The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 8 - 9

The Secret Life of Cel Monroe

by Jolene Dubois (2025)

Chapter 8

The next morning, I woke up on a mission. This apartment was going to look as fabulous as I knew it could. Before I’d even finished my first iced mocha, my online cart was packed to the brim with kitchen gadgets, throw pillows, and decorative trinkets that could make Martha Stewart jealous. Groceries? Ordered those too—wine, cheesecake, the essentials—because my brand-new fridge deserved a proper christening.

I’d never really lived on my own before. Growing up with an older sister and a younger brother, then roommates in college, and finally moving in with Tanner, there was always someone around. But this place? It was mine, and I wanted it to be all about warmth and comfort—my own little nest that screamed me. A place where I could do whatever I wanted and be whoever I wanted to be.

Of course, I was spending way beyond my means, and every time I hit "checkout," that little voice in the back of my head whispered, OnlyFans. If not now, when?

Several hours later—after a slice or two of cheesecake and, fine, three glasses of wine—I finally gave in. A thrill shot through me as I curled up on my new sectional, laptop balanced on my thighs. The name had to be perfect—nothing like the one I used back in college. It had to be classy, glamorous, memorable, but not trashy. It had to stick, had to feel like me, or at least the me I wanted the world to see.

Vaping like it was my lifeline, I stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity. Finally, I took a deep breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and typed it out: Cel Monroe. Short. Sleek. Mystique for days. It was me—my name, but leveled up. Something more. Because even Marilyn had to become Marilyn. Norma Jean wasn’t enough, and she knew it. So, why not me? I decided right then and there: I wasn’t just me anymore. I was going to become Cel Monroe.

If I was gonna do this, I wanted to do it right—tasteful, sophisticated, dripping with warmth, opulence, curves, and unapologetic femininity. Sure, I could’ve gone all out with in-your-face sex appeal—probably pays more—but that wasn’t my vibe. I wanted to be an artist, a creator, someone unique, not a porn star. My focus? My curves and the luxuries I loved: soft lighting, decadent foods, and sensual indulgence.

Armed with my tripod and a basic grasp of lighting, I started churning out content. I’ll admit—kinda silly, sometimes awkward, but definitely fun.

My first post was tame but tantalizing: me, leaning against my kitchen counter with a slice of devil’s food cake on a dainty plate, fork poised, and a mouthwatering look on my glossed-up pout. Sunlight poured in like it had a personal vendetta against modesty, draping itself over my hips. I had on a tight pink camisole and matching boyshorts that clung to my scandalously huge ass in all the right ways. Honestly, it actually surprised me how big it looked.

Caption: From me, to me. The rest of the summer is all about putting ‘me’ first. Uplift and empower yourself and embrace your natural beauty…

No nudity, just enough to tease—a taste.

The rest of the weekend, I went all in—posted a bunch more, testing different outfits (including a few of my cute new buys) to fill out my page. Some of the poses? Sexy, yeah. Tame by some standards, but I worked with what I had—me, myself, and a camera. Even shot a few short videos: me walking away in my underwear, bending over just so, or lounging on my sectional, slow-plopping éclairs into my mouth, chewing like I meant it. Reviewed the clips, felt the vibe, then hopped on Amazon to order a real microphone, so exciting!

Next? Promo time. Instagram, BlueSky, X—Cel Monroe was officially live, while my personal Celeste Somerset Insta went private. I dropped breadcrumbs everywhere: body-positive forums, curvy-girl subreddits, self-love hashtags. Then? The waiting game. Or, for me, the waiting-while-ordering-DoorDash game. I’d put enough out there for people to get what I was about, so I told myself I’d check back at the end of the week—no need to drive myself nuts. And maybe—just maybe—I was a little nervous about feedback.

That week was a total blur—a swirl of work, comfort food, and more snaps for Ms. Cel Monroe. My big plans to cut back on wine, carbs, and spending? Gone by Tuesday. Poof. Out the window. I spent late nights on the sectional, pinot in hand, DoorDash bags stacked on the coffee table. And somehow, I just knew Ms. Cel Monroe would foot the bill for all my reckless spending. Like the universe had my back, if I just leaned in.

I wanted every meal to feel like an event: creamy, dreamy chicken Alfredo one night, deep-dish pizza dripping with cheese the next. Breakfast was a whole ritual—Starbucks drive-thru every morning. I’d switch between venti iced mochas, venti iced caramel macchiatos, and when I really needed a pick-me-up, a couple of double chocolate fudge brownies. If they were gonna make me come into the office, I was gonna make the most of it.

And at work? The coffee’s amazing, and the food is even better. Mondays and Wednesdays? Decadent omelets from the station. Tuesdays and Thursdays? Waffle days, drowning in syrup, whipped cream piled high, with a side of crispy bacon. Lunches were equally indulgent—pizza and big salads from the in-house pizzeria, or some spectacular worldly cuisine from the main cafeteria. Every bite, every sip felt like living the good life.

It wasn’t just about the taste—it was about how it made me feel. Full. Satisfied. Wrapped in a warm blanket that whispered, You deserve this.

My fridge turned into a temple of indulgence: cheesecake slices stacked haphazardly, tubs of ice cream crammed into every nook of the freezer, and bottles of crisp white wine lined up like soldiers, chilled and ready. At work, Vanessa’s frosty glares could’ve turned me to stone, but if she thought staring daggers would make me care, she was delusional. As for David, he hovered like a nervous little puppy, sneaking not-so-subtle glances at my hips—which were definitely pressing a bit tighter into my office chair. Honestly? Just… whatever. I had more important things to focus on.

By Friday, I finally worked up the nerve to check if Cel Monroe had made any waves—and let me tell you, my jaw hit the floor. Comments, follows, requests, tips—jackpot.

That evening, Jenna blew into my living room like a tornado of glitter and good vibes, juggling a pink box of Crumbl cookies in one hand and a bottle of Moscato in the other. She plopped the cookies on the coffee table next to my laptop, poured us both glasses of sweet pink wine in the kitchen, and made her way to the sectional like she owned the place.

“Couldn’t help myself,” Jenna announced, flopping onto the couch beside me with a dramatic sigh. “Been craving these cookies since last time.”

I joined her, wine glass in hand, rocking my new mocha-brown pajama shorts and matching tank top. Skimpier than I’d expected but way too cute to send back, even if sitting down meant they barely had enough fabric to cover my expanding butt. “Try craving them every hour,” I said, half-joking, half-dead serious. “At this rate, I might actually need Cel Monroe to bankroll my comfort-eating.”

Jenna tucked her legs under her and gave me one of those mischievous grins that always meant trouble. “Girl, you’re a star. You could sell bottled air right now. Wait…who’s Cel Monroe?”

I nodded toward my laptop, where OnlyFans notifications blinked like flirty little winks. “Right now, I’m selling everything but air,” I teased, taking a sip of my wine.

Her eyes lit up like she’d just hit the jackpot herself. “You didn’t!” she practically squealed.

“Don’t start,” I warned, biting off a hunk of salted caramel cheesecake cookie, the sugary crumble melting on my tongue.

“Start? Babe, I’m proud.” Jenna lifted her Moscato, her grin wide and mischievous. “Cel Monroe. Ooooh… I love it. Mysterious. Deadly. Honestly, I’m kinda jealous.”

“It was either that or Lusty Lesty,” I said, lifting my glass to hers with a satisfying clink before taking a sip. The bubbles went straight to my head in the best possible way, giving me that warm, giggly feeling.

Jenna let out a snort of laughter, but mid-chuckle, her eyes darted back to my laptop screen. Suddenly, she stopped laughing, her gaze going wide as she reached over, sliding some windows around. “Wait. Hang on. How does Cel Monroe already have three thousand Instagram followers?”

I shrugged. “No clue. Just tossed up my most scandalous pics—plus a few new ones, obviously.” I patted my hip, then grinned. “Maybe people remember my face from college… or maybe it’s the ass.” I flipped my hair, because let’s be real, I knew exactly what was bringing them back. “Also? I’m already pulling in seven hundred a month on OnlyFans. And it’s been, like, six days.” I leaned back, smirking, because damn, I was kinda killing it.

Her jaw dropped. “Holy crap, look at these comments: ‘Best ass on the net.’ ‘Hottest chick alive.’ ‘Modern-day Marilyn, but super thick!.’”

I snorted then plopped the rest of the cookie between my lips. “(chew)Seriously, (chew, chew) super-thick?”

Jenna smirked. “You’re looking damn thick, babe. But don’t worry, I’ve still got you beat. Barely.” She gave her thigh a playful pat, her floral print leggings stretched tight, then took a sip of her drink. Her grin only grew wider when her eyes landed on my laptop screen. “Though, it looks like Cel Monroe has a serious thing for decadent cake. So, what’s the deal? Food porn vibes?”

“No, no porn vibes at all,” I said, shaking my head as I set my wine glass on the coffee table. “Cel Monroe has to be me—the full-on sexy goddess side. The self-indulgent, pleasure-seeking version I’ve kept tucked away because, let’s face it, I was too shy to let her out. It’s her time to shine. And, yeah, I like to eat, so Cel Monroe loooves to eat. Posing’s easier when I’ve got something in my hand, and let’s be real—decadent food? Makes everything sexier.”

I shrugged, leaning forward to grab my glass for another sip. As I did, I felt my hips spreading wider against the couch cushions, my belly folding into soft rolls and pressing against my way-too-snug pajama bottoms. The sensation sent a flush of warmth through me—not just from the wine, but from the strange thrill of letting it all just… be.

“I don’t know,” I added, taking another slow sip. “I just figured I should have a theme, you know? Before things slide into trashy territory.”

Jenna smirked, leaning forward to snag a cookie. “Well, now you’re just gonna attract a bunch of feeders begging for mukbangs.”

“Feeders?” I asked, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” she said, waving her cookie like a teacher’s pointer. “People who get off watching girls eat or, like, bringing food right up to their mouths and feeding them. It’s a whole thing.”

“Interesting,” I murmured, mind flashing for some reason to Jordan and Chase—though I really didn’t want to go there just yet. My fingers drifted to the silky-soft skin of my thigh, slipping under the hem of my shorts with a mix of dreamy nerves. 

Chapter 9

Monday mornings and I had never been friends. So when my phone buzzed like it was determined to destroy my peace, I was this close to hurling it across the room. Then I remembered—OnlyFans.

I’d left my notifications on last night, telling myself it was about “engagement.” Truth? I’d gotten hooked over the weekend on the little rush every follow, tip, or DM gave me. Squinting through my sleep-tangled hair, I snatched up my phone. The usual flood—“OMG, you’re so hot,” “Marry me, Cel Monroe,” and the rest—barely registered until one message practically jumped off the screen and smacked me:

I’ll pay you $1,500 to eat a 40-piece chicken McNugget meal on camera.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Fifteen hundred. For nuggets. Seriously? Jenna had called it, nailed it even. I mean, I knew some guys were into weird stuff, but this was next-level. And if I was honest with myself, it was tempting in a way I couldn’t explain.

My credit card practically screamed at me from my wallet—a not-so-subtle reminder of the black leather sectional, queen-sized bed, ring light, and all the other “essentials” I’d splurged on to make this apartment feel like mine. Sure, my alter-ego, Cel Monroe, was starting to bring in some income, but it didn’t feel like enough. Not with rent looming, bills stacking up, and my Google contract set to expire in less than two months.

The uncertainty weighed on me, the clock ticking louder every day. And suddenly? $1,500 for eating chicken nuggets didn’t seem crazy at all. It felt like divine intervention, wrapped in crispy, golden breading.

I shot Jenna a text:

Me: Meet me at Reboot when you get to work. Need your opinion ASAP.

Jenna: Leaving soon, text me when you’re there.

Forty-five minutes later, we were tucked into our usual corner table at Reboot—a cozy little oasis on Google’s second floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the canal outside, where sleek college crew boats cut through the water like knives, dodging the occasional fishing boat. Inside, the air was warm and welcoming, filled with the scent of espresso, fresh pastries, and just enough low chatter from bleary-eyed Googlers to give the place a comforting buzz.

Kyler and Jess, two baristas who could’ve been cast in a feel-good indie movie, worked the counter like caffeinated superheroes, slinging lattes and cappuccinos with precision. Each steaming cup felt like oxygen for the corporate zombies staggering through the day.

I felt pretty damn cute in my off-the-shoulder black lace top—just enough to tease without crossing into scandalous—and my new light-blue high-rise jeans. Size 10, and yeah, they were definitely tighter than expected, practically painted on my curves, but hey, what else is new?

Across from me, Jenna was working her own version of denim perfection: jeans and a purple V-neck button-down that hugged her curves like a glove. Jenna had always been on the bigger side, but unlike me, she actually liked working out—scratch that, she lived for it. The girl was dedicated, and it showed. She had a big, round butt that was equal parts too many cookies and a million squats.

Mine? Pure indulgence, natural curves, and hips, which gave my booty more of a teardrop, a softer rounder heart shape. Jenna’s was more square, solid, and powerful—two completely different brands of big-booty fabulousness.

But I didn’t have the energy for a butt-off that day. I had bigger things on my plate—namely, forty nuggets’ worth of problems. 

With a quick glance around to make sure nobody was close enough to snoop, I slid my phone across the table, screen down, like it held state secrets. “Read this,” I said.

Jenna picked it up, her eyes scanning the text. She nearly dropped her caramel macchiato, choking out a laugh. “Oh my God, Cel! This is it! Did I tell you or did I tell you? Here it is. He wants you to eat how many nuggets?”

“Forty,” I muttered, cheeks heating so fast I could’ve melted the whipped cream on her coffee. “Live. On camera.”

She clapped a hand over her mouth, barely containing her giggles. “This is insane! But also, like, kind of amazing. Are you sure this guy’s legit?”

I took a sip of my house-made mocha—because yeah, I’d already polished off the Starbucks I grabbed on the way—trying to look casual. “Dead serious. As far as I can tell.”

Groaning, I leaned back against the chair, my hand sliding to my waist. “I mean, yeah, I’m thinking about it. My credit card bills are screaming at me, and rent sure isn’t paying itself. Plus,” I added, lowering my voice, “he’s been sending me these sweet-but-totally-creepy DMs about my curves and wanting me to ‘show off my appetite.’” A shiver skated over my skin just thinking about it.

Jenna’s grin widened, her eyes sparkling like I’d just handed her the juiciest piece of news she’d heard all week. “Cel, you have to do this. Fifteen hundred bucks for nuggets? That’s basically free money. Just… pace yourself, okay?”

I sighed, taking a slow sip of my mocha, the warm, chocolatey sweetness doing little to untangle the knot in my stomach. “Yeah, I know. It’s just… I’ve gained so much weight lately, and let’s be real—this isn’t exactly going to help.”

Her gaze dropped to my hips, lingering like she was sizing up just how much bigger they’d gotten since the last time she’d really noticed. “How much are we talking?” she asked, her voice softer now, like she was trying not to spook me. “Just between us.”

I took another sip, more for distraction than anything else. “Over 20 pounds since the beginning of summer,” I admitted, my cheeks heating. “I’m actually at 162 now, if you can believe it.”

“162?”

I swallowed hard, guilt tightening in my throat. “Yeah… last time I checked. Probably more now, honestly. 162 was like 3 weeks ago.” I tried for a casual shrug, aiming for nonchalant, but my voice wobbled, and that flicker of unease I’d been pushing aside rippled through me anyway. “But, you know, I’m mostly good with it since dumping Tanner. And, honestly? I kinda like being more curvy.” The words were there, but the tremor in my voice betrayed me, the unease lingering just beneath the surface.

Her smirk softened into something warmer, and she reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “Hey, no shame in that. Just saying, if you start going with these ‘feeding requests,’ you might end up with more curves than you planned on.”

“Anyway,” I huffed, swatting her hand away with mock annoyance, “it’s one video. Fifteen hundred bucks. What’s the worst that could happen? I’ve been inhaling junk all month—might as well get paid for it.”

Jenna leaned back, her grin turning mischievous. “So, are we doing this or what?”

I flicked a strand of hair behind my ear, a slow smile tugging at my lips. “We’re doing it. But first, let’s get breakfast—before Vanessa schedules any more meetings.”

By Friday night, my living room looked like I’d transformed it into some kind of fast-food shrine, set smack in the middle of a low-budget film shoot. Jenna and I had pushed the sectional halfway across the room, angled the coffee table until it was just so, and then we spent a solid ten minutes adjusting the ring light, testing each position until it caught every single inch of me in sharp, high-def glory.

I’d decided to pour myself into these brand-new, cuffed super-short jean shorts—a size 10 on the label, though they felt more like they’d been painted over my skin. They clung to my thighs like they were hanging on for dear life, and the tight waistband bit into my newly rounded waist in a way that practically shouted, Girl, you need to get in the gym! But here’s the thing: I felt sexy. My top? A white spaghetti-strap tank, intentionally two sizes too small. It dipped low enough to flash a peek of my black bra and the fuller breasts I’d grown into this past month—spillage I was seriously loving, even if I’d never admit it to anyone besides Jenna.

I perched on the edge of the sectional, the coffee table in front of me. My hair was thick, soft, and wild—rebellious, just like how I felt in that moment. Every time I shifted, my shorts squeezed against my hips, my thighs showed off their new jell-o-like plushness, and the hem of my tank inched up, exposing a freshly formed roll right at my belly button.

And honestly? I loved it. This was me—raw, unfiltered, and unapologetic. Part of me couldn’t believe I’d found this confidence, but I wasn’t about to question it. 

Jenna, hunched behind my phone like a seasoned cinematographer, checked and rechecked the angles. She flicked her gaze over the ring light and shot me a playful smirk, her eyes basically screaming, Girl, you are sizzling. I raised an eyebrow, my own expression screaming right back, Damn straight.

Because despite the denim pinching into my waist and that dangerously low neckline threatening to show the world more than just my bra, a thrill of pride bloomed in my chest. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was the rush of throwing caution to the wind. Whatever it was, it made me feel alive, like I was the star of my own show—feast on the coffee table, bright lights in my face, and zero shame.

And oh, the coffee table. I’d turned it into a greasy masterpiece: a tray piled high with McNuggets, an army of dipping sauces (barbecue, ranch, honey mustard—you name it), a carton of fries, and a Diet Coke for balance, of course. I’d devoured almost an entire pizza on my own back on that first night at the Airbnb, so I figured this wouldn’t be too bad, right?

We’d both popped a couple of edibles beforehand, just to smooth out the nerves, so everything felt extra dreamy, slightly hilarious, and way more intense than usual. My smoky eyeshadow was on point, lashes thick and dark, and I’d slicked on my glossy nude lipstick that always made my pout look a touch more inviting.

“All right, Cel,” Jenna teased, tapping the record button on my phone. “Ready to make nugget history?”

I leaned forward, giving the camera a full view of my cleavage while taking one last puff from my vape. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I purred, letting my lips curve into a seductive smile. “Hey, guys. Cel Monroe here. Tonight’s indulgence? Nuggets.”

Jenna snorted, but I tuned her out, reaching for the first nugget and dunking it into sweet barbecue sauce like I was swirling it in molten chocolate. The live chat erupted immediately:

“So fucking hot, keep going!”
“Love those curves, baby.”
“Eat them all!”

Ten nuggets in, I felt like an absolute goddess, mixing in bites of fries here and there—slow, deliberate, and just the right amount of flirty. The ring light hit perfectly, casting a glow that highlighted every curve of my hips and the round, undeniable perfection of my butt. Confidence oozed from me, and I could feel it—knowing people were watching, hanging on every move, every bite, soaking up the moment and loving what they saw.

Each bite sent the chat into a frenzy, emojis flooding the screen—hearts, flames, clapping hands, melting faces—like I was a queen holding court, and this was my coronation.

But by nugget twenty, my stomach had other ideas. Warning flares started going off, reminding me that maybe forty wasn’t as easy as I’d thought. Jenna caught my eye, giving me a quick thumbs-up and mouthing, “Halfway!” 

I plastered on my best sexy pout, grabbed another nugget, and leaned into the moment. “Mmm, so good,” I purred, letting my voice drip with sultry sweetness. I arched my back and stuck out my ass just enough to give the camera the perfect angle, and the chat went feral. Wild praise lit up the screen, and for a second, I forgot how full I was getting.

By nugget thirty, I was legit sweating. My belly was tight as a drum, so full I felt like I might actually pop. I’d already given up on my shorts, popping the button and letting my stomach spill unapologetically onto my lap. I struggled to burp, desperate for some kind of relief, but all I got was more pressure.

Jenna leaned in closer, her voice soft but insistent, like some weird, overly supportive trainer in a Twilight Zone version of a gym. “You’re almost there. Keep going.”

I shot her a death glare that screamed don’t even, but I grabbed another nugget anyway, dunked it into ranch, and shoved it in my mouth. The pressure in my stomach was borderline unbearable, but I forced it down, my inner pep talk kicking in hard. Just a few more, Cel. You’ve got this.

After a solid 30 minutes of filming—and with my Diet Coke drained dry—I finally, finally shoved the fortieth nugget into my mouth. Chewing slowly, I swallowed it down with what I prayed looked like a sultry, unbothered smile plastered across my face. “Oooff…thanks (huff, gasp) for watching, (hiccup) guys,” I murmured, my voice low and husky, and Jenna reached over to end the stream.

The moment the camera blinked off, I collapsed backward onto the couch, cradling my bloated belly. “Never (hiccup) again,” I groaned.

Jenna twisted open a bottle of water and handed it over with a laugh. “Sure, sure. Until someone offers you three grand for a pizza buffet.”

I rolled my eyes, but a grin tugged at my lips. Bills had to be paid, and I was seriously getting hooked on all that attention. One might say the attention, in fact, was starting to feel pretty delicious in its own right.

The nugget video exploded, doubling my OnlyFans subscribers overnight. I woke up to my phone blowing up—notifications, DMs, tips rolling in like crazy. Fans were suddenly demanding everything from cheesecake showdowns to lasagna marathons. It was like I’d unlocked some hidden craving I never knew existed. And as September raced by, one thing became clear: the money was too good to ignore. Every tip, every “goddess” DM drowned out the tiny voice in my head whispering, What are you doing?

Meanwhile, real life at Google hit like a hammer. My contract was up in November, and the nerves were real. Vanessa’s icy glares could freeze a volcano, and David’s soft, worried You okay, Celeste? eyes didn’t help. The thought of losing my salary twisted my stomach—could OnlyFans really replace steady paychecks and benefits? Doubtful. But I pushed it aside, telling myself I was in control. My life, my body—even if that meant indulging in another slice of pizza (or five). Let them judge.