Jolenedubois
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The Secret Life of Cel Monroe 12
🕑 Added 2025-02-01 22:01:47 +0000 UTCChapter 12
The next morning, the crisp late-October chill wrapped around the city, the skies stretched in a moody gray blanket over the Google campus. Pulling into the parking garage, I already felt the weight of the day pressing on me. Sliding out of my Jetta wasn’t exactly a moment of grace—I hoisted myself up, paused to catch my breath, took a few quick puffs on my vape, and finally made my way to the elevators.
Let’s be real: I wasn’t strutting—I was straight-up wiggling. After last night’s donut challenge, a Mexican food binge to “balance out” all the sugar, and way too much wine, my thighs weren’t having it. My belly groaned in solidarity, still bloated and heavy from a weekend of indulgence, and my outfit? Felt like it had been vacuum-sealed to every curve.
Like, four weeks ago—maybe—that charcoal, fitted, knee-length skirt I’d bought in a size 14—yeah, a 14—was a total power move.
It hugged my hips in all the right places, whispered sleek confidence, and looked sharp as hell with the matching blazer.
Now? The skirt clung to me like it was barely holding on, stretched so tight I could practically hear the seams begging for mercy. It didn’t even hit my knee anymore—my ass had pulled it higher, making it look more "oops" than "office chic."
The blazer? Buttoning it was a joke. The fabric pulled across my arms, digging into the softer flesh like it was punishing me for every indulgent bite. And the blouse underneath? A sleeveless white number that strained over my chest and belly with every breath. The buttons gaped just enough to remind me of how far I’d come in the boob department.
Panicked but way too stubborn—and yeah, lazy—to change out of my way-too-small outfit, I went straight into damage control. First stop: makeup. Smoky eyes that made my big blues pop, demanding attention the second anyone looked my way. A swipe of highlighter to sharpen my cheekbones and slim my face—sure, it had softened a little, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t look hot as hell. A touch of blush pulled it all together, leaving me glowing like the queen I was, the look practically shouting, Yeah, I look better than you, and we both know it.
Then it was on to my hair. I teased and curled until my dark blonde bob was full, feathery, and bouncing with every move. My platinum highlights caught the light like strands of sunlight, shimmering with a brilliance that was anything but accidental. Effortless? No. Stunning? Absolutely.
From the neck up, I wasn’t just polished—I was a knockout. A head-turner. A conversation-stopper. The kind of woman who walked into a room and made people sit up and wonder, Who the hell is she?
From the neck down? I looked like Elastigirl crossed with Joan Harris if she spent a month locked in a Golden Corral with an all-you-can-eat pass. And honestly? I couldn’t decide if I was absolutely rocking the whole thicker-than-a-Snicker vibe or barely holding it together, teetering somewhere between damn, girl and oh, no.
But the real knot twisting in my gut? Contract-renewal anxiety. I’d told myself it didn’t matter, that it wasn’t a big deal. But now that the day was here, I had to admit—I cared. A lot. Sure, Cel Monroe could probably fund my increasingly indulgent lifestyle, but what would I tell my mom, dad, sister, or brother if my contract wasn’t renewed? Would I have to lie, pretend I had some “legit” second job to keep them off my back?
Deep down, I knew it wasn’t just about the job. It was the fear of rejection—the idea that someone could decide I wasn’t good enough. That stung more than anything else. Today was the day, and if Vanessa—my delightful manager—had her way, I’d be out the door faster than a fresh donut on my OnlyFans stream.
Reboot’s massive glass windows framed the canal, a serene view meant to calm nerves and foster zen vibes. For me? Not even close. The anxious buzz in my chest and the tight squeeze of my skirt made sure of that. Even though I’d just had my usual Starbucks breakfast on the drive in, I still found myself at the pastry case, stacking my plate with three chocolate muffins.
Kyler, manning the coffee bar, flashed me a too-charming-for-Monday smile as I ordered another mocha, hot this time, with extra whipped cream because I needed it. I smiled back, took my haul to my desk, and pretended to work while nervously devouring all three muffins. The rich chocolate sank into my stomach like a bad decision I wasn’t ready to regret.
Still, the nervous energy gnawed at me, so I dragged myself to the cafeteria. My ass jiggled with every step, and I caught the heads of all the guys turning my way. Funny how I seemed to draw even more attention now than I did 40 pounds ago.
Apparently, I needed way more comfort. Four strips of bacon and two waffles piled high with whipped cream and blueberries later, I wobbled back to my desk, somewhat ready to face the day.
Sliding into my chair with a soft creak, a little winded, I felt the seat sink under my weight. Fork in hand, I caught my breath, then cut into the buttery waffles, the whipped cream practically spilling over the sides of my plate. Sweet, creamy, downright impossible to resist—even if my too-tight outfit had a whole lot to say about it. Something along the lines of, Yeah, she eats waffles like she’s trying to bust out of her clothes… and still walks in here looking better than everybody else.
Another bite of waffle melted on my tongue, the whipped cream lingering like the perfect guilty pleasure. A spark of confidence bubbled up beneath the nerves—just enough to square my shoulders and sit a little straighter. Swiping a dollop of cream from my lip with a slow lick, I couldn’t help but feel deliciously dangerous.
That’s when Jenna strolled up. Her sharp eyes zeroed in on the massive spread in front of me along with my half-finished mocha that was more emotional support than caffeine at this point. Then her gaze dropped to my ass, which was practically wedged between the armrests of my chair like it had claimed permanent residency. “Whoa, holy hot secretary look,” she said, one brow arching as a small grin tugged at her lips. “How did you even zip yourself into that thing?”
I shrugged, stabbing at my waffles like they were somehow responsible for all my life problems. “Just another Monday.” Leaning closer, I dropped my voice. “But… renewals. You know.”
Her grin faded, her dark eyes softening with sympathy. “Don’t sweat it too much. I’m sure Sam will be happy to see you… but Vanessa?” She let out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Yeah, sorry, babe. That one’s a lost cause.”
Then, with a shrug and a smirk, she added, “But hey—if they don’t extend you, maybe I’ll quit too. We could snag recruiting gigs at Meta or Amazon in, like, five seconds. All you’d have to do is show up, bat your eyelashes, and boom, hired. That is… if you even want to work for someone else.”
I mustered up a half-smile, swallowing the knot tightening in my throat. “Whatever happens, happens,” I mumbled, letting her squeeze my arm in solidarity before she sauntered off, already looking like she had the whole world figured out.
When she was gone, I turned back to my plate, greedily scooping up the last of the waffles, eating while pretending to care about my job. But my eyes kept drifting to my phone. OnlyFans messages were rolling in, fans clamoring for more Cel Monroe content. Worshiping me, loving me—hell, even begging me to get bigger and do a weigh-in on camera.
An hour crawled by, and just as I was about to spiral, my screen lit up with a message from Vanessa:
We’re ready for you. Please come to Big Data… Conference Room.
And just like that, my heart sank faster than it does when I walk into Reboot and see the pastry case wiped clean.
My stomach twisted, panic bubbling like a champagne bottle shaken way too hard. This is it.
I flipped open my compact with shaky fingers. Mascara? Still holding up, thank God. Lips? Needed help. One swipe of pink gloss, and they were plump, pouty, and ready for action—not that I was wanting to let anyone kiss me. Yet. A spritz of perfume, soft and sultry, settled over me like armor.
On the outside? Cool, collected, maybe even a little too seductive. On the inside? Total train wreck.
Jenna popped her head over her monitor, flashing me a quick, reassuring smile and mouthing, “Good luck!” She’d already had her meeting earlier, coming back with that smug little grin that screamed, I’m safe.
By the time I made it to the conference room, my heart was pounding, and I was pretty sure my outfit was one deep breath away from a full-on revolt. The walk wasn’t long, but between my nerves and the way my skirt felt like it was sewn into my ass, I was a full-blown, hot mess.
I stepped inside, closed the door behind me, and tried not to pant—overheated, out of breath, like I’d just run up a damn flight of stairs.
“Okay, great, Celeste is here,” Vanessa said, turning to Mr. Walters, her tone clipped, like I was late (I wasn’t). She stood at the far end of the table, arms crossed, disapproval practically radiating off her. Across from her, Sam Walters—District Manager for Recruiting—sat back in his chair, cool, composed.
I wrestled out of my blazer, peeling it off like it was glued to my skin. Underneath, my sleeveless white blouse clung for dear life, showing off way more than I wanted it to. Huffing and puffing, I draped the blazer over the back of the chair, trying not to think about how fleshy my arms looked, or act like I wasn’t seconds away from completely unraveling.
“Sorry,” I muttered, fanning myself with one hand, sweat already starting to bead along my hairline. “Feels like (huff, gasp) someone cranked (pant) the heat in here.”
Mr. Walters’s eyes—those warm, deep brown eyes—landed on me, and just like that, my cheeks went from warm to full-on burning. He was maybe late 30s, tall, fit, very married, with a square jawline and just a touch of gray at his temples that made him maddeningly attractive, which somehow made me even more aware of how warm and flushed I felt.
My fingers twitched, and I resisted the urge to fidget with my blouse or my bra, which I was sure was outlined beneath the clinging fabric. Without the blazer, the way the blouse stretched tight across my chest was impossible to miss, and the top buttons I’d left undone weren’t helping my case, or maybe they were.
For a moment, his gaze lingered—surprised, maybe even a little bewildered—hovering a second too long before he caught himself and cleared his throat.
“Morning, Celeste. It’s been a while. You’re looking… well,” he said, his voice smooth, easy, but there was something in his tone, something I couldn’t quite pin down. His eyes gave me a once-over, lingering just long enough to make it clear he noticed. Curvier, bustier than the last time he saw me—at least 20 pounds ago. And the way I was dressed? I had a feeling that was going to stick in his head for the rest of the day. Maybe the rest of his life. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked a little intimidated. “Have a seat.”
I let out a breath and shuffled to the chair, wedging myself into it with way more effort than I cared to admit. Honestly, it felt like Vanessa had picked the tiniest chair in the building just to watch me struggle. The armrests dug into my hips, my skirt pinched at my belly like it was holding on for dear life, and my bra? About two seconds away from snapping. All I could think was how badly I needed a fan—or maybe a damn miracle.
Vanessa cleared her throat—sharp, impatient—snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. “Let’s discuss your contract renewal,” she said, tone crisp, professional, and just cutting enough to make my stomach tighten even more.
Sam leaned back in his chair, nodding politely in her direction before shifting his focus to me. His gaze was steady, composed—way too direct for the shaky mess I was trying real hard not to show. “Celeste, as you approach the end of your first year with Google, I’d like to hear your perspective. How has this past year been for you?”
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady while batting my lashes like I wasn’t two seconds from completely unraveling. “It’s been alright, I guess,” I said, somehow managing to sound way more composed than I felt.
Sam nodded, calm, warm—like he had all the time in the world to casually put me on the spot. “We always like to start by asking—what’s your favorite thing about working here?”
“Honestly? I love my team,” I said, then sucked in a breath. Too sharp. “But… probably the food.” My voice dipped, low, sultry—way more than I meant. “Although…” Another breath, this one shakier. “Maybe I like it a little too much.”
Heat climbed up my cheeks as I shifted in my chair, hips pressing tighter against the armrests. I let out a small gasp, fingers twirling a strand of hair like I had no idea how obvious I was being—or how much attention I’d just drawn to myself.
For a second, Sam almost looked bashful—then his lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile breaking through. “Glad you’re enjoying it. You’re not the first to say that.”
Vanessa, predictably, couldn’t hold back. “As I said, Celeste’s performance has been inconsistent—late arrivals, time away from her desk, extended absences. And with budget constraints—”
Sam held up a hand, cutting her off with the kind of quiet authority that made me wish I could do the same. His gaze stayed fixed on me. “Celeste, how do you feel about your contributions? The hiring managers seem to speak highly of you.”
Vanessa’s smirk twisted into something sharper. “At least the male ones do,” she muttered, her tone dripping with condescension.
God, why did Vanessa have to be such a bitch?
My stomach churned—part nerves, part regret from the breakfast buffet I’d inhaled earlier. Why the hell did I think it was a good idea to stuff myself with waffles, bacon… and muffins before this meeting? Forcing a smile and batting my lashes just enough to look composed, I said, “I think I’ve done well. I handle… um, you know, like…pipelines, scheduling. Rakesh always gives me good feedback. I’m just doing the best I can.” My voice was way too breathy, like I was seconds from falling apart, and all I could think was how badly I needed my vape.
Vanessa crossed her arms tighter, her gaze flicking to where my hips pressed against the armrests—like she was mentally adding up every damn pound. “She’s had… personal distractions,” she said, clipped, sharp enough to sting.
Personal distractions? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Not marrying Tanner? Something else?
Sam’s jaw went tight, his gaze cutting to Vanessa—sharp, deadly, the kind of look that could stop a freight train in its tracks. “Vanessa, this is about job performance. As long as Celeste meets her objectives, her personal choices aren’t relevant.”
Then he launched into more corporate-speak, followed by some feedback. I barely paid attention. Something about my numbers being low but my face-to-face skills with recruits being unbeatable. I just wanted them to cut to the chase. Renew me or don’t—I could handle it either way.
Finally, Sam turned back to me, his expression softening. The heat in his eyes melted the tension in my neck shoulders. “From everything I’ve heard, and what I’ve seen today… I’m ready to renew your contract for another year—unless you have concerns?”
Vanessa’s eyes went wide. “What? I thought we already discussed—” she started, but Sam shut her down with a firm, “Vanessa, please.”
Relief hit me first, followed by gratitude. Then, surprisingly, a little pang of disappointment. Part of me had been craving freedom, wondering if I could take Cel Monroe full-time and see if it could fly. But, as usual, fate had other plans.
“No concerns,” I said, pushing the words out as I took a deep breath, the top buttons of my blouse straining like they were two seconds from giving up. Sam’s eyes stayed locked on me—hot, steady, like he was seeing a hell of a lot more than just an employee. Like I was the most fascinating thing he’d ever laid eyes on. And, honestly? That wasn’t a bad feeling at all.
“Excellent.” He stood, holding out his hand. “You’ll see the new paycheck once the period’s up in November. Congrats—another year with Google.”
Vanessa’s lips stretched into a stiff smile so fake it might’ve cracked if she wasn’t careful. “Yes… congratulations, Celeste,” she said, her tone dripping with annoyance and just a sprinkle of resentment.
I rose carefully, planting a hand on the armrest to make sure the chair didn’t come with me. When my fingers met Sam’s, his grip was warm and firm. For a fleeting second, our eyes locked, and my pulse kicked into overdrive. A spark of something electric, forbidden, and stupidly exciting passed between us. Then, like a splash of cold water, reality crashed back in. I was still at Google. For another year.
Crap.
Jenna was parked by my desk, arms crossed, eyes locked on me the second I walked in. She took one look at my face and arched a brow. “Well?”
“I’m (pant) in,” I said, fanning myself with one hand, still trying to catch my breath.
She clapped her hands like a kid on Christmas morning, her excitement so infectious I couldn’t help but grin. “Yay! We’re both safe!”
I let out a half-laugh, resting a hand on my belly as it let out a low growl, loud enough for her to hear. “Oooff…safe is one (gasp) way to put it,” I muttered, still feeling the weight of my earlier feast and already brainstorming what I’d wear for my next OnlyFans food extravaganza.
That night, I collapsed onto my couch, trading the skirt and heels for a pajama short set that was way snugger than it had any right to be—thin cotton stretched tight over my ass—and straining over my boobs. With a sigh, I poured myself a generous glass of red wine, grabbed the cheesecake I’d picked up on my way home, and sank into the cushions. My phone lit up with OnlyFans notifications, rolling in like clockwork.
Sure, I had job security for another year, but my fans? They weren’t about to let me slack. As I scrolled through the flood of messages, my mind drifted back to Sam—his lingering gaze, the way his eyes had trailed over my breasts and hips. Heat rushed through me, mingling with the memory of my too-tight blouse and the teasing tension we’d shared in the conference room.
Then one DM stopped me cold: $1,000 to eat a family-sized stuffed-crust pizza in lingerie. My stomach flipped—half excitement, half leftover waffle bloat from earlier. Balancing corporate life and Cel Monroe felt like walking a tightrope in stilettos, but no way was I giving up either.
Because right now? I had it all. A steady paycheck, a little harmless flirtation with a hot district manager, and a fan base ready to throw serious cash at me for indulging in pizza and lace. Sexy, successful, maybe a little scandalous—but zero complaints on my end.
As I kept scrolling, the messages and comments poured in—more than I could even read. All love. All validation. It hit me like an avalanche. Why the hell was I beating myself up over my weight? If anything, OnlyFans loved me more the curvier I got. So what if I was over 180 pounds? BMI was crap anyway. People still saw me as the hot, gorgeous, and flawless woman I’d always been—extra curves, a little too much booty, and all.
Sometimes, a girl just wants her cake, her curves, and her job security, too. And right now? I had every last bit of it.
The Secret Life of Cel Monroe
by Jolene Dubois (2025)
