out a little sigh, slow, dreamy. “I love it.”
His brows ticked up just a little, but still, he didn’t say a word.
So I kept going.
“Eating…” I trailed off, searching, then just went for it. “Food. Being fed. I think it's very, very sexy. I love food. I love being curvier. And, my darling Chasey…”
My voice dipped into a purr. Low, sweet, dripping with knowing. Hopefully not slurring too much.
“I am (gasp) worshipped for it.”
“What do you mean?”
I let the moment settle, my nails tracing lazy circles over the holes in my jeans.
Screw it.
“I started an OnlyFans last year.”
He blinked. Swallowed. His eyes searching and flickering with something I couldn’t quite place.
I let out a dramatic sigh, rolling my eyes as I took a deep breath, hands bracing against my knees. Then I pushed up to my feet—only to bend right over, my ass right in front of his face.
And then?
I lowered my hips and butt right into his lap.
Nice and slow.
All of me settling onto all of him.
Zero room for escape.
I got a little out of breath—because let’s be real, this ass wasn’t weightless—but I wasn’t about to let that stop me.
But damn.
I always used to think of Chase as such a big guy. Lean but always big. The strong, built-like-a-brick-wall kind of guy.
But my hips? My thighs?
They dwarfed him.
And I felt it—the way he noticed. The way he liked it.
Not sure if I wanted to turn him on, squish him, or both.
His hands flew to my hips, instinctual, but he didn’t pull me closer. Didn’t grip me tight the way Jordan would have. But he didn’t push me away either.
I wiggled my ass, just a little, just enough to feel the way he tensed and spread his thighs to let me sink.
And oh, did I feel it.
Hard. Unmistakable. Underneath me.
I leaned backward into his chest, turned my head, lips a whisper away from his ear, and let my voice drip honey-soft—sweet, sultry.
“The world loves me Chase.”
His fingers flexed, tightened at my hips.
“I love you.”
I turned more—twisting just enough to catch his eye without moving off him. “Don’t act so shocked. I’m not out there sharing everything. No nudes. Nothing cheap.”
His hands gripped tighter, fingers pressing into my curves like he was trying to get a grip on something more than just my body.
“So then what are you doing on there?”
“Eating.” I leaned forward, reaching for another slice of pizza, my hips shifting, spreading wider in his lap. I felt the way his arms and hands opened to accommodate my expanding booty, cupping my cushy hips.
Settling back against him, I took a big, indulgent bite.
“Showing (chew, chew) off my curves, (chew) expressing myself, who I really am. Promoting body positivity. Brightening people’s day.”
Another bite.
“Just (chew, chew) me—a photo, a clip, a video.” I licked my lips, took my time. “Proving curves are beautiful. That indulgence is sexy. That life’s too short for restrictions.”
Another bite. “Sensuality. (chew, chew) Opulence. (chew) Just pure, high-class temptation.”
I felt it then—the deep breath he took, his chest pressing against my back, his hands gripping me like I was something precious. Something slipping through his fingers.
Like if he let go, I might disappear.
His voice came quiet but rough, like he had to drag the words out.
“Yeah, but why do you need to express yourself? Share yourself with strangers like that and don’t tell me it’s for the money cause I know it’s not.” Then—softer, almost broken—“Why wasn’t I ever enough for you? Why fucking Tanner over me?”
His hands dropped. “And now you hit me up out of nowhere, half-drunk, just to tell me you’re an OnlyFans chick and explain away why you’ve gotten totally out of shape?”.
The Secret Life of Cel Monroe
by Jolene Dubois (2025)
