Jolenedubois
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The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 10 - 11
🕑 Added 2025-02-01 00:13:25 +0000 UTCChapter 10
I should’ve panicked. Maybe I should’ve seen it coming—the tight waistbands, thighs rubbing together more and more each week. But I didn’t.
The applause and tips were flat-out addictive, and pairing sugar with wine every night sent me into a dreamy haze that made Cel Monroe feel downright unstoppable.
Suddenly, it was all about more jiggle, more ass, more feasts, more luscious indulgence. And honestly? Who was I to say no? Especially when my account kept lighting up with deposits like a Vegas slot machine.
By late September, I was pulling in over 5 grand a month—5 grand!
Mind-blowing didn’t even begin to cover it. My inbox was so flooded with DMs and requests, I ended up sharing my info and passwords with Jenna, turning her into my unofficial manager to help handle the chaos.
And let me tell you, every time I checked my balance or gave myself a payout, I did a little victory shimmy right there in my kitchen. These days, with the extra bounce in my body, that shimmy came with a whole lot more jiggle—enough to make me almost wish I had a man around to run his hands over every inch of my new, plush curves.
Almost.
It didn’t take much to keep the cash flowing. Some fans just wanted me to stroll around my apartment in tight jeans, showing off my ass like it was a casual Tuesday. Some wanted fast-food crawls—hitting up KFC, Taco Bell, and Chick-fil-A like I was running my own over-the-top buffet-slash-restaurant review on wheels. The requests were nonstop, and honestly? I was eating it up—literally.
I mean, who knew there were this many guys out there willing to throw down real cash just to be a fly on the wall in the life of a woman?
One dude even offered serious money to watch me take down a triple Baconator from Wendy’s. And my response?
Sure, why not?
Now I was starting to wonder if I needed Google at all. After all, no commute, no early-morning alarm, just me, my phone, and an audience who couldn’t get enough. Sleeping in and lounging around all day, filming little snips of my life, sounded pretty dang sweet from where I was sitting…and eating. The dream was right there, tempting me with every new payout—and I was so close to grabbing it.
Of course, my mom’s disapproving voice echoed in the back of my head, nagging like she was right there beside me, arms crossed, and ready to judge. But let’s be real—I loved the rush, the attention, and the pure rebellion of tossing diet rules out the window.
That day job, though? It was getting more aggravating by the second.
My appearance was changing—my curves had expanded, and hiding them? Yeah, that wasn’t happening. Not with my hips squeezed into stretchy leggings most days because my wardrobe couldn’t keep up with the growing size of my butt. David hovered like an anxious puppy, his eyes darting between concern and a kind of awkward lust he clearly didn’t know what to do with.
And Vanessa? She never missed a chance to throw a dig, always wrapped up in her fake sweetness. “Oh, Celeste, enjoying the free pastries again, I see,” she’d coo, her voice dripping with sugary judgment, while her smirk screamed, look how lazy and fat you’re getting.
I played it cool, acted like it didn’t bother me, like all their looks and comments rolled right off my back. But if I was being honest? It got to me more than I’d ever admit.
By early October, though, there was no ignoring it anymore. My clothes felt like boa constrictors, squeezing me at every seam, and the short walk from the parking lot to the elevators, to my desk had me huffing and puffing like I was late for a flight. Even bending down to pick up a pen off the floor reminded me how soft my belly had gotten—hanging, pressing into my thighs, and jiggling in ways it definitely hadn’t before.
Then, on one chilly Sunday, curiosity got the best of me. My heart pounded like a drumroll as I finally stepped on the scale, and when it blinked at 178, my stomach lurched. Sixteen pounds since August—forty pounds heavier than I’d been leading up to my wedding with Tanner. Holy. Crap. A tangled mess of panic and excitement twisted in my gut.
See, my subscribers on OnlyFans—well, Cel Monroe’s subscribers—already knew I was at least 162, thanks to a little Q&A stream I’d done a couple weeks back. Some of them were practically cheering me on, counting down to 180 as though it were some holy milestone, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they could guess I was already this close.
Part of me freaked, screaming, Too far! But the other part? It soaked up every adoring DM, every worshipful comment about my “gorgeous growing figure,” like it was the sweetest kind of validation I never knew I needed.
Jenna swung by later that day, laptop in hand, her brows pinched just enough to spark a twinge of guilt when I told her I’d hit 178. She gave me one of her gentle, supportive speeches—the kind that made you want to roll your eyes and hug her at the same time—offering to drag me to the gym with her or, you know, maybe suggesting I cool it with all the stuffing and eating content.
But before I could even respond, my phone pinged with a new request: an ice cream challenge. 400 bucks if I could drink a pint of melted Haagen Dazs.
The mental battle between logic and dollar signs was over in seconds—and, surprise, the dollar signs won. Plus, let’s be real, the thought of stepping into a gym again after months off scared the hell out of me.
“Look,” Jenna said, lowering her voice, “just make sure you know where the line is, okay?”
I pictured Vanessa’s smug face if I ballooned past recognition, David’s big worried eyes, the pinch of my clothes, the onslaught of fan messages. Did I even want a line?
Not sure.
That night, I stood in my bathroom naked, running a hand over the soft swell of my belly, my deepening navel, then up to where my boobs were filling out, fuller, heavier. Then I twisted, grabbed my ass—yeah, that thing was definitely bigger, softer, rounder. Honestly? Huge. But also… it looked damn hot. And I’d never felt so confident. Yeah, I was gaining weight, but I was loving the way it looked on me—lush, full, all curves in the right places. Never thought I could look this voluptuous, this downright stacked.
Maybe I was flirting with disaster, but for now, it felt too good to quit.
Chapter 11
My life was a straight-up juggling act. Mornings were Google time: me dodging Vanessa’s death stares and David’s earnest concern while my brain daydreamed about whatever OnlyFans feast I had queued up next. Evenings belonged to Cel Monroe—dessert challenges, slow, savory bites that made men drool from behind their screens, praising every curve I showed off.
On a Wednesday morning in mid-October, the scale blinked back at me—184 pounds—and for a moment, all I felt was numb.
Slapping on my best everything’s-fine smile, I wiggled out of the elevator and into the office. Let’s not pretend, though—it wasn’t some power-strut; it was more of a slow, bouncy sway, my hips leading the way with a rhythm I couldn’t ignore if I tried.
I’d poured myself into a pair of shiny black leggings, the kind that clung like they had something to prove, practically daring anyone to look away. On top, I wore a cropped lilac cashmere sweater—supposed to be loose and breezy, but these days? Not so much. Instead, it skimmed my curves and hit just above my waistband, leaving a peek of my softened stomach that I tried not to think too much about. Between my breasts filling out on the daily and the extra cushion settling around my waist, it was clinging to me like we’d been inseparable lovers in a past life.
I’d already hit the Starbucks drive-thru for my semi-usual Venti caramel macchiato—plus, obviously, a few extra treats, because what kind of psychopath drives past that menu and orders just one drink?
Yeah. Not me.
Then I decided waffles from the cafeteria were absolutely necessary, because hello, waffles fix everything. And of course, Kyler roped me into another mocha at Reboot, so I thought, calorie math be damned. So there I was, bouncing through the halls, ignoring the pinch at my waistband, discreetly marveling at how heavy and wobbly my butt felt with each step. It was a little troubling how out of shape I felt, but also weirdly sexy in this I-shouldn’t-like-this-but-damn-I-do kind of way.
Not long after I plopped down at my desk, an email from HR pinged in my inbox—a reminder that my contract renewal was looming. Translation: I’d probably find out in the next couple of weeks if I was getting renewed or not. My stomach knotted tight. Could they really not renew me because of my weight gain? Or for having an OnlyFans account? Was Google watching me right now? My pulse hammered, but I refused to dwell. My fans adored “Indulgence Queen Cel Monroe,” and I wasn’t about to let them—or the cash flow—down.
Just thinking about it had heat crawling up my neck and flushing my cheeks. I wriggled out of my sweater, leaving me in nothing but my skimpy black camisole—low-cut, way too tight, and doing absolutely nothing to hide the extra weight I’d put on lately. It squeezed everything, putting me on full display—belly roll, love handles, softer arms, and yeah, maybe too much cleavage. Not that I was complaining about that last part.
And, of course, that’s when David appeared over my desk, leaning casually, but with just enough tension in his shoulders to betray his nerves. Tattooed forearms crossed, his dark eyes softened as they scanned my face like he was searching for clues. Concern was there, sure, but there was something else—something warmer, more attentive.
“Celeste,” he said, his voice low and just shy of intimate, like he was letting me in on a secret. “You doing okay? You seem… tired.”
The way he said tired, it sounded like he wanted to fix it. Like he was ready to clear my calendar, run me a bubble bath, and light a candle while whispering, You deserve better than this place, babe.
I leaned back in my chair, giving it a slow, lazy spin, and flashed David my best I know you’re into me, but we’re coworkers, so get a grip look. The one that always left guys fumbling, unsure if they should flirt back or run for cover. “Actually, David, I was thinking about heading over to the nap room. Care to join me?”
His eyes went wide, his jaw working overtime as he tried to figure out if I was joking or if this was his fantasy in the making. “Umm, what?”
I flicked my hand in a dismissive wave. “Forget it. I don’t know. I’m just stressed.”
David’s gaze dropped, skimming over my cleavage, then down to my hips—poured into my top and leggings—hovering like he was this close to saying something about my weight.
One hard look. The kind that screamed don’t even think about it.
“If you need anything,” David said, voice dipping into serious man mode—low, steady, like he was offering me the answer to everything—“I’m here.”
I let my fingers drift over his wrist, slow, just enough to make him feel seen, meeting his eyes and holding them. “Appreciate it, David.”
And just like that, he swallowed whatever dumb thought was brewing and wisely moved the hell on.
Later at lunch, sitting at a table in Google’s in-house pizza parlor, a few glorious slices of pepperoni and gourmet veggie supreme heaven staring me down while my leggings felt like they were holding on for dear life, I was half-heartedly telling myself it was time to reel it in—cool it with the eating, ease up on the stuffing videos, maybe even darken the door of a gym again like Jenna suggested. Naturally, that’s when she sashayed over to my table, phone in hand, her eyes sparking with mischief.. “Okay, babe, you will not believe this. A donut challenge—a dozen Krispy Kremes, a thousand bucks up front, plus tips and another thousand if you finish.” She wiggled her brows. “You in?”
My heart gave an excited little thump. A dozen donuts? Not that long ago, I’d have punished myself with hours on the treadmill for eating just one. Part of me wanted to sink into my chair and pretend I hadn’t heard a word. The other part? It immediately pictured over two-thirds of my rent covered—or better yet, that new handbag I’d been obsessing over.
“That’s… nuts,” I breathed, trying to play it cool, even though a little voice in the back of my head snarked, Keep this up, babe, and you won’t just be curvy—you’ll be full-on fat.
I shrugged it off, glancing at Jenna like it was no big deal. “But let me think about it, okay?”
That night, sprawled on my couch with a glass of wine in hand, I scrolled through comments on some of my recent posts. They were calling me a “goddess,” the hottest girl ever. They couldn’t stop raving—about my beauty, my appetite, my huge ass—worshiping me like I was a queen and begging for more.
My once-oversized t-shirt now felt snug, stretching tight across my bigger boobs and my pudgier belly, hugging my silky soft skin like it had decided to shrink overnight just to spite me. But even with that, a heady rush of excitement buzzed through me, hot and impossible to ignore. And who knew? If my contract didn’t get renewed—I might actually like need to pull in as much cash as possible.
So when Jenna texted, Donut challenge ON? Remember you can say no.
I typed back immediately: ON.
Which is actually no, backwards.
It was Sunday evening, the week before Halloween—donut-challenge day—and Jenna strolled through my door with a grin so big it could’ve powered the entire block. For a fleeting moment, just one tiny beat, her electric energy made me forget I was nervous. We angled the ring light in my kitchen, setting the box of donuts on my counter in proud display: twelve perfectly delicious-looking plain glazed Krispy Kremes. My stomach twisted with a mix of dread and anticipation.
“All right, Cel,” Jenna said, going live on my phone. “Showtime.”
Perched on one of my barstools, I watched Jenna adjust my phone, angling it until it was just right—perfectly capturing my shape and size from the side, every curve showcased for maximum effect.
I reached up, adjusting the straps of my white, low-cut cami, making sure my cleavage was front and center—right where it needed to be. My fans loved this look: tight blue jeans hugging my big butt just right, the spaghetti-strap tank clinging to every curve. Add in my blonde hair, sky-blue eyes, and the glow of confidence I’d been rocking lately, and I had the whole classic All-American Girl thing on lock.
And honestly? Who was I to disappoint?
Let’s be real, though—finding jeans that could handle all this had practically become a second job. But as I sat there, owning every inch of myself, I knew one thing for sure: every single watcher was here for exactly this. And I wasn’t about to let them down.
I took a steadying breath, gave the camera my best sultry smile, and dove in. The first donut tasted like a sugary cloud of heaven, sweet and sinful, and the chat went wild with praise. Emojis burst across the screen, comments pouring in faster than I could read them. But by donut seven, my belly started to burn, the waistband of my jeans pinched tight against my growing fullness, and I had to fake flirty smiles between bites to keep the momentum going. Keep going, Cel, I told myself, even as the pressure in my stomach begged me to stop.
By donut ten, I was straight-up trembling, the sugar overload hitting me like a freight train. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and my lungs felt like they were running a damn mile while the rest of me sat still. I reached down and unsnapped my jeans, because I had to. The second I did, my belly spilled out, plopping heavy over my thighs. God… it was really getting big. The relief was instant, both embarrassing and absolutely necessary—kind of like the huge burp that followed.
The chat was losing its mind, cheering me on like I was about to cross some kind of marathon finish line. Gathering every last shred of willpower, I tuned out the relentless churning in my gut and focused on the two remaining donuts in the box in front of me. You’ve got this, Cel.
After donut twelve, I practically collapsed. Jenna ended the stream, eyes wide. “Dude, that was epic.”
I stumbled off the barstool, one hand on my bloated middle. “Epic (huff, gasp) might (hiccup) be (wheeze) an understatement,” I groaned.
Then came the tips—notifications blowing up, phone chiming a nonstop melody. I blinked at the final numbers, feeling equal parts triumphant and nauseated.
“Told you,” Jenna said, voice gleaming with excitement. “Worth it.”
That night, the sugar crash hit me like a wrecking ball. Sprawled on my sectional, I sipped wine and vaped like crazy, completely naked because, let’s be real, every piece of clothing I owned felt like a torture device. My belly, still bloated, rose and fell with each slow, slightly labored breath I drew. As I glanced down, I caught sight of a couple of faint stretch marks just below my navel, and it had me wondering if more were showing up on my hips and ass.
A little voice in the back of my head whispered, Is this getting out of control? But then I thought about the love pouring in from my fans, the sweet, sweet deposits stacking up in my account. Fans I’d definitely need if my contract didn’t get renewed—something I might find out as soon as tomorrow morning.
That little voice didn’t stand a chance against the rush of validation or the high of financial freedom. Both wrapped around me like a warm blanket, muffling the alarm bells trying to break through. Before I knew it, I was scrolling through DoorDash… again.
The Secret Life of Cel Monroe
Jolene Dubois
