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atleastpleasetelephone · 2 months ago

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Little Darling

Chapter 12 - Leave the traces far behind

It's 1997, and Elvis is still alive and well. He quit music in 1972 after a successful world tour, and now he runs Presley Studios - teaching people karate across America. His daughter and grandchildren are regular visitors at Graceland, and when he’s in Memphis he likes to do a little teaching. His life is quieter now, though. Most of the Mafia have gone - going to live their own lives - and after his divorce from his second wife, Elvis is sworn off women for good. Will a Welsh girl with a wicked sense of humour be the one to make him break his promise to himself not to fall in love again?

Need to catch up? Go here.

Pairing: Old Man!Elvis x OC - Tegan, a Welsh girl he meets at karate.

Word count: 5.2K

TWs: Drinking, objectification/worship, possessive kink, MMF threesome, Elvis is a little dominant, reverse harem (kinda), ALL THE SMUT (including DP).

A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS!! This is my fic gift to you all. Hope you enjoy!

Christmas Day at Graceland is just as magical as Tegan had imagined, and maybe even a little more so. There are lights twinkling everywhere and the smell of food wafts out from the kitchen all day long. The kids are chaotic as always but she enjoys watching them open their presents and play more with the boxes than the actual gifts themselves. Coffi even gets some energy and spends a lot of the morning sitting and shredding wrapping paper whilst making little contented noises. The adults exchange presents a little later, and despite everything Elvis had given her previously, Tegan still finds herself with a mountain to open. She had struggled to think of what to buy him, with him being so notoriously difficult to buy for and Sonny and Lisa providing her with precisely no help when she’d asked.

“Oh, it’s probably better not to bother getting him a gift,” Lisa had told her. “He can get it all himself anyway.”

But Tegan wasn’t happy with that, she couldn’t conceive of getting the man she loved nothing for Christmas (aside from all of the parading around in her underwear and promises of sex) so she spent days at a time wandering around the shops, looking for inspiration. She talked to Lowell for a long time, and to Mr Lansky. They had a lot of standard suggestions - rings, bracelets, jackets, shirts… none of it really stood out to her. He didn’t wear a huge amount of jewellery nowadays, and tended to live in leisurewear rather than tailored suits. She had just about given up hope when she saw a beautiful silver photo frame in an antique store, and remembered the photos in the living room at Graceland.

She passes him the present nervously.

“Oh, honey. Ya didn’t have ta…” he sees the look on her face when he says that, and quickly adds, “but I’m glad ya did. No-one ever gets me anything.”

It’s true, and sometimes it does make him a little sad. Of course he can buy things himself, but he likes to imagine people thinking of him and wanting to get him something he’d like, once in a while.

He tears the paper open and finds a large silver photo frame, with a polaroid of Tegan and Coffi in it.

“It’s just a placeholder,” she explains, gesturing at the photos on the wall. “I thought we could get some professional ones done and put the best one in there…”

Elvis grins. “I like this one a lot honey,” winking at her. He’d told her about his love of dirty polaroids and he’s pretty sure this is a reference to that. “But I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

She beams. “I’ve got you something else too.”

She hands him another, smaller package, and he opens it with curiosity. It’s a photo album, and it’s full of pictures from their holiday. Lisa’s partner is an amateur photographer and had spent half of the vacation taking candid shots of everyone, some of which had turned out pretty nicely. And some of which were just downright hilarious. Once she’d seen the frame she got in contact with him and he got her some copies.

“Honey! This is incredible.” Elvis is beaming, flicking through the pages, then kissing her enthusiastically. He loves it.

Just as he’s finished with the kisses, the doorbell goes.

“I’ll get it,” she says, as Elvis looks at his gift again.

Tegan opens the door to a man in jeans and a suit jacket, his white shirt half unbuttoned and exposing a large amount of chest hair. Her first thought is that he must be cold, and her second thought is who the fuck is this? The memory of Elvis telling her about his friend Jerry coincides with him putting out his hand and introducing himself.

“Oh, hi Jerry. I’m Tegan. Elvis’... girlfriend.” It still seems weird to her, saying that. Especially to his old friends. “Come in to the warm!”

Jerry stares at Tegan unabashedly. Elvis had talked about her a few times on the phone, so he knew she was more than 20 years younger than his friend. But he didn’t think she’d be dressed quite so eye-catchingly on Christmas Day. He drags his eyes back up from her breasts with some difficulty.

“Thanks, honey. You’re…uh… British?”

She smiles, closing the door behind him and ushering him into the living room. “Yeah, kinda. Welsh to be more specific, but British will do.” She notices him looking at the top of her head and remembers the crown-like tiara. “Elvis thinks I sound like the Queen,” she says, by way of explanation, touching the top of it.

Jerry laughs. “That sounds like EP.”

Elvis gets up from where he’d been kneeling on the floor between Maria’s two kids, showing them the photos, and starts to make his way over to Jerry. But not before Gina can do her usual trick of barrelling into Tegan with a squeal and then holding her hands above her head to ask to be picked up.

“Hi, Gina,” Tegan says, wearily, picking her up and then desperately trying to keep her from grabbing the crown. “Gina, this is Jerry. Jerry, this monster is Gina, she belongs to my friend Maria over there.”

Jerry takes one of Gina’s little hands and gallantly kisses the back of it. “Pleased to meet you, little miss.”

“Ha! Still charming the ladies I see!” Elvis booms, before grabbing Jerry in a big hug.

They slap one another on the back and exchange pleasantries for a moment. Then Elvis extracts Gina from Tegan’s arms and gives her a kiss on the top of her head, telling her something about presents and her mother and launching her back into the room. Tegan sighs with relief and tries to check her hair with her hands. She feels Elvis’ arm slip around her waist.

“What d’ya think a my woman, Jerry?”

Jerry laughs. “I think you’re very lucky, EP. But then you always were a lucky old dog.”

Elvis smirks. “Yer not wrong, Jer. C’mon, lemme introduce ya to everyone.”

As he turns to the room and starts his introductions, Tegan feels that familiar tingling between her legs. Something about the compliment from Jerry and the way Elvis had asked him about her like she wasn’t there had turned her brain to mush. She squeezes Elvis’ side and he looks at her briefly, noting her slightly flushed face and guessing with a smile that he knows exactly what has caused it…

***

The rest of the day passes happily, with lots of food and drink and merriment. Just after lunch, Tegan finds herself chatting with Jerry. She thinks he's easy to talk to and more than a little handsome, but there’s some sadness mixed in there too. He tells her about his imminent divorce and she listens. She can't help empathising with his description of the death of a relationship where no-one is to blame, and Jerry is glad to talk to someone who understands for a change. He tries not to talk her ear off about it though. He knows there’s nothing more tiresome than someone you don’t know going on about their divorce.

***

It’s late, and most people have decided to take their exhausted children home. Everyone except Jerry, actually, who is sitting with Elvis on the couch in the den, Tegan sandwiched between them. She’s been enjoying listening to their stories of the old days, sipping on more than a few glasses of liquor, the three of them sliding into inebriation almost without noticing. There’s a natural pause in the conversation, and then Elvis thinks of something that had interested him earlier.

“Ya like my woman, Jer?”

Jerry looks at his friend and then at the woman sitting next to him. He does like her. He always seems to end up liking Elvis’ women. Even now, after all this time.

“Sure.”

“What d’ya like about her?”

“I…uh… well I mean she’s very pretty…” Jerry isn’t sure exactly what to say. The atmosphere feels charged somehow, but maybe that's the bourbon.

“What else?”

He notices Tegan’s hand creeping onto Elvis’ leg and starts to think the atmosphere isn’t his imagination after all.

“Well she’s easy to talk to, and uh…”

Seemingly getting a little impatient, Elvis cuts him off. “She’s covered in tattoos, Jer. All over her body.”

Jerry swallows, thickly. He can feel himself getting a little turned on. “Is she?”

Tegan can hear the want in his voice and she squeezes Elvis’ thigh.

“Look,” he replies, leaning over her to push the material of her skirt up, exposing half of her thigh and the tattoo there.

“Oh.” Jerry stares at the bare thigh next to him and tries to breathe normally. “That’s a beautiful tattoo, honey.”

Elvis clicks his tongue. “You don’t gotta talk ta her, Jer. Jus’ talk to me.”

Tegan feels her head spin and arousal pool between her legs. She remembers the night in the TV room when Elvis had talked possessively about her for the first time, and she wonders again what has happened to all her feminist ideals.

“I like her tattoos, EP,” Jerry suddenly feels a wave of confidence, probably brought on by all the bourbon. “Very sexy.”

“Mmm. You wanna touch her?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Over her skirt,” Elvis says, firmly, pulling her skirt back down again.

Jerry puts a big warm hand on Tegan’s thigh and she feels her heart speed up. Goosebumps spring up all over her arms and the hairs there stand on end. Elvis leans in and kisses her neck.

“Give her a little kiss on the neck,” he instructs. “She smells damn good.”

He puts his hand on top of Tegan’s as she feels Jerry’s lips against her neck, pressing hot little kisses to it. She hears him moan, softly.

“E-Elvis,” she says, suddenly. Her heart is beating out of her chest, and she looks up at him with wide eyes. He recognises the look immediately.

“Hey, Jer. Why don’tcha go up to the kitchen an’ get us all some of that eggnog stuff?”

The sudden change of pace makes Jerry feel almost dizzy, but he gets up, subtly rearranging himself and telling them he’ll be back in five. Mentally, he decides it’ll be more like ten. He needs to calm himself down.

“You okay, honey?” Elvis asks, as soon as Jerry has gone.

“Hmmmm.”

“Hey. Talk to me.” He cups her face in his hand gently.

“I… I just um…” she lets out a long breath. “We didn’t talk about where uh… this is going.”

“Wherever ya want it to, baby.”

“Mmm. Okay.”

There’s a long silence, where they both look at one another and Elvis strokes the back of her hand with his thumb reassuringly. He keeps thinking she’s going to continue, but when she still doesn’t he decides he ought to tell her something.

“Okay. Ya know my world tour?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Jerry came with me. I mean, Jerry came with me.”

Tegan’s eyes go wide and then she giggles. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“Uh… well honey it was a filthy year, I told ya that.”

“Yes.”

“And uh… I told ya about the girls… well uh, sometimes Jerry and I uh… took turns.”

“On the same girl?”

“On the same girl.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“So, like a threesome, or…?”

“Sometimes. Or sometimes more like… a train.”

“Doesn’t a train need more than two people?”

“Not if ya jus’ keep takin’ turns.”

“Did you… no, never mind. I don’t need to know this.” She covers her face with her hand and then giggles again.

“Ya like Jerry, honey?”

She looks up at him. “Not as much as you.”

“Well I should damn well hope not!”

She bites her lip.

“Ya want us to go find him and tell him ta meet us in the bedroom?”

She nods, dumbly. Then she grabs his arm. “I’ve not… I’ve never done anything like this.”

“I’ll look after ya, baby. Promise. Ya wanna stop, just say.”

He presses a gentle kiss to her lips, then stands up. “C’mon. Let’s go and find Jerry and those pills.”

Tegan takes his hand and they walk back up the stairs in search of Jerry. Elvis tells her he’ll see her in the bedroom, and she watches him duck into the kitchen to talk to his friend. She sits on the bed, holding the pill bottle and trying to remember how to breathe. When she’s still alone after a couple of minutes she pads over to the door and opens it a crack.

“Elvis?” She calls, softly.

He appears at the bottom of the stairs almost immediately, looking up the stairs at her worshipfully.

“Tegan bach. We’ll be up in a sec.”

“Could you bring me a drink?”

“Of course, honey. What d’ya want?”

“Whatever’s kicking around. Bourbon?”

He nods and disappears. She lets out another shaky breath and goes back to the bedroom. She runs the events on the sofa through her head again and again, feeling turned on even as her hands shake whilst she fiddles with the fabric of her dress. She’s just starting to wonder if she can go through this when Elvis appears with the drink.

“Here ya go, cariad.”

She takes the glass gratefully, gulping the bourbon and relishing the way it burns down her throat.

“Diolch, blod.”

Elvis smiles at the pet name. He gently pushes her hair away from her face, admiring her. She’s about to ask where Jerry is when the light changes in the room, and she realises he’s standing in the doorway, blocking it slightly. Elvis catches her looking and turns around himself.

“Come on in, Jer.”

Jerry smiles and walks in with his own glass of liquor, having realised quite quickly that the eggnog was just an excuse to get him out of the room.

Elvis takes the pill bottle from Tegan and pops one, offering it to Jerry who holds his hand out for one too. She decides this isn’t the time to tell him to stop sharing his medication.

“Sit,” Elvis instructs, indicating the bed next to Tegan and then moving round to the other side himself. “We’ve got half an hour or so before they kick in.”

Tegan finds herself very pleasantly sandwiched between the two men, Elvis’ hand on her thigh and Jerry’s holding hers almost sweetly, once he’d confirmed with the other man that it was alright. Their thighs are both pressed up against hers and it’s making her heart race with the implications.

“Ya wanna see some more of her tattoos?” Elvis asks.

Jerry nods, and watches with interest as his friend pushes Tegan’s skirt up to just below her panties. “Can I?” He asks Elvis, his hand hovering just above her leg. Elvis nods.

Tegan can hear her breathing change as hands stroke up and down her thighs. She’s pretty certain her panties are going to be soaked through, whenever they get up to investigating them.

“Give her a kiss,” Elvis instructs, and Jerry lets her hand go to turn her face towards his. His eyes flick down to her lips and back to her eyes as if he’s asking her permission too, and she feels herself melt at the little gesture. Her nod is almost imperceptible, but it’s enough for Jerry, his lips meeting hers, tongue gently pressing for access to her mouth which she grants immediately.

Elvis pushes the strap of her dress off her shoulder along with her bra strap, exposing one of her breasts. She feels his tongue on her nipple and moves her hand to the back of his head, encouraging him to keep going, her fingers digging into his hair. The slightly scratchy beard hairs just add to the delightful sensations and she doesn’t want him to stop.

“Jerry,” he mumbles, against her skin.

The other man pulls away from the kiss, reluctantly, and looks over. Without stopping what he’s doing, Elvis pulls the other straps down so now both of her breasts are accessible, nodding at the one nearest his friend. Jerry groans softly. Nipple piercings.

“You didn’t tell me her nipples were pierced,” Jerry remarks, before diving down to investigate for himself with his mouth and then his fingers.

Elvis smiles against her skin. “Good surprise,” he replies.

“Any more surprises?” Jerry’s fingers are manipulating her nipple as he speaks, his big hand massaging her breast.

Elvis moves his mouth off her nipple and starts to kiss up her neck, settling just behind her ear for a moment as he thinks.

“Tight little puss’.”

Jerry clears his throat and she sees he’s blushing.

“Ain’t that right, darlin’?”

Tegan is surprised to be consulted, but she nods immediately. “Yes, um…”

“Ya can call me it if ya want. Jerry’s heard worse.”

“Yes, Daddy.” She bites her lip and now she’s blushing too. It seems like Elvis is the only one of the three of them not embarrassed by her pussy right now.

“Good girl. Let’s get this dress off.”

She shifts so that he can get his hand behind her to unzip her dress and then lets him pull it over her head. His practiced fingers snap her bra open and off too, so she’s just sitting in her predictably soaked panties.

“Looks like a wet pussy, too,” Jerry remarks, blushing an even deeper shade of red.

Elvis grins wickedly, both at Jerry’s statement and its obvious truthfulness, his hand making its way between her legs to check just how wet.

“Absolutely soakin’.” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue. “Damn. She is perfect, ain’t she?”

Tegan feels herself going the same colour as Jerry, the combination of the compliment and the fact that it’s being spoken as if she isn’t there making her hot in more ways than one.

“She really is, E.”

Jerry’s eyes crawl over her body, taking in every inch of her. He’s never seen a woman with so many tattoos, but he thinks there’s something very sexy about the way they twist and turn around her body, emphasising her curves. He’s seen one or two piercings in his time, and he’s always enjoyed playing with them. There were plenty of pierced girls on Elvis’ world tour. He remembers the one with her nipples done that Elvis had found on that tour and brought around the US with him, she had been a lot of fun.

He starts to kiss the phoenix on her ribs, following the twists and turns of the feathers, exploring her body with his mouth. She moans as she feels Elvis start the same thing on the other side of her body, kissing from her toes to her hip bone. They keep going until both of them start to feel their dicks getting properly hard and then Elvis looks over at the other man.

“Ya wanna fuck her?”

Jerry is jolted from the very enjoyable sensations by Elvis’ question. Of course he does.

“Yes please.”

Elvis grins, wolfishly. “Think ya should go down on her first. Warm ‘er up a bit.” He turns to Tegan. “Lie down, honey.”

She shuffles down onto her back dutifully, moving her hips to help Jerry peel her panties off. He turns them around, having caught a glimpse of something glittery on the back. Laughing when he sees it’s ELVIS in silvery script.

“Ha! Nice one, EP.”

Throwing the panties off the bed, he settles between her legs and contemplates her pussy for a moment. It’s pretty and glistening with arousal and he doesn’t want to wait much longer to taste it. He pushes her legs until her feet come off the bed, licking a stripe up her and enjoying hearing her response. Elvis enjoys it too, smiling down at her as she closes her eyes and lets her arms flop above her head. He palms himself through his pants as he watches the scene unfold, Tegan moaning as Jerry buries his face in her pussy.

Jerry concentrates on her clit as he slides one of his fingers inside, working her open gradually. She pants as she feels her pleasure growing, letting out a little moan when a second finger goes in, and then a third. It takes a while for him to get her relaxed enough to take them easily, but when he does he changes the angle slightly and then she’s really moaning.

“Oh! Oh! I’m so close!”

Elvis lies down beside her, his hand rubbing one of her nipples as he kisses her neck.

“C’mon, baby. Cum for Daddy.”

Something about both of them touching her at once tips Tegan over the edge, and her orgasm rips through her as her back arches and her hands ball into fists.

“Fuck.”

Jerry licks her through it until she starts to thrash her legs a little and he pulls back, his chin glistening.

“Good girl,” Elvis tells her, before looking over at his friend with a grin. “Tastes good, don’t she?”

“Delicious,” Jerry replies, wiping his face on his sleeve.

The older man sits up and starts to pull his clothes off, giving Jerry a quick look that suggests he should do the same. Once he’s naked he lies back down and wraps himself around Tegan. Their legs tangle together and he kisses her deeply, hands in her hair and pressed against her back. Jerry finishes pulling his clothes off and looks at the two of them with a combination of admiration and lust. It’s like they’re communicating without having to talk, and he misses being able to do that with someone. But it’s also a bit like watching a porno, so he starts slowly stroking himself. Eating Tegan out had turned him on in a way he hasn’t been turned on for a while now, and his dick is aching.

Elvis moves to kiss just below Tegan’s ear, then he murmurs, “you clean, honey?”

She knows exactly what that means. He’d asked her that question before the two times they’d had anal sex on holiday. “Yeah,” she murmurs back.

“Good.”

They go back to kissing for a bit, and then his mouth moves to her ear again. “You okay?”

“Mmm. Yes.”

“Good.”

He pulls back and his eyes flick over her face, quickly. She’s still flushed after her orgasm, and he can see that she’s been nibbling on her lower lip too. He’s pretty convinced she’s telling him the truth but he still wants to take this slowly. He sits up again and looks over at Jerry, who manages to move his hand away from his dick just in time.

“Lie down, Jer. Let her get on top of you.”

Jerry does as he’s told, and Tegan straddles him as Elvis holds her hips.

“Be gentle with her, now.”

Jerry nods, stroking himself again as Tegan starts to gradually sink down on him, with Elvis’ help. He groans at the feeling of her all around him, squeezing him tightly. She moans a little too, but she’s grateful that although he has length he’s a little slimmer than Elvis so it goes in fairly easily. Sitting down on him fully, she looks into his dark brown eyes.

“Shit,” he mutters, trying to remember the last time his dick was wrapped up so nicely in a pussy like this.

She looks briefly back at Elvis for permission and he nods, so she leans forwards, lying on top of Jerry with her face less than an inch from his. His hand cups her face and his fingers knot into her hair as he pulls her close enough to kiss her. Elvis is still holding her hips, and he uses this opportunity to start moving them for her, back and forth so she slides up and down on the other man’s dick. Jerry moans into her mouth. Elvis sighs with satisfaction, his arousal growing at the sight in front of him. They keep moving like this for a while, at Elvis’ direction, and then he reaches into the bedside cabinet drawer, letting her carry on moving of her own accord.

She hears the lid of the lube bottle click and stops moving. Not noticing the noise, Jerry’s hands move to her hips now and start to move her on him instead. Coating his finger in lube, Elvis moves back to where he was and then gently presses it against her entrance. He bites his lip as he rubs her asshole firmly. She feels like her brain is short-circuiting, and it’s even worse when the finger slips inside and she can feel it and Jerry’s dick at the same time.

“Ohhh fuck,” she moans.

Jerry can’t see what’s happening from the angle he’s looking, but he sees the lube bottle on the bed and has a fairly good idea. Elvis starts to move his finger in and out at the same pace as he strokes his own dick, then when he feels her relax he slips in another. He’s starting to think this is the hottest fucking thing he’s ever done, at the age of 62, and he thanks God for whoever invented those amazing pills.

When he removes his fingers, Tegan knows what’s coming. They hadn’t directly talked about it, but they’d sort of skirted the issue a couple of times. She’s pretty confident he knows she has fantasised about this and that there’s no way she’d say no, but it’s still pretty intense when Elvis tells them both to stay still and she feels him start to push his way inside her. Although she’s used to him, she’s not used to having another dick in her pussy too and the feeling threatens to overwhelm her.

“How’re ya doin’, baby?” Elvis asks when he finally bottoms out, his voice husky with lust.

“This is fucking intense!” She squeaks, and then finds herself giggling.

“Fuck me you’re not wrong, honey,” Jerry replies.

Elvis’ thumbs massage her hip bones gently.

“Yeah, my dick is intensely near Jerry’s right now.”

“I mean, this was your idea, EP.”

All three of them giggle together and the atmosphere in the room changes.

“Honey, I’m gonna move. Jer, you stay still. Think we might haveta do this one at a time.”

“Okay.”

Tegan tries hard to keep breathing as Elvis starts to slowly move in and out of her, gentle, long strokes. He moans at the feeling, she’s even tighter than she had been with just him and he knows he won’t last long. Holding on to her hips, he moves a little faster, feeling his release building at the base of his dick.

“Fuck. Baby I’m gonna cum,” he breathes, and then he does, long and hard and a little louder than he was anticipating.

Tegan moans too at the feeling of him deep inside her, and then again as he pulls out. She closes her eyes, feeling tears prick at the corners of her eyes with the intensity of all the sensations.

“Can I… uh…?” Jerry gestures at Elvis and the other man nods, waves of pleasure still crashing over him as he watches his girlfriend and best friend rearrange so that Jerry is on top.

Jerry wastes no time getting what he wants now he has permission, Tegan’s thighs in his grasp as he pounds her hard and fast. Enjoying watching her breasts bounce with the brutal rhythm he’s setting, listening to her increasingly loud moans.

“I’m close,” Jerry moans, thinking he almost certainly needs permission to cum inside Elvis’ girlfriend.

“Tell him where you want it, baby.”

“Ugh. Don’t care.”

Tegan is teetering on the edge of another orgasm and she really doesn’t want Jerry to pull out any time soon, but she also can’t formulate the words to say that. And then she doesn’t have to, because it becomes quite obvious to everyone in the room what’s happening, as she arches her back again and almost squeals.

“Fuck, fuck fuck.”

Jerry moans loudly, feeling her walls squeeze him into oblivion, cumming inside her as his orgasm washes over him like a tsunami.

“Holy shit.”

The three of them lay where they each collapse on the bed for a while, trying to get their breaths back as they float around on their highs. After a while they rearrange so they all have their heads on the pillows, Elvis’ hand on one of Tegan’s breasts whilst Jerry’s rests on her belly.

“I should uh… leave you two to it,” Jerry says, quietly, as he watches Elvis and Tegan kiss languorously.

Tegan moves her head quickly. “Please stay.”

He blinks, almost forgetting for a moment that she was a person with preferences. “Oh… uh… I dunno.”

She turns to look at him properly. “Don’t get me wrong, you can’t sleep in this bed too, I have enough trouble with him,” she gestures behind her with her thumb. “But I feel really close to you after that, and I want you to stay for a while and cuddle.”

“Well I guess I can’t refuse a pretty girl asking me for a cuddle.”

“Ya definitely cannot, Jer,” Elvis chips in.

“And um… you’re staying for the weekend, right?”

He nods. “If you want me.”

Tegan giggles. “Oh. I definitely want you.”

“Hey!” Elvis snaps, a hint of jealousy in his voice for the first time that evening.

Tegan rolls back over towards him. “Oh, ‘raur. I want you too. Nothing to be jealous of.”

He narrows his eyes at her a little and she kisses him.

“‘M still yours,” she murmurs against his lips.

“Yes, y’are.”

He pushes her gently but firmly onto her back and then looks over her, at Jerry. “Can ya believe she thought I’d find someone better?”

“She said that?”

“She did.”

“How could you find someone better than this?” Jerry asks, his hand trailing down her body.

Tegan finds herself blushing again. “Stop it, you two.”

“Ignore that, Jer. This pretty little doll is supposed ta be stayin’ quiet whilst we talk about her.”

She buries her head in Elvis’ chest hearing those words, and Jerry wraps himself around her, enjoying the feeling of her skin against his. Elvis takes her hand in his and uses his other hand to stroke her thigh.

“Did ya like her pussy, Jer?”

“I loved it, E. Nice and tight.” His hand moves between her legs and holds her there. She squeezes her eyes shut more tightly.

“Not as tight as her pretty little asshole, but that’s jus’ fer me.”

Tegan squeaks.

Elvis chuckles, and she can hear the low rumble of it in his chest. “Jus’ tryin’ ta make ya understand the effect yer havin’ on us, honey.”

“Okay, okay. I get it.”

Jerry presses a kiss to her shoulder. “You’ve really given me a happy Christmas, Tegan. You should know that… I’ve been pretty depressed for a while now and this is the most fun I’ve had for ages.”

“Ya should thank me, Jer, not her.”

Tegan shifts, poking Elvis in the side and making him giggle ticklishly. “Stop that now! That’s enough!”

He chuckles again and rolls towards her. “You told her down, Jer. I’ll tickle her.”

***

Epilogue

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gyratingpresley · 2 months ago

Text

The Universe is the Limit.

This is an interstellar themed story, and yes, I copied some things so don't come for me.

Main Characters:

Lucinda Foy-Presley (Luce)

Elvis Presley

Natalia Williams

Professor William

Side Character (s):

Emily Foy

Hi, my babies, MERRY CHRISTMAS! It's just a small blurb to fill you stockings. Do you want more things like this? 💞

I opened the front door, my boots dragging across the dusty, old plank deck. Eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill. My heart sank to the bottom of my chest when I heard Emily scream out my name, “Luce, no! Don’t leave! Please!” She sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. Our grandfather grabbed hold of her, she reached out for me as I dropped to my knees. It felt like a thousand daggers piercing though my stomach. I felt weak... helpless... like I chose my passion over my own little sister... breaking free of his grip, she ran up to me, wrapping her arms around me, crying into the crook of my neck. Carefully prying her arms from me, I handed her back and turned to leave. “I will always love you...” It was all I could muster.

The engine revved as the tires of my old truck scrapped across the ground, my eyes filled with tears as I drove away.

I stared out a window watching as earth receded into the distance, looking as if nothing more than a blue and green marble, against the black tapestry of space. I sighed and turned my head looking at my crewmates. The two of them sat on chairs discussing things. Walking over, I tapped a pencil against my notepad. The next planet was 8 light years away. Natalia ran her hands through her auburn hair, bouncing her knee. I turned my head to Elvis, who was brushing his calloused fingers over his lip. My eyes followed his finger as it moved back and forth. He looked up at me, pointing to the chair next to him. Sitting down, I cupped my face and gently groaned into it. “Time is going to change...greatly, isn’t it?” Elvis muttered, staring at the ground, Natalia cleared her throat and stood up, walking away. I faced Elvis, pointing to my notes, "The passage of time is relative depending on the observer. For the three of us traveling at close to the speed of light, only twelve years will have elapsed, but for our friends and family back home... 60 years would have passed.” He exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose, “What if we erase the years taken? Is it possible?” His question was laced with a tinge of regret. I took a deep breath, leaning back in the chair, my gaze fixated on his, “Time is relative. It can stretch, and it can squeeze, but it can’t run backward baby” I saw his eyes change, regret, sadness... I knew that if we were ever to return, the home that we left behind would be nothing but a distant memory. As we sped through the cosmos, the grim finality of this dawned on me. There was no going back... only forwards. Elvis leaned over and pulled me to his lap, his lips gently brushing mine. "Fuck." He whispered as he captured my lips in a brushing kiss, I could taste the regret on his lips.

As the hyper sleep chamber hissed shut and the amniotic fluid began to flood the tight space, thoughts flitted through my mind. When I emerged on the far side of the milky way, my sister would be an old woman, one of the mothers of a generation of children not yet born... Il murmured her name one final time as I descended into a dreamless sleep, a latter day of Rip Van Winkle speeding through the endless night of deep space.

Tagged:

@redwitchbitch1 @iloveelvisss @prettyrose0135 @from-memphis-with-love @elvisbdoll @i-r-i-n-a-a

#elvis presley #elvis x reader #sorry for taking so long #elvis #elvis fans #blurb

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pupsmailbox · 2 months ago

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STARTING WITH M

MASCULINE︰ mac. macaulay. macauley. mack. maddox. maitland. major. makai. malachai. malachi. malakai. malcolm. malcom. malik. malon. manley. manny. manuel. marcelo. marco. marcos. marcus. mario. marion. mark. marley. marlin. marlon. marlowe. marlyn. marshal. marshall. martie. martin. marty. marvin. marvyn. mason. mat. mateo. mathew. mathias. matias. matt. matteo. matthew. matthias. mattie. matty. maurice. mauricio. maurie. maven. maverick. max. maxie. maximilian. maximiliano. maximillian. maximus. maxton. maxwell. maynerd. mayson. mccoy. mckinley. mel. melville. melvin. melvyn. memphis. meredith. merit. merle. merlin. merlyn. merrick. merv. mervin. mervyn. messiah. micah. michael. micheal. mick. mickey. micky. miguel. mike. mikey. milan. miles. milford. millard. miller. milo. milton. mitch. mitchell. mo. moe. mohamed. mohammad. mohammed. moises. monday. monroe. montague. monte. montgomery. monty. moralis. morgan. morley. morris. mort. morton. morty. moses. moshe. moss. muhammad. munro. munroe. murphy. murray. musa. myles. myron.

FEMININE︰ mabel. mac. macey. maci. mackalya. mackayla. mackenzie. macy. maddie. maddison. madeleine. madeline. madelyn. madilyn. madison. maeve. maggie. magnolia. maisie. makayla. makenna. makenzie. malani. malaya. malaysia. malia. malinda. maliyah. mallory. malory. marceleine. maren. margaret. margaux. margo. margot. maria. mariah. mariana. marianne. marie. marina. marlee. marleigh. marley. mary. maryanna. mavis. maxine. maya. mckenna. mckenzie. meadow. meera. megan. melanie. melina. melissa. melody. mena. meredith. mia. miah. miana. michaela. michelle. mila. milani. miley. millie. miracle. miranda. miriam. molina. molliana. molly. monica. morgan. mya. myla. myra.

NEUTRAL︰ mace. madden. maddix. mage. magenta. magic. maim. maine. maison. majesty. major. makari. malak. malice. malware. maple. marble. march. mari. marigold. marin. marion. marley. marlin. marlo. marlow. mars. marsh. marvel. mascara. masquerade. masyn. match. mauve. maven. mayday. mayhem. mayson. maze. mazi. mckinley. meadow. mecca. med. mega. melancholy. mellow. melody. memphis. mention. mercury. mercy. merengue. meridian. merit. merlin. merrick. merritt. merry. meteorite. metro. metronome. meyer. micah. micaiah. michigan. mickey. middle. midnight. mika. mikah. milan. miles. miller. million. minus. miracle. mirage. misery. misfit. misha. miss. mission. misty. model. monday. monitor. monroe. montana. montgomery. moon. moor. morgan. morse. moss. moth. muck. mud. murphy. mutt. myka. mykah. mystery. mystique.

#pupsmail︰names #name suggestions #name ideas #name list

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be-my-ally · 1 year ago

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Snowballs and Kisses

Hello darlings!! Merry Christmas! I hope everyone celebrating has a wonderful day, and everyone for whom it is a usual monday has a better than usual start to the week!!

I have been MIA the last few weeks on here, but never fear I have been busy behind the scenes and hopefully more things and fics will be finished very soon!! I cannot wait for my little new year break, and *finally* catching up on all the stuff I've missed!! In the meantime as a ittle teeny tiny Christmas gift please enjoy this timeskip for my Splashing Around ‘verse to Christmas Eve 1960 and my shameless OC self insert of what I’d like to gift Elvis.

a/n not totally accurate weather references: it didn’t actually snow in memphis in the latter half of 1959 but, this is fanfiction after all and it *was* very cold november 18th 1959. (I also cut a whole 4k of angst that will come out at some point as a separate chapter, Anita getting a poodle, and the colonel dressed as santa because honestly i just wanted to write and read fluff, but here's a warning that there may end up being more festive fics posted…a little late).

warnings: 18+, smut lite; gentle fingering and references to cumming in pants. UNEDITED

Graceland - December 1960

The excitement of having Elvis back at home for the festive season was only slightly tempered by the knowledge that it was his first Christmas at home without his mother. He’d not really tried to celebrate properly in Germany; sure they’d done the best they could, and he raved about the gift of a fully dressed tree for weeks, but it hadn’t been the same as it would have been at home.

This year though, Elvis seemed determined to restore the festive spirit. Perhaps even further than just restoration - an attempt to make it as bright and jolly as possible in response to both his mother’s passing, and missing the last two. He’d bragged to anyone who would listen about how excited he was to give out presents, his plans for even more lights than ever before; signs and lawn decorations.

While Louise was excited, it had left her in an almost constant state of anxiety, Christmas wasn’t just about the gift-giving… but it was a large enough part of it that it’s where her mind immediately went. From the moment he suggested they hang at Graceland that first year, from the first time they’d all pored over the letter to Frances, and his promises to “have a ball next Christmas”, giggling and whispering about what fun they were going to have the following year. From all of those times Louise had been preoccupied with what to get him and whether her secret plan was good enough for Elvis of all people.

That first year he had reiterated to them all and was absolutely adamant no-one needed to gift him anything and wouldn’t hear of anything being sent over to him. But his frequent calls and mentions of the upcoming holiday belied his actual feelings and besides, Louise wanted him to feel special. Wanted him to know they’d been thinking of him as much as he must have missed being home. It wasn’t until the 27th of November and the slightest of snowfalls had occurred, tiny little snowflakes, delicately falling down when the temperature had dropped just enough for the rain to crystallise when a flash of inspiration hit her. She couldn’t send it, so instead she’d waited patiently, adding to her bundle throughout the months. Now that it was almost time to give it though she was second-guessing that two year decision. Was it too juvenile? It’s just so tricky to buy for the man who literally has anything he could ever wish for. As the festive period hurtles on she resigns herself to having to hunt for a back-up gift…maybe a nice sweater. Maybe that will do. Or maybe it’s best to have options.

Elvis’ melancholia about the holiday doesn’t seem to stretch into Christmas Eve, and he encourages them with all the enthusiasm he’s ever had. The party starts from mid-afternoon and stretches long into the evening and night with all the makings of an excellent time from the music to the food until eventually they all find themselves around the extravagant tree to exchange presents. It’s a little chaotic, so many people about and frequently someone’s having to dive from room to room to fetch people or hidden gifts. Louise finds it almost dizzying when she finally manages to take a seat on the long sofa, catching her breath from being sent to find someone. She was already finding herself struggling to think whenever she glanced over at Elvis - he looked outrageously good in a white shirt, black trousers - well, he looked outrageously good all the time at the moment - but there was something about the feeling in the air of the day that made it all the harder to act natural around him. Elvis had been quiet for a moment, but now he was sat on his armchair across the room, looking for all the world like a king on a throne ready to bestow his generosity on the peasants. Except, that’s not the feeling in the room at all; it’s jolly and wonderful, picture perfect - all of them slightly tipsy on champagne and vodka cocktails and finding the evening all the more entertaining for it. He announces he wants to give the presents that he’s bought everyone before he opens his own, and Louise dips her eyes when he hands her a little bow-tied box. No-one else’s comes with a ribbon and she strokes it, feeling a glow emanating from her stomach and chest as she imagines his nimble fingers tying it on, totally ignoring the fact that she knows someone else probably wrapped it for him. Still, she tugs it off to hide from the others - not wanting to be teased about how such a little gesture has made her blush so strongly - and tucks it into her palm, fully intending on slipping it into her shoe or around her wrist in a moment, knowing she’ll keep it forever - wear it in her hair like a declaration.

When she looks back up everyone has a similar box and she opens it quickly in case they’re all the same - she doesn’t want to ruin her surprise. There, nestled in a little velvet box is a ring, a huge, gaudy red stone in the centre, almost too big for her finger. Louise is transfixed, staring at it, barely a thought in her head as she tries to wrap her head around the way it sparkles in the light. Despite the size of the gem, the band was more than a little small when she tries to slip it on, and she quietly puts it back into the box, not wanting to draw attention to her apparently larger than expected fingers. She glances around, suddenly coming out of her shocked obliviousness. Her face falling when she realises that everyone around her is unboxing similarly precious jewellery. She’s resigning herself to having to sneak it off to get it resized and hating herself a little for it, wondering if there are exercises she could do or maybe a special diet to shrink her fingers to size, when she suddenly realises all the other girls are turning each-other around, kissing Elvis on the cheek in thanks, or asking him to clasp their new necklaces. Louise looks back down at her box and the others. What does a ring mean? It’s been gifted with such casualness that it can’t possibly mean anything can it? When she looks back up Elvis is staring right at her, and she makes eye contact with him - her wide eyes meeting his laughing ones. He winks, and turns back to Red. She tries her best to distract herself from it, ooh and aahing over everyone else’s and keeping quiet about the little box clutched tight in her hand.

Half hour later Elvis is admiring his own little haul, when he catches her eye again,

“You forget about me Lou?” Louise cringes at being called out so publicly,

“Of course not!” She looks around the room, at the large group gathered there, “No, uh, why don’t you, well I’ve gotten you something else….It’s a sweater. It’s not great really, but I… your real gift I’ve made you, but,” She swallows building her courage, unsure why she’s so nervous suddenly when she’d been so excited for so long; the whole idea just seemed juvenile and silly now. “… you’ve gotta follow me for it.” He stares into her eyes for a second, before nodding and standing up, gesturing at her as if to say ‘lead the way’.

He grins at the boys when they walk out, making a salacious movement as if to suggest her gift may not be all too family-friendly to accompanying guffaws of laughter. She ignores it, even as her tummy churns; should she be offering that? Is that what he wants these days?

“Don’t laugh.” She asks nervously as they walk into the little pantry. Elvis looks bemused to find himself there, leaning against the wall of the tiny space

“I won’t” Louise nods, shutting the door, only to hear Elvis giggle, “You tryin’ to get me alone, doll?”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

“One hell of a christmas present! to be locked in a cupboard with a pretty little gal.”

She rolls her eyes, wiggling past him to get to the freezer,

“Close your eyes.” He obediently does so, and she reaches into an old box of ice-cream to pull out a Tupperware, “Hold your hands out.” And she puts it in his cupped fingers, “Ok…open.” He blinks down at the Tupperware.

“Um. Well, thanks, I’m uh, sure this will be useful.” Louise rolls her eyes, impatiently tugging off the lid herself, “Oh.” Elvis goes silent, staring at the three perfect, teeny snowballs balanced in the tub. Each resting upon a little piece of paper with Louise’s very best cursive handwriting spelling out the date; December 12th 1958, 18th November 1959, and 20th December 1960.

The silence stretches as Elvis stares at the box, and Louise starts to ramble nervously, “I was starting to panic this year, but at least I’d thought to pick some up back in January — it snowed so heavy on the 5th. I think it was, or maybe the 15th? I’ll have to check my diary… so I mean it isn’t entirely accurate that it’s all from the 20th - but I mean, I had to have something and well I know how much you loved it when, when your mother… and I wanted you to know I’ve been thinkin’ of you non-stop while you were away. So, here, the first snow from the garden from every year you missed.” Elvis is still staring at the box, one finger poking each little round ball.

“This really snow from two years ago?”

“Uh-huh… I mean I don’t know what you’re gonna do with it now, but it really is… been in that box in the freezer this whole time…I hid it from everyone. Every time someone said they wanted some ice cream I panicked.”

“Lou.”

“‘M sorry this is really stupid, god - what are you gonna do with some snowballs, I should’ve gone in with the other girls, got you something really good… I just - well, I thought you’d like it and I know you misse-”

“Baby, I don’t, I don’t know what to say. I… I didn’t think anyone would think of me like this, like mama did, ever again. I - well, thank you, Lou darling, this is, well, its the best damn gift I’ve ever gotten.” He grabs her arm, tugging her to him - pressing a hard kiss to her forehead, the force of it surprising her. “I’m gonna show everyone - c’mon - quick before they melt.” He runs out of the kitchen, leaving Louise to follow meekly behind.

He shows them off like he’s a new father, proudly holding them up in the box, delicately picking one of them up and sighing at it, holding it up at the light for everyone to marvel at. It’s a little ridiculous in some ways - everyone in the room had been gifted something hugely lavish, and yet the thing everyone was talking and gossiping at was a snowball.

Hours later the party finally winds down enough that Louise realises she’s one of the last few stragglers of a night so late it’s turned into Christmas morning. How she’d ended up in this position she’ll never know, and she questions it herself as she stands quietly in the doorway, watching Elvis fumble on the piano. Just his fiddling is beautiful, little snippets of remembered carols, before he hammers onto the keys, singing along to Santa Claus is Back in Town. Louise can’t help the breathy gasp that escapes her and he looks up at her, smiling almost teasingly, perfect glint in his eye as he pauses for a second to run a hand through his hair before he continues for another verse and a half. He stops almost abruptly, standing up to stretch before turning to her. She’s trying to find the words to explain how beautiful it was, how perfect he sounds - how she can feel it throughout her whole being, but before she can express those sentiments he’s in front of her and grasping her hand.

“C’mon,” He tugs her over to the armchair he’d been sat in earlier in the evening, “Over here hon, that’s it - you’re the last.” Elvis throws himself onto the chair, holding onto her, pulling her stumbling body against his. “You’re the last of my girls left…” He sighs melodramatically and Louise giggles uncontrollably back at him. She’d had an illicit two glasses and a half of champagne earlier in the evening; Elvis had playfully wagged his finger at her as she’d accepted it from Red although she’d seen him have more than a few drinks himself. She can feel the bubbles still settling into her tummy and head, fuzzing her thoughts a little and making her giggly and affectionate. Still, she wasn’t so tipsy she couldn’t call out his overdramatic behaviour.

“They’ve just gone home for the night. They’ll be back tomorrow I’m sure.” She shakes her head. He ignores her, crying out,

“I’m all alone!” He tugs her by her elbow, catching her as she stumbles into his lap, pulling her onto him, flattening her wide skirt. It wasn’t really the fashion anymore but while she’d been momentarily hesitant about her holiday dress she wasn’t self-conscious, and she liked how it made her shape look. Some might suggest the bow and petticoats were juvenile, but it made her feel more adult than the tighter styles that were starting to become popular with her peers, more herself than playing dress-up.

She snuggles under his arm, head pillowed on his chest, cheeks pressed against the little buttons of his shirt. He pretends to choke at her hair brushing his nose, using his free hand to flatten it under his chin and she grins, shivering against him as his breath tickles her skin. They stay cuddled for a few moments, sinking into the kind of happy exhaustion that seems to only occur on holidays. It feels different than before, although Elvis is more similarly carefree than she’d seen him in a long time. He’d grown up a lot over the years she hadn’t seen him, or so it felt, and his adultness didn’t match the image of him playing and fooling around that she had in her head. It’s an awful feeling, she thinks, that even with him right there, surrounding her, she still longs for a little more of the playfulness of the past.

Suddenly though Elvis shifts, interrupting her thoughts and murmuring against the top of her head,

“Y’hear that?” Louise stops breathing, and all she can hear is the solid thump-thump of his heart against her ear, he waits a second but she can’t work out what he’s referring to and doesn’t respond, he gasps “There it is again! Do you hear it?”

Louise shakes her head against him, frowning a little, “No?” She tries really hard to listen out, but other than the faintest hint of the music from the boys in the other room she can’t hear a thing. “The music?”

“No! No, listen.” He puts his finger to his lips, shushing her,

“I really don’t hear anything Elvis.” He wraps his arm around her waist a little tighter, tugging her up so she was sat more upright on his knee, her face close to his. He whispers into her ear,

“I think I hear hooves…” Louise frowns,

“Hooves!?” God, it would be just her luck that he’d gone and bought her a horse or something, and she’d have to act grateful even though she was terrified of them.

“Mmhmm, that’s right.” His hand rises up to brush across her back gently, fingertips dancing around her side, “Hooves. Hooves and bells.” He pauses for dramatic effect, jabbing his finger into her side in a tickling poke. His voice dips lower, as his arm squeezes around her, “Someone must have been a good girl this year.”

Louise grins when she realises what he’s implying and couldn’t bring herself not to play along.

“…You think it’s Santa Claus?!”

“Hmm, definitely…who else would it be, on the roof with hooves and bells on Christmas eve?” She giggles, both in response to his kind-natured teasing and his fingers poking her side with an exaggerated motion.

“Oh, I wonder what he’ll leave in my stocking…” Elvis hums against her hair,

“Mmm. Coal.”

“Nooo!” She giggles back to him, “You just said I’ve been a good girl!”

“You’ve been a very good little girl.” His voice has hit that low pitch that immediately sends a jolt down her spine, right into the pit of her stomach and she swallows, trying to keep up with the joke.

“Well, I’m, uh, I’m sure I’ll like whatever it is.”

“Mmhmm….” His hand brushes up her leg, “Bet ya I’ll like what’s in your stockings more…”

“Elvis!” She shrieks, playfully batting his hand away, he pulls it off of her, smoothing down her skirt, and resting it onto her lap for a moment. Louise feels her breath catching as he presses a kiss to the side of her head, brushing her hair out of the way and shifting her on his thigh so that she’s facing him. It’s almost a struggle for her to meet his eyes, she felt so desperate for his attention - but there was nowhere else to look that made her feel any less heated. His hair, god even his eyebrows were Elvis-enough to make her squirm. It’s only a second of him kissing her jaw, before she’s gasping for him, and before she knows what she’s doing she’s grabbing his hand and shoving it back on her thigh.

She’d kept herself for him, even as it felt that she’d been playing before, doing it for someone who would never notice or care - ostensibly in general, but really if she was truthful - for him. She’d touched herself, hadn’t been able to resist the temptation, especially after his deep voice came through the phone - but the other boys, the boys in school, the ones with blue collar jobs and careers, had all lost their appeal whenever she imagined kissing them, and her imagination interposed the image and feeling of him, his slippery body in the pool, the feel of him in front of her on the bike. He was thinner now, even still, than he was before, puppy fat replaced with lean muscles. His face shape changed just the tiniest bit, perhaps unnoticeable to some, but so very obvious to her, cheekbones and chin more angular than before. But his lips feel the same as they did before he left, and since his return home - she’d expected they’d have lost their eager nature, but still she can feel the hint of desperation as he presses them against her jaw.

She gasps, rocking against him as he roves down her neck - a place no one else has ever touched, tiny points of pressure feeling like a heat was expanding across her neck and chest, matching the clench of her thighs. His hand gently strokes up her stockings before he hitches her up, capturing his mouth with hers and shoving her underlayers up to her waist in the abrupt movement. Louise moves with him, desperate to stay in contact with his lips and she moans in upset when he starts to pull away.

“C’mon baby,” He whispers, “C’mon, Lou-Lou let me - let me say thank you,” He’s barely audible as he speaks against her lips between pressing bruising kisses onto them, “I just - wanna, wanna make you feel good, Lou doll.” She gasps out her agreement, eyes falling closed and her head falling into his shoulder as his fingers find their way to rub against the silk of her underwear. He shifts her again, balancing her so she can rock against his thigh and his hand, whilst also rubbing her leg against his covered crotch. Louise is almost surprised at the heat of him against her thigh, but her curiosity has no chance to be satisfied when he hooks a finger under the leg band of her panties, totally distracting her from anything but the feel of him under her and attempting to stay somewhat upright. His finger feels softer than she’d imagined, and yet, in comparison to her own the pads feel foreign, rougher and surer than hers ever were sliding into the wetness they find there.

“God, you’re so soft baby, so fucking soft in here, perfect for me, you been waiting on me, honey?”

“Uh-huh, waited, waited so long for you Elvis - didn’t, I didn’t want anyone but you.” He groans in response, his fingers moving faster. Until he’s forced to stop, tangled in the fabric and he growls in frustration. Louise feels it go straight down her body, and her thighs clench, trapping his hand even more. He pauses for barely a second to manhandle her up, just enough to roughly tug her panties down enough that it’s now entirely her bare skin rubbing against his hand and clothed thigh, the fibres of his trousers almost giving her a friction burn with her rapid movements. He continues as he was a second earlier, but now with far easier access he’s able to swipe his fingers across her clit, taking her to the edge almost immediately. She has no idea if this was something he’s always done well, or if this is a trick he’d picked up while he was away, but whatever the reason she was grateful. She doesn’t even consider how they were still, essentially, in public, too distracted by his slender fingers to be concerned about her now partial nudity. The only noise to break up their combined breathy moans is the layers of of taffeta rustling between them, as she continues to rock against his thigh, but this all changes when he delves his thumb into her wetness, bringing it back up to stroke circles on her clit, gently but repeatedly running it over her.

“Oh, Elvis?” She cries out,

“What baby? You’re so - I can feel you’re close,” His own breathing is getting heavier, and he holds her steady with his other hand grasping her thigh while his thumb continues to stroke her,

“I don’t - I don’t…” She doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say, and before she manages to turn it into a complete sentence she’s shaking on him as she rides out her orgasm. He sees her through it, continuing to stroke her with the same pressure before rapidly shoving his hand down his own pants, roughly rubbing himself off to quick completion. She watches him closely, unable to do anything but stare as his own eyes slide closed, head falling back against the couch and mouth opening as he gasps out a high-pitched moan. It was about enough to make her shudder again against his thigh, the look on his face, his mussed hair, open collar and the noises of sheer pleasure. Louise finds herself bouncing on his chest as he breathes rapidly from the effort, and he holds her tight for a few moments while they both regain use of their limbs. Louise feels almost a little shell-shocked and she only really comes to her senses when Elvis shifts, wiping his hand on his trousers with a grimace and patting her thigh,

“Gosh that was, I, um, thank you El,” He grins at her, clearly pleased with his success, and he pats her leg again,

“Thank you, honey, for just about the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me earlier baby, it was just - I’m gonna treasure them snowballs forever, you’ll see.” She grins back at him before an unstoppable yawn takes over her face, “C’mon lil girl, time for bed.” She gulps, thinking about all the people on the house - worrying what will happen next,

“D’you…where am I gonna sleep?” Elvis frowns, little furrowed line marring his previously relaxed face,

“With me?”

“Oh,” Louise swallows, “Um, I think my parents will be expecting me - you know, Christmas morning’s all about -“

“Don’t worry honey, I’ll drop you home at the crack of dawn,” He winks, “-gotta make sure the house is all in order in any case anyway.” Elvis pauses, “Or, or you could invite your mama and pops over. They’d be more than welcome…nothing my mama liked more than a full house - especially at Christmas.” He’s looking at her with that earnest little boy expression again and it takes everything in her not to just suggest she should stay forever, it was so absurd that he’d want her to stay, instead of the other way around.

“Well…maybe I could stay. And, well, I mean, I could come over in the evening? If you swear you’ll make sure I get home in time -“ He’s quick to interject,

“Cross my heart darling,” She hums at him, and he motions the crossing of his heart across his chest, solemnly holding eye contact, “I swear.”

“Ok then, I’d love to stay.”

Somehow, and (despite his promises) to Louise’s surprise, she’s dutifully shaken awake and dropped off home, albeit not by Elvis himself, only a few very short hours later. Coming up the driveway of her childhood home it feels almost inconceivable that she should have spent the day and night how she has, and she wonders for a brief moment if she hadn’t knocked her head or something and just hallucinated the whole affair. She’s so in her thoughts that she doesn’t yet notice, as she traipses past the lounge and kitchen where she can hear her mother singing to quickly change, a new set of boxes under the Christmas tree. Elvis’ script on the gift tags declaring “To Louise, a very good girl, from Santa.”

taglist: (it's been so long that I've lost the list for this verse - lmk if you want to be added, or taken off!)

@lialocklear @ellie-24 @vintageshanny @thatbanditquee @lookingforrainbows @whositmcwhatsit @from-memphis-with-love @missmaywemeetagain @peskybedtime @powerofelvis @dkayfixates @shakerattlescroll

#elvis presley fanfiction #elvis smut #elvis fanfic #elvis x oc #be-my-ally #splashing around #elvis x louise

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aconflagrationofmyown · 2 years ago

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Prima Nocta (or the right of the first night) Part 1

Warnings: so so so so many for thematic material. This is dark. Quite dark. This is freshly divorced and verrrrrry bitter and disillusioned Elvis helping himself to the bride of the newest Memphis Mafia initiate. Hugely unreliable narrator, belittling and objectifying of women, dub con because of that, sanctimonious chauvinism, reference to his marriage going very south. no actual sex yet but definitely 18+.

Notes: this got so long from just lead up that I figured it was worth publishing on its own and seeing if there’s interest for a part 2. Sorry for going bonkers on this one, sometimes you just gotta tap into the villain side of yourself. Also, this was inspired by many talks with my previous mutuals about THAT picture of Elvis holding a gun to George Klein’s head at his own wedding…I’m using it for solely for vibes, sorry George

Series: Sky High Lovin -reading Honeymoon might make this even better but not necessary

Dedicated to: Sweet Christi with the wayward mind and all my thanks to Ally and Jane and Elise for spitballing this into existence.

There was a time, not so long ago, when Elvis enjoyed life affirming events like weddings, believe it or not. He enjoyed facilitating days to celebrate love and loyalty and vows before God, promising everlasting devotion. That is, until he learned that “till death do us part” meant about as much to most as a “bless you” did when someone sneezed.

It makes surveying the pink and white festooned hotel ballroom something of an eyesore for him as he lounges back, dressed in black velvet, a sore thumb of ominous derision amidst the pastels, viewing the merry reception through moody, tinted lenses. The familiarly charming table accents of champagne and flowers and paper mache hearts twist his own into something a little furious and decidedly bitter.

A man’s wife betraying him and leaving him and stripping him of his pride and his joy and all his best intentions for her and your child will do that to a man.

Couldn’t even make it a whole decade before she found fault and spread her legs for another and turned his child against the father that loved her.

Sorry for being away so much baby, I was just singin’ myself hoarse to buy you that fuckin ring and car and hair and face and keep you in the style you’d married me for.

Cause it was obvious as all hell that honoring and obeying hadn’t been first and foremost in her mind when she promised forever. Forever to riches and fame, maybe, but not forever to him. She has those now, and he hasn’t got the family he’d prayed an Old Testament God for.

Rather like the pretty lady currently allowing her rodent of a groom to feed her their wedding cake, fake giggles and batting lashes adding to the nauseating act of pretending she can stand being in his company for longer than a couple hours.

Forever, my ass.

Elvis watches her through his shades and with each passing minute the anger burns brighter and his justification steadily builds for the liberty he’s about to commit.

The groom is here for Elvis’ paycheck, the lovely bride is planning to suck that idiot's cock till death doth them part (or a good four years) for the status of being a Memphis Mafia wife, and even the guests now stuffing their faces with pasta and alcohol are here for what Elvis’ money buys.

Loyalty is dead and what’s left is the goddamn food chain, like they’re the animals school tells them they’ve evolved past. In the recent months since his divorce, Elvis has felt a near Devine calling to bring this wicked devolution of morals and motivations to light, to humiliate these homosapiens until some level of shame is regained by mankind. If this is a pack of animals that surrounds him, he is King of the Jungle, and it is a careless and heartless king who lets his subjects run amuck.

He has no appetite for pasta, the hours of frivolity pass him by and he remains aloof, crouching in wait in his chair, running off righteous indignation and primal sufferance. Good things come to those who wait.

That’s what the bride is thinking, Elvis suspects, as the reception winds down and her luxurious honeymoon full of sunbathing and spas, good food and rich wine and the obligatory playing hooky to get out of sex draws nearer. Just a little more time letting fuckin’ Ronnie feed her cake and paw at her, then she’ll be on her way, securely locked into her future of privilege. He’s got nothing against Connie, uh, Sandra, -oh hell what was her name? he consults the gold embossed invitation at his elbow,- He’s got nothing against the newly minted Mrs. Kemp, nothing in particular, except that she’s a woman. And Elvis has a bone to pick and a point to prove with the whole, whorish lot of them.

Elvis opens the limo door for the bride himself, gallantly ushering in the happy couple before joining them as arranged, the whole merry band of his boys piling in after.

The new Mrs. Kemp, unlike some of his boys wives, had had the good grace not to whine about the lack of privacy and alone time to be found in and around Graceland’s inner circle. As a result Elvis allowed her to choose the more expensive flowers and gold embossed invites and french vintages, even if he knew why knew she’d been disgustingly eager for any chance of her intended husband being distracted from her. Elvis is certain, thanks to first hand accounts from fuckin’ Ronnie himslef, that the groom has sampled the bride already. It’s the way of things in this decadent decade, and she’s no fresh outta the nest baby chick. The fact Ronnie could give no further details about his encounters with his betrothed beyond the mechanics of thrusting above her till he blew his load, made Elvis despair of humanity and suspect Mrs. Kemp had a serpentine pragmatism about this entire arrangement.

Oh my buddy my pal, he thinks to himself as the limo flies through the never dark streets of Las Vegas towards the airstrip, I gave my wife everything and that wasn’t enough, how can you compete? God gave Eve the whole of Eden ‘cept for one measly apple tree -and what did the mother of all mankind do? She took, she ate, she damned them all with her disloyalty.

Ronnie is a damn fool, and while Elvis’ warnings were not needed during the engagement and this marriage has progressed to a limo ride and honeymoon, Elvis is not to be thwarted in his determination to save Ronnie the slow disillusionment, the slow death of any pretense of love in his wife’s eyes, the crumbling of all faith in anything such as Elvis has endured. Better to rip the bandage off now, five years is a long crucifixion.

As the limo parks on the tarmac and the gleaming hulk of the private jet looms over them in the night sky, no doubt Ronnie harbors some pathetic hope Elvis has forgotten his promise.

Elvis proceeds his guests up the jet bridge, cane thumping and carefully harnessed excitement radiating through him as he enters the opulent space, watching with benign magnanimity as the newlyweds board his jet, the boys providing a rollicking group to ferry the new couple to their honeymoon destination.

This was Elvis’ treat, he had insisted the jet drop them off before he heads back to wherever it is he’s supposed to be tomorrow. He’s not lost his appetite for spoiling folks. Only this time, he is gonna get repaid in currency a little more tangible than ephemeral, transient, fleeting loyalty. And Ronnie, kiss-ass, weak-spined fuckin’ Ronnie wasn’t man enough to hold out more than a few minutes when Elvis told him his new bride was the price for being inducted into the inner circle, the intitiation to prove his loyalty to The King.

Predictably, after some pathetic and scandalized objections, some monetary threats by Elvis and some judgmental snickers by the guys, fuckin’ Ronnie had caved and betrayed his loyalty to his own wife before he’d even walked down the aisle to marry her.

“B-b-but d-did the rest of t-the g-guys h-h-have to do this?” Ronnie had protested while they were shootin some pool, leaving the gals the other rooms to wedding plan, “Is it a-a-always this w-way?”

It hasn’t always been, no. Because Elvis hadn’t always been so astute. He had allowed his taste for pleasure and innocence and childish notions of fidelity to cloud his perception of women and the men they married. Elvis once was blind, now he saw, and now there was a currency of wedding nights established in the jungle.

“No one’s forcin’ ya to stay in this group.” Elvis had pointed out while lining up his pool cue with the ball, “you’re mighty welcome to go right on out that door, never receive another check from me or a glimpse of Vegas again, you’ll lose that girl, too, cause she sure as hell won’t be stickin around when all your bells and whistles fall off and it’s just you she’s left with. She don’t want ya Ronnie, she wants what I give ya, which makes me her provider, don’t it?” he reasoned before making his shot, the clatter of the balls deafening against the green felt as the older members of the mafia held their breaths in sick fascination with this new form of hazing. “And now, if I’m her provider,” Elvis had straightened up his posture to watch Sonny mark the score on the board, “that makes me a husband of sorts, an authority, a protector. A sugar daddy. Don’t it? You gonna tell me I should throw you guys a damn weddin’ and honeymoon, buy ya the house you live in and the cars you drive, the clothes she wears and the food you eat cause you hang around me an’ promise to protect me if the time comes? Bodyguard my ass, I could turn anyone to chopsticks before you even woke up long enough to realize a threat. Face it Ronnie, there’s a totem pole in this here life, and no one blames ya for bein’ a few notches down than most in the scale of things, but it don’t give ya much leverage bein’ down there. I give you that leverage. And I’d like to compensate myself for my generosity with a lil marital privilege. Jus’ once, just first night rights.” he took a swing of his coke and watched Ronnie closely, licking the sugar off his lips with deliberate swipes of his tongue, “Or would ya prefer I just wait and fuck her in six monthes when she comes knockin’ on my door sayin’ she just got lost in this big ole place?”

Fuckin’ Ronnie was a coward and a cad and he essentially agreed that he’d rather Elvis fuck his wife on the wedding night and be done with it than always be watching his back, suspecting her of carrying on an affair. Ronnie was a little bitch, Elvis surmised. Gone was any protest that he couldn’t do that to her, that she was a good gal, that Elvis wouldn’t do that to a friend.

Kings had no friends. And tonight Ronnie was oh so close to being officially inducted into the Memphis Mafia, he’d do nothing to jeopardize that . Elvis figured he’d wait until the plane took off to sample the goods, make her husband squirm guiltily over it while his new bride puzzled over why he was so tense.

Out of consideration for her downer of a groom, Elvis handed her a drink, playing the gracious host and taking her mind off her husband's stiff bearing and sweaty pallor.

“Don’t mind him, honey,” Elvis whispered hot and wet in her ear as he handed the drink off, “Ronnie boy here’s just scared of flyin’. You’re not scared are ya, honey?”

Honey….he couldn’t recall her name, Mrs. Kemp’s name, his fatigue and apathy too strong. He stood straight and dug in his pocket for a pick-me-up as he watched her smile and blush under his attentions,

“No sir, Mr. Presley, I’m not scared.” she smiled, “One could think we’re sat in a living room, it's so spacious here.” she added a compliment.

“I’d like to show ya the rest.” he says sitting down next to her, his arm heavy and warm around her shoulders and his gaze intent on her, knowing the effect this has on an ignored woman.

He recalls using that same line on his young bride during their honeymoon, eager to show his own new wife everything he had to offer. Beauty and luxury and care and a damn good fuck in front of the mirror back there. And it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough.

He can feel Ronnie tense further against the back of his hand where he clasps the bride’s shoulder, knowing that the “rest” of the plane beyond this lounge is a conference table, a toilet and a bedroom. Ronnie has had the privileges of being part of the TCB and now he’s about to pay his admission fee, and Elvis smirks at the thought that the man will never ride aboard this jet again without thinking of getting cuckolded by his boss.

The Bride is trying to make sense of Elvis' sudden shift of mood along with her husband’s. Both of them seeming to have swapped bearings, changing from the reception as if the jet’s air pressure had doused Ronnie’s merriment and finally revitalized Mr. Presley from the rather sullen attendee he had been. Elvis can feel her hesitancy to agree in her body language and the way she keeps looking over to Ronnie, as if to figure out his nervous ignoring of her and the way Elvis makes up for it in touches and attention. Beneath them the jet rumbles and takes flight, her little gasp at the heart swooping feeling of take-off a taste of what’s to come, of what he’ll pull from her body, willing or not . He’d rather lure her, try that first, the other can always be resorted to.

There’s an unspoken agreement to wait on this lil tour till the jet reaches cruising altitude, and Elvis spends the wait rubbing her arm and watching her try to make conversation with her groom who finds discussing the latest baseball stats with Red far more interesting than recalling the beauteous memories of the last few hours with his now introspective and mildly panicked bride. It’s funny to hold a woman whose mind is racing, Elvis can almost feel the frantic thoughts and conflicting emotions battering her frame from the inside out like a caged bird against its bars.

Elvis allows the minutes to trickle by and work for him, the soothing sweep of his hand slowly melting her rigidity, the continued abandonment of her husband's attention going from hurtful to frustrating, the innocuous chatter of the fellas talking and laughing around them, the cool air of the jet’s cooling system kicking on, and his warm and broad chest already pressed against her, now beckoning like a little haven for her to cower inside until the confusion passes. He clocks all these developments as the minutes go by, fully aware the boys are making small talk with their minds as preoccupied as Ronnie’s about when Elvis will make his move, their anticipation mounting while her guard drops, finally accepting his closeness without question. The jet rumbles and her drink kicks in and with the wedding fever abated it leaves her drowsy, unmoored.

Elvis waits for the perfect moment to pounce and is rewarded for his patience. The cool blast of the AC has made her begin to curl towards him and he’s met her halfway and it’s not till her head almost nods weakly to lay on his shoulder that her sensibilities prick her and she jerks it back up, another little gasp. It makes his repeated,

“Lemme show ya round, honey, got all sorts of remarkable stuff up here”

sound like a gallant cover for her lapse of decorum. Predictably, she shakes herself upright and gives him a polite nod of thanks, their first mutual, unspoken communication acknowledging something the rest of the room isn’t privy to. Her loyalty is slipping and all it took was a few minutes of heating her up with his embrace, a few whispered teases and buying her a whole damn lifestyle. To her credit she looks to Ronnie as she rises, asking him to come along in a coaxing voice Elvis knows is her trying to get her new husband to even look at her.

Elvis watches her try and fail at this from the curtained doorway leading to the back of the jet, thinking it makes a striking picture. A bride still dressed in white, bending over to try to catch her husband's eyes as he watches TV in his rumpled tux, the entire plane’s worth of masculine attention directed on her, except for the man who swore to worship her. Perhaps the disillusion will go both ways tonight, maybe women aren’t all merley bitches in heat, maybe some start out intending to be faithful and good and content.

Elvis has yet to meet a woman faithful and good and content once he puts his mark on them, they spend the rest of their lives day dreaming and closing their eyes when their husbands are in them and clogging his phone lines, kidding themselves that they’re special. He’s saving her the sin of coming to his room in a couple of months or years and saying she got lost while dropping her silk nightwear down her frame, an old and familiar expression of invitation on her face. She might not know that’s in her future otherwise, but he does. And he’s gonna save her the wait. When she wants something she’ll come to him now, not her husband, and he will have the discipline to make the right choices for her.

Elvis holds the curtain aside and beckons her with his fingers, and she would be angrier that he has the nerve to summon her away from her husband if she weren’t so humiliated at being ignored by the man. Frustration at their man makes women very susceptible to comfort, Elvis knows this intimately, and in their strong desire to be understood and soothed, they’ll spread their legs for the first person who tells them they deserve that attention.

She ducks under his arm, into the shade of the conference room with an attitude written on her face. Elvis drops the curtain behind them, the prey corralled. Nothin so easy as a woman scorned, nothin’ quite so hungry and quite so fierce. He hopes she’ll take out some of that miffed little ‘tude out on his back with those fancy nails his money bought her. It makes him smirk in anticipation and he can tell she finds that unsettling, her huffy bearing faltering once she notices him just watching her move round the glossy table top, suddenly aware of their seclusion and the fact she left her groom behind for a tour of the jet. She’s beginning to doubt her choice, doubt her loyalties.

Honeymoon off to a damn good start, she thinks sourly.

It’s innocuous, standing at opposite ends of a conference table with a man who is your husband's closest friend and at whose house you’ve eaten multiple dinners. There’s nothing wrong with it, but she feels her skin prickle none the less like she’s in danger, like those eyes observing her through shaded lenses are not fully human, not fully beneficent. She curses Ronnie for humiliating her, for his weird mood these past weeks making her feel isolated, for her past making her paranoid of this assessing male gaze.

She’d met a panther in the woods on an Appalachian bike ride once. They’d stared each other down as he had crouched and observed, his eyes fathomless and intent, the muscles of its body undulating in readiness beneath sleek black fur. Her mouth had dried out exactly the same as it does now when her shy smiles aren’t met with anything besides those assessing eyes and that crooked smirk that holds no fondness for her, no pride in his jet, no amusement at her awe of his wealth. A smirk of pure and smug knowingness.

Then he calls to her and the warmth of his voice melts her fear. “Check out this icebox, honey”

Her face lights up like a kids in the yellow glow of the refrigerator light as she bends over to look inside, white stain skirt hugging her perfectly and he gathers that all that athleticism has done her good, she could probably ride a man for hours without tiring, judging by the firm curve of that ass.

“See anyhtin ya’d like?” he asks her casually, laying a light hand between her shoulder blades as she reads rows and rows of labeled refreshments.

“Oh, uh, no, no, the drink was enough for now. Thank you Mr. Presley.”

He used to correct folks when they called him that, and used to punt the honorary title to his father. But nowadays he finds “Mr. Presley” might be closer to “your majesty” than mere “Elvis” -in which case he’s stopped putting little floozies at ease by asking them to call him by the name his mama gave him. That’s a name used by a wife back when he was happy and respected and alive.

“C’mere, I wanna show ya this television back here.” he beckons again, removing the heat of his hand from her back and she breathes easier with him taking the lead, she’s able to watch his imposing figure unobserved as he leads her past the conference table and into a small hallway with a large, showbiz style mirror.

Elvis swaggers right on by the marvelous monstrosity with its low counter and doused bare bulbs, but she can’t help herself. A flicker of childish glee taking over as she flips the switch on the wall and makes the bulbs buzz to life, brilliant as a spotlight in the inky gloom, illuminating them from the knees to the ceiling in a gaudy reflection. The sudden blast of light makes him pause on his trek to the bedroom and he joins her in looking at their reflection.

“Hell, honey,” he drawls amused as he takes in her fresh little wedding set and his decadent black suit, “we look like cake toppers.”

She laughs at that, a sweet unaffected thing that is music to his ears, and no doubt a screech to Ronnie’s. Elvis finds his grin growing at that thought and she mistakes it for joy. She laughs again, aborted little chuckles tapering out.

“There’s a tv back here, too?” she asks, embarrassingly at ease with entering a bedroom in the company of Elvis Presley.

Interestingly she doesn’t even glance at the bed when he ushers her in, she’s peering at the walls and the built in furniture for a peek of a screen.

“Mhmm, keep lookin, it’s hidden.” Elvis follows her and shuts the door behind him, a quiet click she doesn’t hear as she’s got her back to him, busily creaking open dresser doors and clapping in commendation upon finding the tastefully camouflaged TV set.

“How wonderful!” She praises and his heart does something funny and nostalgic over unpretentious enjoyment of what he has to give her.

One day it’ll be old hat to her and she’ll be like all the other wives, naggin’ and bitchin’ over keeping up with each other, forgetting about what it was they ever wanted, consumed with one upping each other and dominating the pecking order, spending Elvis’ money not for pleasure but for bragging rights. For now he watches this young woman bounce in her heels over a hidden TV set and makes a pact with himself to be nice, to gentle her into this ruination.

Then he recalls she married Fuckin Ronnie, and that twists his gut in reminder she’s a practical gold digger like all the rest. And he doesn’t mind that about her, he just hates the dishonesty of pretending she’s in it for more, and her ignoring him for a tv irks him as disingenuine.

“Wanna kick back and watch somethin, doll?” he asks her and sees the exact minute his words make her back and shoulders stiffen beneath white silk.

“Uh, on this one?” she’s scared to ask, scared to sound like she’s accusing him of suggesting it, scared to suggest it and give him ideas.

“They got the damn game on the other.” he answers her smoothly, coming up behind her and reaching round her to power it up.

“Elvis.” she dares to sound reprimanding when all he’s done is stand behind her and punch a button, she’s the one who walked into a bedroom with a man who isn’t her husband.

“Gonna be a long flight, three more hours I reckon.” he is patient with her.

“Y-yes.” she hesitantly agrees, watching the screen flicker to life, “And I wanna spend it with Ronnie, exc-“

Liar! He doesn’t let her turn around, he puts his hands on her shoulders and keeps her facing the TV, keeps her away from the closed door she’s not yet noticed, he nuzzles his nose into the crook of her neck telling himself, gently, gently, tempt her, tempt her. “Doesn’t seem like Ronnie is eager to spend it with ya.” he mourns low and sympathetic in her ear and she gasps at his brutal honesty, at the fact he’d have no tact to pretend he didn’t notice.

“Elvis, t-this isn’t right.” she parrots her mother or her favorite tv show or some rote set of rules she doesn’t really embrace.

“What ain’t right, honey?” he rumbles, keeping his hands on her, moving them from her shoulders down her arms, then swooping them up again and fingering at the sides of her neck, delighting in the shiver her body yields up to him.

If he hadn’t been so aloof before, she figures she might not feel so electrified by his sudden, all consuming touch. But it’s not just that, he’s kept his distance from her since she started dating Ronnie and in her star struck insecurity she’d made no move to become friendly with him.

Now this, this intentional hovering and the petting that tastes like something she’s only ever heard about. It’s Elvis, Elvis petting her in her wedding dress on the way to her honeymoon destination and that’s simultaneously about as predictable and uncredible as can be. Elvis, who’s been the ephemeral host for countless of lovely parties, Elvis who’s been the presiding specter over all their schedules since she became part of the group, Elvis who has been the magical name on the credit card used for everything she ever wanted. Elvis Presley, the man who achieved all there was in life by 21, and has been bored by it ever since. What did she expect him to be, a fatherly figure?

“Did you like your weddin’ honey?” he asks her after her raging thoughts consume the time she should have spent answering and protesting him.

The hands descending to her hips and squeezing there hint a warning prompt even as his gentle tone reminds her of all he has done for her, his inexhaustible benevolence -which it seems something has finally exhausted. She begins to panic, no need to see those panther eyes when the heat is radiating off of him, sexual intent potent from his aura alone, no need to feel a crude gesture or have it spoken out in clunky declarations of desire. Ingrained self doubt takes hold of her for one brief moment before the scratch of his sideburn rubs against her cheeks and the hot press of his lips against her neck tells her it is not vanity making her project on him, Elvis Presley really is trying to seduce her mere hours after her vows, a few yards away from her new husband and his friends.

“Mr. Presley!” she resolutely stiffens in his embrace and tries to turn and leave his hold of her and he lets her so far as she’s spun round and facing him, her stern tone wobbling out when she’s met with the hypnosis of his expectant stare, “Y-yes it was lovely, thank you.” she stammers out, fear and primal instinct kicking in and guiding her to cower and simper her way out of this, her boldness having bounced off him like shotgun shells off cement. Nothing but damaging to her. “T-thank you for all you did.” she tries again, her tone unsure as his face remains unreadable, his eyes burning and unblinking behind his shades, lit with white hot something in the glow of the tv screen. “You’re very generous.” she admits, tacking on every obeisance she can think of while resolutely ignoring the feel of being held to his chest, near eye level with the gap of his shirt and the chains glittering on his skin. “I need to rejoin my husband, sir.” she begs, begs that she doesn’t want this, denies she’s ever hoped for this.

Idly he wonders if she’s being honest, then he watches her swallow thickly as she catches a whiff of his scent.

Suddenly he crushes her to him, her mouth smashed to the metallic, skin warmed nest of his chains, pinning her there with a hand to the back of her head as his other reaches for the hem of her skirt and drags it up and over her ass, palming it even as she shrieks in shock, “Tell me, Mrs. Kemp,” he growls in her ear, “did you go after Ronnie cause he was near me, or did ya come for the money and stay in the hopes I’d pay attention to your little self? Was you countin’ on me gettin lonely some night an’ sendin’ your husband on an errand so I could get my fill of his wife? Is that what keeps ya from gaggin when he’s on top of ya? Is that the hope?”

Elvis’ fingers find the band of her lacy panties -honeymoon lingerie his money bought her- and he snakes his hand in, down the warm curve of her ass and along her crack, dipping between clenched thighs to rake through predictably sopping wet folds. She gave the whole resistance act a good try, but her womanly body responds to dominance, and Elvis is dominance incarnate. It’s in her weak nature to drip for him, plain and simple, and so he swipes and dips and drags his fingers through her as she fights against his chest, pounding her fists impotently against the velvet of his coat.

“Shhh, shhh honey, I know, it ain’t your fault.” he is magnanimous, gracious as King Solomon. “This, honey, this is what hope tastes like.” he brings his glistening fingers to her snarling mouth and shoves them in against her tongue, savoring the way her choke distracts her from the obvious defense of biting him, “Taste that? That’s how hope tastes, and there ain’t anyhtin’ more harmful than hope. Makes a purgatory of your life. Doesn’t let ya be satisfied with what ya got, won’t let ya get dissatisfied enough to wanna change anythin. You just hope and hope and your life goes by, while you’re hopin.”

She whimpers around his fingers, wilted white silk in his arms, dress bunched up obscenely in the screen-lit room. He strokes her cheek with his spit wet hand, the ring faces of rubies and diamonds and priceless gems caressing her tears away, lulling the creature back to her basic instincts, hypocrisy and futility purged away beneath Elvis’ healing hands. “I ain’t gonna let you go on hopin for years and years,” he enchants her with whispers, rocking her now as she whimpers in catatonic fascination, “I’m gonna gift ya with knowledge.”

Everything she’s given up while fighting to get herself on a jet like this, married to a man of means, with a house and a steady future and a predictable timeline stretching out before her -security at last! -all of it crowds her mind, the devil and the angel on her shoulders whisper in a traitorous debate. Of course life isn’t how she wanted at eighteen when she expected to marry for love, yet of course her mature self is pleased with this match. Those can both exist, and she planned for them to exist in a tidy world where Elvis Presley wasn’t an option, because he’s not. He’s not offering himself, doesn't even have enough dreams of his own to bother with lying about it to buy them both a minute of reprieve from the disillusioned hellscape that is life in one’s thirties when you comforted your starry eyed twenties by telling yourself it gets better. Then to no one’s surprise -it didn’t. The one last insupportable piece of this maturing puzzle that would cement her growing up forever is tasting this then going back to Ronnie. It’s out of the question and she doesn’t give a shit what he’s going through right now, or what Ronnie thinks about her angering his boss, what she needs is the peace of mind that comes with not knowing.

“You can take your knowledge and shove it.” she snaps out of the pliant heatstroke his embrace caused her and shoves him away, only succeeding at making room between them because he’s so surprised by her sudden surfacing out of the trance.

One final thrash of the prey and he watches with amusement as she stumbles in haste across the flickering room, yanking open the closed door and steadfastly booking it to the front of the jet. Headed to the shelter of a man who promised to protect and defend her and cherish her and swore it all while counting his bonus for selling her out.

Elvis watches her till she and her crumpled white dress fly past the brightly mirrored hallway and disappear from his vantage point through the doorway. He picks at his nose and thinks about what he might like to take on this little experiment, and having procured a few items of use saunters after her at a leisurely pace. He sets them on the conference room and table and watches as she pulls back the curtain and steps into the lounge, her whole being vibrating in a way that is not subtle or discreet about what just occurred between them.

It’s warmer in the lounge, just pulling the curtain back wafts warmth into the ice box chilled areas of the plane that Elvis frequents, it makes her tremble with relief. She’s back in public, back where he won’t try anything. Ronnie, to her angry bewilderment, is still glued to watching the TV like he didn’t even register her absence. But his mere existence will still work for what she needs. She needs to belong to someone and sit beside that person for three hours while his boss cools off.

She is not prepared for the way everyone in the lounge spins round to look at her once registering her presence, looking with absolute surprise as if her reemergence was the surprise, not the lengthy plane tour to the back bedroom. It makes her seethe inside, they thought she’d go through with it, damn animals that they are, all “what happens on the road stays on the road” and carefree chauvinism inherited from their boss. She has to remind herself why she wanted this life in the first place, has to recall the perks and the wages and lavish reception.

Red and Joe now flank Ronnie and her seat beside him is taken up by those two manspreading oaf’s. Desperate, she decides to play at being cute and makes to sit on her husband’s lap, spinning round to find Elvis watching hehe from the curtained doorway as she tries to lower herself down to perch.

“Babe, I can’t see the damn screen with you like that.” Ronnie has the churlishness to complain and she wants to scream at his denseness, the way pushes at her lower back to tip her out of his lap.

To save herself the humiliation of face planting on the plane floor she chooses to stand of her own accord and catch herself from the shove. She sees Elvis’ lush mouth frown behind the cigar he’s lighting up.

“Don’t be an ass to her Ronnie, she’s your wife.” he reprimands and she gets a funny feeling of appreciation for being defended in all this. Her loyalty teeters towards the man she has to remind herself she needs to escape from. “Or have ya forgotten, ya unchivalrous bastard?”

That’s a little harsh but the memory of Ronnie not giving a damn about the fact she was almost assaulted -that’s harsh word for that too, her traitorous mind supplies- reminds her that she isn’t happy with him at all. But in fact, come to think of it, she isn’t pleased with any one them, and there’s no where to go on this damned plane. It starts to make her skin crawl, the realization that she’s surrounded by men who would either not believe or else not care if Elvis went through with the forceful attentions he was showing her back there. Who would believe her if she said he forced her?

“Ronnie I’m tired and my seat’s been taken!” she argues with him, “I just wanna sit down. Lay down, even!” she begs, thinking of how best to clear the couch of anyone but him so that no one takes liberties and sits down beside her.

“Then go lay down in back where there’s a fuckin’ bed? Why’d you come out?” he snaps.

“Cause-“ because Elvis Presley tried to take liberties, that’s why, but she feels strangled watching how all the men await her answer with a little too much investment, the way Elvis is still watching her behind tinted shades and a haze of cigar smoke.

“You get all bitchy when you’re tired, go lay down and take a nap, honey. I’m watching the game.” Ronnie suggests her worst fear and it infuriates her how he’s changed just since he slipped a ring on her finger.

“Ronnie please-“ She whimpers and would give anything to know why Joe is leering up at her with a sly grin. There’s no time to think on it as Elvis’ ringed fingers close around her elbow and tug her back towards the curtain.

“C’mon honey, ya heard your husband, let’s get ya situated.” he coos and her fingers turn to ice from the shock of it all.

“I don’t wanna!” she protests, “Ronnie!” she tries one more time while being backed away from her husband by his boss.

“Oh for fucks sake just do what he wants!” Ronnie begs with something akin to frustration but the red hot blush sweating up his neck suggests he’s humiliated to be caught saying it.

“Beg your pardon?” she hisses in disbelief, feeling Elvis’ hand clamp on her arm just a little more, maybe to keep her from marching up to Ronnie and smacking him.

“Just, just give him what he wants. Just tonight.” Ronnie spills the beans far sooner than needed and Elvis wants to roll his eyes at how fast they went from taking her for a nap to admitting to something far more sinister.

The bride’s head swivels from viewing her husband to Elvis and back to her husband and the room full of men who’s thrumming interest in her makes her wanna bolt straight out of the plane now she knows why. It’s sickening yet so strongly in character for them she doesn’t waste many moments in disbelief, it all makes sense in a horribly predictable way. Every one of these fella’s grinning at her discomfort are pathetic in her eyes, as pathetic as men who’d prefer to watch naughty movies than better themselves as lovers. Somehow in the mess of it all, Elvis alone stands out as something a little less deplorable. Even if it’s just his brash and demented honesty she admires.

“Y’all planned this?” she asks dully, scanning each lip licking face, ending with her husband’s sullen one, “This was all planned out? You offered me up? You goddamn, two faced bastard-“

Elvis loops his arm around her waist to prevent her from launching at Ronnie and clawing him to shreds. His chest is searing her through the silk on her back and his hands grab at her more than they need to in order to restrain her. It makes her pulse pound and fury swirls inside her, battling with the cold dread of weakness and helplessness.

“Ronnie made a little deal with me.” Elvis is drawling in her ear in so soothing a way it almost counteracts the nauseating confirmation, “And now, we can watch you runnin’ round this plane for hours to get away from me like a Junebug in a bottle but that ain’t gonna change how this night ends. How bout ya just be sensible, hmm? Just cause he’s a lyin’, no good sunnuvabitch don’t mean you gotta turn bad yourself, ya know? He gave ya instructions, ya can still be a good lil wifey and honor and obey him, can’t ya?”

“Why?” she persists, but feebly this time, not knowing if she’s asking her husband who keeps his face averted towards the screen or the man whose hands are mapping out her body in full view of his friends. “Why y’all gotta do this?”

“I told ya honey,” Elvis murmurs, rucking the hem of her skirt up passed her knees, “hope’s a dangerous thing. I don’t allow it in my house. An’ you’re part of my house now, ain’t ya?” he pets at the damp plushness of her inner thighs as the men stare and she struggles to find a way to empower herself while caught in such a feeble position. Hurting Ronnie, twisting the knife a little more like he’s done her is all she can think of at the time. “Don’t you belong to me, sweetie?” Elvis is prodding once more and his cheek is clammy and hot against hers, the cigar smoke pungent around them.

“Yes sir.” she agrees while sneering at Ronnie’s reddened face.

“That’s more like it.” Elvis’ voice gentles to something a little less frightening than before but all the more terrifying for how sure and smug it sounds. His hands grab at her breasts and she can’t help the whimper she lets out from the presumption, no doubt it’ll only get worse. “Since you’re so eager to stick close to ole Ronnie and include e’rbody in our private business, I reckon it’s only fair we conduct this lil interview on the conference table, hmm?”

When she cranes her neck to look behind him and past the curtain, she can see the shiny table top littered with items it didn’t hold when she made her hasty exit passed it; scarves and a strange sort of plastic wand, that stupid police flashlight and a box of cigars are clumped at its foot in an ominous hodgepodge.

Admitting to being frightened by it would strip away her last bit of autonomy in this and so in a bid to act unbothered she slips out of Elvis’ hold and walks on her own two feet into the room, turning her back to Ronnie before shifting herself to sit on the cold, hard surface of the table.

“Is this what you had in mind, Mr. Presley?” she asks him meekly and makes sure to let her legs fall apart just so. She thinks she’s going to have some control in all this, the silly little thing, thinking he’s a man with regular tastes and base preoccupations, easily distracted from the purpose of this like any other. And the purpose is not pleasure -though he intends to draw it from her till she is broken from it- but purity of intention and nature. A lie dressed in white no more, but a wanton woman giving in to her true nature. Only he has the power to bring this out in every one he meets, and to purge it all the same.

Elvis Presley eyes her, as do all the men in the lounge just past him, until with an approving little hum and smile that is almost pleased, he steps towards her, yanking the curtain closed behind him and leaving them (somewhat) alone together in the dimly lit room, full of anticipation.

And maybe dread.

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