#Elaine Phipps

[precious-little-scoundrel]

Fort Dix to Memphis

Summary: Having traveled for 24 hours, hopped two continents and crossed an ocean, little baby Rosalee has no more patience for the endless homecoming interviews and pageantry required of her Daddy’s precious time, time that should be her’s in this strange, loud, American new world. What’s a new father to do when his baby “Schnucki” won’t stop wailing when he leaves her? Why, do the interviews with her in his coat, of course!

Warnings: Fluffy and wholesome as can be, PG, only small upsets may include a woman nursing, a father helping a baby latch while nursing, colonel parker not minding his business and trying to shove Elaine out of the public eye, Journalists being passive aggressive, little children in some distress

Word count: 4k

Requested: yes

Masterlist

Circa: Early Spring, 1960

“I don’t think she’ll settle without nursing.” Elaine really tried to keep the emphaticism out of her voice as she reclined into the rather luxurious bed the sleeper car was furnished with, watching as Elvis paced in the tiny walk between the window and bed, cradling a fussing Rosalee, lights turned down to nearly nothing and her baby cheek pressed to his just like she liked it. She wouldn’t fully go under though, and Elvis was certain she suspected his motive of making her sleep to then slip out and speak to the journalists waiting outside, while Elaine surmised it was an empty belly keeping the sweet dreams away.

Dark Cherry wood paneling and padded headboards that made it easy to lean against and nurse, low lighting that made it feel like something out of the old Hollywood movies, the train car was coziness personified -and of course Elaine had her exhausted children all in a tidy row between her and the vibrating train wall. All but Rosalee.

Colonel Parker had balked at the expense of such a luxury car, an en-suite bathroom, two beds making an L in the room and a little sitting room adjacent through a door, perfect for press and visitors -and play space- on the long trip. Elvis thought it was perfect for his family, and that’s where he and his manager differed. Colonel Parker had been very eager and very full of plans upon meeting the freshly stateside Presley’s. He’d come aboard the plane as soon as it touched down at Fort Dix and stressed the importance of Elvis going off solo.

“Colonel, I’ve got four children outta the womb, and my wife’s only got two hands.” Elvis had pointed out the obvious and that logic had won over the Snow Job’s dream of reintroducing a rehabilitated and unencumbered Memphis Flash back to the American public.

Colonel Parker then had some ideas about various ways to ship Elaine back to the backwater by cattlecar while Elvis did press in the north -alright he didn’t put it like that but it was the essence of his intent, according to Elaine’s shrewd perception, so much so even her father, Mr. Phipps had balked in offense at the obvious intention of shoving Elaine and her growing belly away from public view.

If Elvis Presley wanted to be so besotted with her that he’d give her five children in less than four years, he could damn well walk down a jetway with her. A sentiment her Mopey agreed with, of course he did.

And before much more fuss could be made, Charlie Hodge and good ole Rex Harrison had spent their newly demobilized time procuring the best train car on the line, and they spent a great deal of Elvis’ money to incentivize that train car to go to Memphis instead of Baltimore.

Those were the sorts of logistics, haggling and arrangements that Elaine usually took great interest and responsibility for negotiating, but freshly arrived from a transatlantic flight, three press conferences deep, decently pregnant and toting four children and a jumpy husband, she found herself ceding such tactical responsibilities for the seemingly endless amount of breast-feeding and lullaby singing her jet-lagged infants needed.

To be honest she was exhausted. As was Elvis. And their children. So much traveling and so much interacting and never a quiet moment. If one pair of twins was down the other roused and neither parent had gotten a full hour of uninterrupted sleep in two days. But still, Elaine felt happy with the warmth finally soaking into her as she snuggled beneath down covers with three little heaters tucked beside her, Daisy Mae dozing at her breast.

And she got to watch Elvis pace and coo and take the responsibility of soothing Rosalee very seriously, he always did.

“C’mon Schnucki, daddy ain’t goin’ nowhere far, hims right here, you jus’ lay your pretty lil head down and close those pretty yittle eyes, alright? You just close them eyes and picture a pretty green lawn with lil blankets on it and wildflowers we can pick and I’ll even get you little lambs to jump around and -that’s home Schnuki, we’re gonna be home tomorrow baby. I know, I know s’been so long for daddy too, hims could cry to, I could, I swear I could but it’s happier to think ‘bout bein’ there soon, and if you close your yittle eyes and dream bout them pretty clover flowers, you’ll get there even sooner. Did ya know that, Schnucki? Sleep makes ya time travel, it does, honest, baby. It does. So you just close those lil eyes-“

His low, murmuring babble was so soothing Elaine felt her arm holding Daisy go limp and she nodded off for a breed second before a resumption of Rosalee’s pitiful fussing jarred her again.

“Elvis baby, let’s try nursing.” she whispered gently, snagging his blazer hem on one of his turns along the little path he’d made and keeping him close.

He pulled Rosalee off his shoulder and held her little onesie clad form at arms length, surveying his inconsolable little one. “I dunno, ya look pretty fat Rosy, but I reckon there’s always room for more, hmm? Hmm baby? You wanna snuggle with mama’s titties, hmm? Get you all nice and warm and full of milk.” he stepped closer to the bed and Elaine scooted aside, with some fear of crushing her other children, to give him room to sit beside her, “C’mon Schnucki, go to mama, baby girl, get your tummy full so those rumbly tumbly feelin’s don’t wake ya up.”

Elvis’ large hands laid his little bundle on the breast that Daisy had not just supped from and helped Elaine position Rosalee in the crook of her mama’s elbow. He helped straighten her legs and tipped her on her side and when she kept turning her little head to watch him instead of focusing on the task in hand, Elvis even fed her little mouth the nipple like feeding a dog a treat. He squished her cheeks closed and tugged at Elaine’s bud until the milk came out and at it sprayed on Rosalee’s palette the baby’s eyes finally lit up.

“There we go,” Elvis laughed quietly, “don’t know what’s good for ya yet. Shouldn't doubt me Schnucki, I knows what’s best for hers, yes I do, and I always wants what’s best and I know, I know that look, good ain’t it? S’warm and sweet and so soft for your cheek, mhmm, nothin’ to fight.” he crouched over her for a minute as she latched and vigorously began to suck, much to Elaine’s relief, and he ran his fingers across her poofy baby cheek.

Elvis and Elaine watched her, too tired to make conversation or wish to break the hypnotically cozy spell Elvis’ cajoling nursery talk had lulled them all into. Jesse stretched in his sleep beside Elaine and cracked open an eye, smiling a silly, happy, lax mouthed smile at seeing his daddy still there. Elvis laid his hand on his boy’s chest and the the little guy turned on his side, rolling his body around it for a moment before falling back to sleep.

“God, y'all look so cozy, could break my heart.” Elvis mumbled as he took his hand back from Jesse’s lax hold, his other still supporting Rosalee’s bum as the baby girl would unlatch and search frantically for him whenever his touch left.

“You could stay.” Elaine pointed out the obvious, reaching her hand to swoop up the glorious flip of hair he had grown out. In the dim light, and even the bright sunshine, now that he’d grown out his army cut, it was more obvious than ever where Rosalee got her chestnut locks. “Don’t have to do press tonight.” she thumbed at his under eyes, marveling how a man could look so beautiful and so exhausted all at once.

“Naw naw, they’re waiting.” he jerked his head back at the sitting room and the low hum of the waiting reporter’s voices through the door, “If I do it tonight, won’t have to do it tomorrow and with any luck they’ll hop off on some northerly station and we’ll have a spot of peace ‘fore Memphis.”

“Alright.” she murmured, holding very still as Rosalee had come unlatched, cheek squished to Elaine’s large breast and her breath coming out in steady little puffs. “Do you think she’s gone?” she asked the man who knew her best after a bit of study.

“I-I think, I think so.” he hesitated, peering at her pink eyelids and the lax set of her mouth.

“She’s gone very limp.” Elaine remarked.

“Here I’ll try takin’ my hand back a-and if that works I’ll wait a minute and get up.” he suggested, slowly pulling his hand away from his infant's body with all the slow precision of a man dismantling a bomb.

Both hands clutched to his chest, Elvis and Elaine watched to see if baby so much as twitched but 48 hours of traveling seemed to catch up with their Rosalee and she didn’t move a muscle. Elvis carefully snagged a pillow and brought it under Elaine’s arm now she was holding all the weight and she carefully snuggled into a position she could maintain without moving for however long the press conference took.

“You alright mamas?” he asked her as he gravely reviewed his precautions for her comfort.

“I’m perfect.” she whispered, pursing her lips and he leaned over her gently, pressing his forehead to her mouth as he knew she wanted. “Oh I’ve stained you.” she lamented, the faded remnants of her lipstick having transferred to his golden face.

He snickered softly and rose from the bed with as little motion as he could, using those strong thighs of his to leverage straight up without a bounce and when he was successful in not waking the Schnucki Monster he went into the en-suite bathroom and reviewed the pale kiss mark above his brow. It was barely noticeable and rather affectingly situated, like a pretty stamp above his more mobile eyebrow.

As Elvis stared at it his heart twisted with a burning loyalty for the woman in bed with his five children while the Colonel’s words ricocheted in his mind until he found himself emphatically redoing his lashes with more than a moderate coat of mascara and after a moment's hesitation, he opened Elaine’s matching toilette bag and took from it today’s shade of coral. Unscrewing the gold cap he pondered it for a moment before leaning into the mirror and gently dabbing it onto the places where her kiss mark failed to make an outline. He was cautious not to overdo it, pulling back to review his entire face and take in the effect.

He had no desire to make her favor look garish, but neither did he want it unnoticed. He looked rather like one of last war’s recruiting posters, white smile, long hair, fresh face with a big smooch printed thereon.

He knew all these press conferences weren’t just about his career. They were according to his manager but for Elvis, he knew he was coming back to a rather different place than he left, social change and an upcoming election had galvanized folks into a sorta mood Elvis hadn’t had the chance to gauge for himself. And in it he wanted to find his footing again, not just as a star but as somebody who could do good. And he couldn’t do nothing without Laney, whatever Parker said, and poor Laney had suffered enough, been put through the American press for her pretty figure and affectionate ways.

And for daring to love him so well.

It wasn’t just his image. It was hers too, that he was re-introducing, and as such he was introducing the parents of his children, going out there to talk about movies was only the side issue, he had the Presley reputation to establish. Tired as he was, Elvis didn’t feel daunted by it, he felt energized and revved up at the prospect of such momentous responsibilities and he snapped the lid on Laney’s lipstick with an emphatic snap of his thumb.

Elvis liked the ‘loved on’ look. He’d never pretended he didn’t with his fan’s love and he wouldn’t with his wife’s.

He exited the bathroom and upon seeing Elaine as dead asleep sitting up in bed as the rest of the babies, he tiptoed out of the cozy space and cracked open the door, squeezing out and shutting it gently, much to the amusement and chuckling cooperation of the reporters waiting outside.

“Whole crew’s sleepin’ in there, gotta stay quiet, man. How’re y’all doing?” he asked them, basking in the colder air that whistled through the cracked window and took his seat on one of the benches, splitting a smile as a camera flash whited out his vision.

It had been near twenty minutes when Elaine was roused from the dead and dreamless sleep she’d fallen into by the shift of Rosalee’s sweaty little head on her chest. She increased the calming pressure of her hand on the little girl’s back and held very still, hoping it was a gesture in sleep. It wasn’t. Soon after she began to root around and whimper, upon waking up enough to notice soft feminine flesh beneath her cheek she began to fully cry, endangering the rest of the others. Elaine promptly untangled herself and stood up, walking away from the others, pacing by the door, trying to hush her poor infant.

“-besides those three films lined up I-I-I really d-don’t have plans, no, I-I-“ Elvis paused in his answer as the sound of crying came from the inner room. He knew which baby it was and his heart clenched.

“Oops!” one of the reporters snickered, a sympathetic father who knew how annoying it could be to have a baby crying all night, keeping a guy up and the wife not able to make it hush.

“I-I uh…” Elvis tried to go on but the cries increased and while it wouldn’t disturb the journalists or even be perceptible on the recordings, he couldn’t bear it. “If you’ll excuse me, gentleman.” he apologized as he rose, determined and unabashed as he crossed across the train car and wove through the pack of reporters back to the suite door.

“Oh darling I’m sorry.” Laney gushed as he slipped in and cast a wary glance at the stirring children left in the bed.

“Don’t be.” he told her sharply and didn’t even ask for the baby, just took her out of Elaine’s arms with surety and sushed her with his familiar hums. “Ain’t no reason to be apart, we’ll just buddy up for this, huh Schnucki?” he murmured and Elaine’s eyes went wide.

“You’re going to do press with -a child?” It wasn’t an image anyone in Hollywood or even politics really tried to create, the family man leading man wasn’t really a seller at the box office or in the gossip column. Not unless he had affairs and regularly got redeemed by famous children, she supposed the Fairbanks might yet prove role models.

“I’m gonna hold my baby while they ask me questions.” he framed it with a pointed look and placed a kiss of his own on Elaine's forehead, “Now I can’t keep ‘em waiting. Go get warm, go, move that cute lil butt, go, shoo!” he swatted her nighty clad backside until she had the covers up to her chin again and Ella tucked into her side. It wasn’t till he had turned back and headed out the door that Elaine gasped in recognition of the kiss mark.

The chattering greetings of the journalists upon his re-emergence quieted as soon as they noticed the bundle in his arms as he stepped back through their ranks to his seat. Sitting with all the nonchalant confidence of a king as he tucked his pacified child into the crook of his elbow and patted her bottom rhythmically with a bejeweled hand. Those who had once lingered around him on tour, chasing him down backstage to snatch sound bites and headliner quotes over the scream of women and the edgy young performers' preoccupation with kissing and winking at every passing female were astounded by the change.

Bob Gary, one of the reporters who had covered his stardom since the hayride and had the pleasure of meeting Miss Gladys, god rest her, was a little less astounded than others that her wild boy had in him the makings of a lovely young man. Bob always thought Elvis was respectful and always got a sense of goodness when around Elvis. It made sense Elvis would set his mind to good fatherhood and perform its functions with as little shame as he felt when moving to his music. “Now who do we have here?” Bob asked kindly after the quiet room got a little too absurd even by journalistic standards.

“We’ve got a pretty little lady joining us, gentleman, this is Rosalee Presley, prefers to be called Schnuki but maybe not by you strange men. Heh.” Elvis proclaimed his sniveling baby’s chosen name proudly and jostled her mopey self a little, only succeeding in making her pout further into his jacket but the tears had ceased. “All this travelin’ has been doin’ their heads in, man, my poor babies. So, you mustn’t mistake her whinin’ as personality, ya see she’s been a very stable baby, hasn’t ever been outside Germany, ‘cept for a trip to Paris, and now she’s across the whole ocean. That’s a heap of miles for a yittle itty-bitty thang like her, you understand gentleman? So as I was sayin’, my lil daughter’s most congenial, most nights, gonna have to forgive her tonight*

Bob Gary laughed as did a few of the press who were equally lost on the topic but eager to return to their questions. “Why can’t her mother calm her?” one fellow asked benignly and Elvis squinted at him, jaw tickling before he smoothed his face and shrugged:

“My wife’s jugglin’ four kids in there, includin’ the one cookin and she does a remarkable job.'' Perhaps Elvis said it sharper than he meant to, but Bob Gary licked his pencil stub and got to writing, paper didn’t convey tone unless the writer mentioned it. “A-a-and see, me and my Rosalee,” the young father went on, “we’re the same, two peas in a pod. I’m the same when she ain’t around, get all mopey and the like. I do man, I do. Got my own lil wooby here, uhuh. What? Oh ha! Sure sure, call it that. Emotional crutch, whatever man I-I-I -all I know is I-I need her, man. What? You ain’t ever wanted to hang out with your kid? They’re a heap of fun man, don’t talk over ya neither.”

“Can we see her face, Elvis?” Asked one hopeful with his camera at the ready.

Elvis thoughtfully prodded Rosalee’s pink cheek but the little girl was always shy of crowds, worse yet when they were masculine ones and despite Elvis’ little pokes his baby only burrowed deeper, as if aware of his query and answering it with a wriggle that buried her face beneath his jacket’s lapel.

“Aww man, I think she’s too shy for that.” Elvis decided, carefully tucking her further in, her chubby little legs, two dangling feet and the back of her reddish head the only visible parts of her. “Now I don’t want y’all thinkin’ this is her usual personality, -all the travellin’s been rough on her.”

“I bet it’s hard on all the kids.”

“I-i-it’s challenging, sure.” Elvis nodded, running a soothing hand up her sweaty back, “But we’re headed home. Gonna be right as rain, soon as we get to Memphis, I just know it. Ya know these last two, they were born in Germany! Ain’t ever been home yet, they’re restless for it.”

That seemed a bit improbable for a bunch of city slickers who considered home to be a vague notion of rented flats and let rooms and so one asked:

“__Mr. Presley, you’ve quite the large family now, uh, how old is your daughter? Hard to keep up.“

“She’s not yet one.”

“—And your wife’s already expecting again, correct?“

“Yessir she is.” Elvis nodded soberly and he felt little Rosalee begin to forget her bashfulness and twist herself a little so she could play with the rings on his left hand.

“Does the growth of your family surprise you? It certainly surprised the rest of the nation. Do you have any regrets?“

Elvis thought about the adoring bundle in his arms who gave him all the terrifyingly unconditional trust he always wanted to be saddled with and stuttered out a reply after clearing his throat, “Well uh, no sir, not really. My wife she -she was on me like a duck on a junebug, sir, right away like. And uh, I saw it as my peace keepin’ duty to keep her peaceful, ya see? Heh. So, so anyways, we’ve got all these kids now and I find them mighty precious. They’re the most special things I’ve ever had. I-I- didn’t-what we had gentleman, when we married -it weren’t no great romance, see, it were rather like the reasons our parents married. Course I love her now but we’re intentional and this is what we wanted. She’s made what coulda been some of the darkest years of my life, well she -she’s made them the best. Awww yeah you too Schnucki, yesss, of course hers too.” he trailed off with a coo as Rosalee raised her face to watch him, learning by his tone that he was talking about mama.

“—What do you expect for your little family, what with you gone to work on the movie contracts Colonel Parker has lined up for you?“

“Oh well, they’re comin’ with me, ain’t no question of that. Whole family I-I-I gotta have ‘em. They’re not a favorite pillowcase you can leave behind. Colonel Parker says the trailer ain’t big enough but he forgets they’re lil still, we all fit in a single bed. Sleep that way most nights, they’re all yittle still. And I need ‘em. They’ll be with me.”

“What’s Miss Rosalee think about seeing palm trees, huh?” the same hopeful as before, this time with his damn camera lowered, took the liberty of grabbing at one of her little feet, intending to wag it playfully but Miss Rosalee let out a wounded cry of disbelief and climbed up her father’s chest with the alacrity of a hunted koala.

Elvis tried to moderate his voice when he cautioned the young journalist, “She don’t wanna be touched, man, please don’t.” but nothing could temper the cool blue flame of his eyes at the guy’s presumption. “Hey, hey hers ok, yes hers is.” he whispered to his baby and slowly brought her down into his lap, a curled little dough ball in a soft pink onesie. “Here Schnucki, curl in baby, have at it.”

He opened his jacket wide and exposed a soft sweater beneath his blazer, dark red and with a deep neckline, he’d bought it for the cowl neck he liked for shielding from the wintry gusts and hiding his chicken neck from photographers. Rosalee likes the way it warms her up and tickles her nose, she burrows her face into his chest so fast it’s comical and the guys laughed as did Elvis gently, all while he closed his blazer back around her little body and gathered up her one vulnerable outlier in his large hands - her little footsies.

“I dunno what y’all are laughin’ at.” Elvis pretended ignorance, crooked grin about ready to split his face, “There ain’t nothin’ here, man, nothin’!” he protested as the guys wheezed in amusement over the tiny, frizzy shock of chestnut hair sticking out the top of his buttoned coat. “Now’re you fools gonna ask me about formula brands or hollywood, hmm?”

The next thirty minutes passed uneventfully, for Rosalee at least. It was warm and damp in daddy’s jacket, against his chest and she could feel the thoughtful rumble of his answers buzzing her right cheek. When he was done she felt a little whoosh of flight as he stood up but she was safe, his arm kept her anchored to him and the buttons cocooning her near his chest held up. She had been oblivious to the nervous way her daddy sweated when he dodged answering about who he’d vote for in the coming election but she had felt when he had tensed at a question about her parents’ taped phone call. She raised a clammy hand out the top of his jacket and patted his jaw till he had laughed. The press laughed too. He never answered that question after all. Rosalee smiled a proud baby smile against his sweater.

All Miss Rosalee knew was daddy laughed and then he calmed and his chest rumbled some more then there was a whoosh and the jostling of him shaking hands and soon he was walking, she could feel the bounce of his gait. “We fooled them, didn’t we Schnucki.” she heard him whisper down into the jacket.

The soft click of the door. Mama was near.

And soon, Rosalee felt a chilly little gust as the inferno was opened and the faint lights of the bedroom suite crept in as daddy unbuttoned his jacket and gently laid her down next to mama on the bed before stripping out of his clothes. Mama lay on her side in the bed and deftly slipped the lacy strap of her nighty off her shoulder, gently cupping Rosalee’s head to her breast, hoping for cooperation.

Without preamble or hesitation the little girl latched on for her midnight snack.

Elvis was slipping in beside them, tucked in with Rosalee between himself and Elaine, when his pretty wife chuckled in disbelief.

“What is it baby?” he asked, whopped from all the diplomacy and melting like butter on pancakes at the mere proximity to his little tribe.

“You smart little lady,” Elaine murmursd to Rosalee in admiration, “you know your daddy isn’t leaving anymore and now you want to eat, huh?”

Elvis grinned with half his pretty face smashed into the pillow, trying in vain to stay awake to watch one of his favorite activities under the sun -his wife feeding his babies from her own body. His eyes began to droop anyway and he found himself jolting periodically, having drifted off.

The third time he awoke like this he felt Laney’s cool fingers gently tugging his eyelids down, smudging the mascara but soothing him, “Night, night mopey, you can go now, she’s gone, too.”

Hope y’all enjoyed! Your “bugging” and “screaming” is music to my ears, fuel to my fire and keeps me writing, please never hold back -this is a safe space for feral little Elvis loving rodents…like you and me.

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[aconflagrationofmyown]

Even Educated Fleas Do It

A Sarge & lil Mama episode (wedding night)

Warnings 18+ -smut! breeding kink, innocence kink, cream pies, unfortunately historically accurate portrayal of female naïveté regarding sexual acts, male entitlement to female bodies, copious dirty talk, virginity loss. This is mostly fluffy and tender and sweet with a few VERY rabid moments and feral sentences. 20k of smut and it’s surrounding auras…I have a headcanon that Baby Elvis resorts to being a bit of an ass in order to maintain his slipping control, whereas a more mature era of the man he only chooses to be a bastard out of the fun of it

Credits: my supreme thanks to the indefatigable @prompted-wordsmith for editing this mammoth and her few choice additions of sentences, and also to my discord wives: Christi, Ally and Birdy who cheered me on and really made this happen with their feedback, suggestions and enthusiasm. Lastly, to all my darling readers who’s hype for this has carried me through and now we are all saddled with this monstrosity. Y’all are the best, I live off your comments and love. Xoxo, Marina 🌹

Elaine’s fingers glide admiringly against richly black, quartz marble countertops, glinting back at her almost as brightly as the gold mirror and the gold faucets and gold tub–everything is golden up here in the master bathroom. Even the sink is gold plated, she realizes with a giggle, and stares at her reflection in the basin, flushed face and curls hanging about her features as she looks downward, distracted by the opulence and the shininess and the ability to finally breathe. An endeavor which would be aided if she obeyed her new husband—heavens to Betsy, she has a husband!—and took off her wedding gown and girdle.

She chose a simple dress to be married in, long and slender, the style and measurements entrusted to the Smith cousins and delivered by them with remarkable effect. Demure yet elegant, she felt it was a nod to the silhouette of the future, prom crinolines and ball gowns abandoned for a more streamlined effect that set off her waist to perfection, or so her wedding guests told her. And for tonight’s purposes, it had a handy zipper down the back of it that she now tugged loose to her immense relief.

It was a little puzzling, the way Elvis had torn her away from Dodger’s admonishments and hurried her upstairs to sleep, only to then shoo her into the bathroom to undress herself. Some silly part of her thought he might kiss her when they arrived up there alone, maybe dance a little, maybe help with the zipper. But he had looked very feverish and a little scared when he told her she was looking worn out, and then ushered her upstairs as the whole house party fell dead silent below them in their wake. Funny, the whole thing had felt a little funny, and they’d been having such a nice little party after the vows, daddy had been a little weepy and Elvis had looked so handsome and she had to pinch herself a dozen times that this event she’d planned was her wedding.

Her wedding—it didn’t feel real. Not without mama here, she realized, that was the missing part to it all. Mama. Hers, and his. They were both missing them. She worked at the brassiere clasps and stifled the little cry she felt coming up her throat, memories flooding in of the first time she saw Graceland.

Elvis had tore down to the studio in his fancy car, begging any and everyone to see the place he bought for his family. Father had been too busy with Cash but mama was not. So, she and Elaine had piled into his pink Cadillac and let that happy puppy of a boy whisk them away to a world of antebellum dreaminess for the afternoon. Gold, there had been so much gold even then, and Mama had ribbed the boy mercilessly about his decor choices as only Mrs. Phipps could get away with,

“Elvis dear, it looks like a tart’s bedroom up here,” she had teased him in the master where Elaine’s groom was now waiting for her daughter to make an appearance.

He had turned bright red before dissolving into hiccuping laughs that her mama had joined. He hasn’t changed the decor, gaudy chandelier hanging above a gold damask bedspread, gilt mirrors everywhere on the walls with black padded headboards and doors. It was… unique, and a little ominous if she was being honest, although maybe that had been her nerves over him rushing her up here so fast, so…urgently.

“June’s gonna love it, E!” Elaine recalls gushing to him on that first house tour, entirely unsure if June would indeed love it, but certain that anyone would be honored to be mistress of such a place, though that honor had then been firmly Miss Gladys’s right at the time.

Now it’s all hers.

Elaine swallows hard and rubs at the angry red lines on her belly and breasts that show in the mirror from her girdle, thinking of the weight of that. Thinking of how she had been wrong. This—kingdom—wasn’t for June, this had been for her.

Elaine pulls on the silky, shimmery slip he had given her the money to treat herself to, watching it as it spills over her curves and drapes her kindly. The soft baby blue color makes her skin look tan even in the wintertime and her eyes shimmer dark and smokey in the dimmed vanity lights. It takes her aback a little, the prettiness of the picture she sees in the mirror, hair freshly loosened from its pins and looking like it does when he’s had his hands in it. The kiss-nipped red of her lips is no cosmetic allusion, he’d devoured her lipstick right off a few minutes into married life, clutching her to him in the foyer, acting like hiding by the front door made them discreet.

She touches their puffy vibrancy with a small smile, thinking of him, thinking of being loved. Thinking of mansions and gold sinks and graves dug, thinking of the boy outside the door who did far more than fall in love with her. He provided, and he did it with intent. A great deal of intent. Her heart does a flip at that.

It gives her the bravery to fluff herself in the slip and ignore the nervous tremble threatening to keep her holed up in here, her skimpy attire making her blush for reasons she doesn’t know. Such silliness. She looks pretty, and she is loved. She sets her shoulders back and turns the knob.

Elvis has been pacing a furrow in the plush carpet of his bedroom and berating himself for many things, chiefly having shooed his wife away into the bathroom the first private moment they’d had together.

He is an idiot, he concludes, a prize idiot.

He should have trapped her against the door and kissed the daylights outta her, maybe laid her out all romantically on the bed and caressed her like the movies taught her to expect. At least helped undo the damn zipper. But no, no he panicked, and trying to be a good man, he had sent her into the bathroom alone to strip while he talked his heart and cock into some semblance of restraint. He tears at his hair and tosses his suit jacket on the chair and tries to think of what he’s gonna do, how he’s gonna manage this. He had come across Dodger and Elaine in a tête-à-tête and heard the words from his Grandma:

“Make sure that boy licks ya nice and good ‘fore he tries to stick his pecker in—”

and had proceeded to panic and grab his new bride and hustle her upstairs for “sleep”. He’d caught Mr. Phipps’s pleading eyes on the way up and now he felt like a first team all American pervert. Gone was the sweet, comforting weight of the wedding vows, the religious aura the day had carried with it. Replacing that was a deep seated shame for how often he’d wanked to the thought of this night and all it entails.

In his dreams it had been fun to shock the girl by bending her over and putting it in, watching her eyes go wide and her struggle under him to adjust, but that was before he loved Elaine, he thinks. Now he tears at his hair, paces his bedroom eyeing the bathroom door like it’ll open and release a lion, and wonders how he’s gonna cherish her like he should, when his wants and his adoration keep vying for the upper hand. She boils his blood, shoots lightening up his spine and keeps him stiff at all times, and simultaneously, he is warm pudding when she smiles, and bluer than robin’s eggs when she’s sad.

The weight of getting all he ever wanted, the weight of actually having married himself off, the weight of mama’s hope coming true and her buried right under the window—he feels a little unhinged by it all, and he starts mumbling out incoherent prayers for guidance and self control and a capacity to not fuck up Elaine Presley’s first time. Because that’s just it: she’s Elaine Presley now, and he has a duty to the woman he married ‘afore God to make it good, t-to…

The bathroom door opens and the shimmering vision of Elaine and her feminine assets clad in nothing but a silk slip stops him dead in his tracks, his mouth liable to catch flies it gapes so at her beauty. She looks poised even jiggling and nipple perked in a light drape of silk, and he inwardly curses when her initial confidence seems to flag upon noticing the state he’s in.

Fully dressed with just his suit jacket discarded and here she is near naked—it’s not kind, he knows that, and curses again at his self absorption.

He looks like he’s gone a little mad, she thinks, and she can tell he’s been tearing at his hair in that fidgety way of his when he’s working himself up to a frenzy. It won’t do him good, she knows him, knows he’ll start hyperventilating and that always panics him.

It’s this urge to calm him that has her forgetting her bashfulness and crossing the floor to embrace him, his warm and clothed body pressed against hers in a hug he returns fervently.

“Ya look like an angel,” he rasps his praise in her ear and she is so pleased by that, and by the look of awed admiration on his face that makes her forget to blush, too pleased to be coy.

“Do ya have a new bird, Elvis?” she asks him, trying to distract him from whatever it is that has him so anxious she can near feel him vibrating against her.

“Uh, umm, a bird?” he is truly thrown by that and more than a little distracted by the feel of slippery silk curves molding to him in his arms.

“Dodger was saying—”

Dodger was talking about “peckers” he recalls, and is fast to cut her off in a great rush,

“No, no uh, I haven’t got no bird—sides you,” he jokes weakly and fails to add more, just staring down at Elaine in his arms, Elaine who stares back, her expression curious and amused and maybe a tad unsure.

Of course she’s unsure, you fool, he berates himself after finding his way back to steady thought. God, he should… do something.

“Elvis,” she pipes up and her voice is small but hopeful, “can I help you get comfortable?” and she thumbs at the ruffles of his dress shirt.

He feels his flush paint his neck and his body feels like it’s alight, but it’s perfectly reasonable for her to ask. It’s just that he knows her sweet confidence stems from her not even knowing enough to be bashful, and that’s… heady.

“Yeah,” he croaks and squeezes her to him once more before letting her set work to undoing the ruffled shirt he wore, sans tie.

She’s methodical and steady undoing the shirt, even as she flicks those lined eyes up at him, desperate for his assuring little nods and pleased smiles. He takes to stroking her cheek, running his knuckles across the high bones there and over her bitten lips, she kisses them with each pass.

Last button undone she spreads the fabric apart and places her hands on his chest, a wild delight showing on her face as she runs her hands across his pecs and collar bones, down to his belly, swooping up and down his arms, taking the shirt with it.

It falls to the ground and yet her hands continue to glide across his fevered skin entranced by the warmth and the contours. She’s wanted to feel his heartbeat for a long while now. Watching that tattle tale vein in his neck thump was the closest thing she could content herself with all these months. Her hands drift to his neck and sure enough, it’s thumping like a race horse at a gallop.

She excites him. That thought makes her eyes flick down to his trousers, recalling that strange spurt against her backside on the swing. He’d called that excitement, too.

She moves to open the button of his slacks and his belly sucks in with the breath he holds, she can feel it against her knuckles as she undoes it. She rubs her knuckles soothingly against the fine trail of hair disappearing into his waistband, it makes him shudder instead.

So far, everything on display she has seen before at the pool with him, but more, the prospect of more makes her heart speed up and her curious mind whirl. She’s a little preoccupied with all this as she starts to push the pants over his hips and while he doesn’t prevent her, his motion is a bit jerky when he clasps his hands around her jaw and tilts her eyes away from his hips and the curious bulge there, up to his face.

She hears his belt and the fabric thud to the floor just as his lips descend to meet hers, and then she grows distracted by the kiss he melts her with.

“Hey you,” he whispers hot and breathy against her lips, pillowy plushness rubbing together, kiss-slick and scorching.

And he’s right, it feels like finally seeing each other for the first time today. They’ve a decent rapport together when surrounded by friends and acquaintances, a very seamless dance of social politeness and steadying closeness. But nothing compares to the way they sizzle and melt when it’s just the two of them, like their inner selves are finally allowed to make a showing on their faces in the form of dazed smiles and in the slump of their shoulders, the bellies no longer held in nor the sighs longing to spill out.

“Oh, Elvis,” she manages to gasp, grinning and huffing at the proximity, the way her nipples rub against his chest from the crush of his embrace, just a silken layer between them, and it sends electric static down to her very toes.

“Ya happy?” he dares to ask because she is grinning so silly and sweet right there in his arms.

“Terribly happy!” she doesn’t bother with aloofness, her hands kneading his shoulders and he breathes again, recalling that this is Elaine, sweet Elaine who has gentled him back into the land of the living these last few weeks by simply knowing and caring for him, and while it’s a terrifying responsibility to do right by her—it’s also the best thing to ever happen to him. Elaine, here, in his arms, in his room, as his wife.

“Just ya wait till I get some champagne in ya,” he teases, waggling her chin in his hand and she looks surprised and a little excited by that.

“Elvis I-I’m too young,” she whispers, a guilty and hopeful little thing that suggests she is very amenable to champagne.

“You naughty lil thing, I see that hopeful glimmer in’ya eye,” he clicks his tongue and she giggles, “It’s lawful if your husband pours it for ya.”

“Is that so?” she bites her lip and her eyes twinkle up at him, falling easily into the banter, “Then I’d like to try it—since it’s lawful and all.”

“Mhmm, champagne, an’ a record, that’ll set us up jus’ right, I think.” He’s nearly buzzing himself, feels a little drunk even though there’s not a drop of alcohol in him.

“Don’t want ya to have to go down to the kitchen and leave me, though,” she admits, a little shy. His gut clenches at the confession, the way her lashes dip and fan over her cheekbones. He’d get beat by his mama if’n she knew of the unholy thoughts the pout of her lips made him think. He reels himself back to the present with a persistence that few things in his life made him exercise. For Elaine, his patience was boundless, because she doesn’t wanna be alone, or, rather, she wants to be alone with him. The simple acknowledgement sends his heart racing in hope that he’s managing to do something right, enough that she can’t bear for him to even pop down to the kitchen for a minute.

“Guess what, sugar?” he grins while fluffing her hair away from her face and she perks up, that mouth lifting inquiringly, “I got a refrigerator in the closet.”

“No!”

“Yup.” Elvis’ boyish grin grows until it’s a dazzling, proud smile and he begins to back up, she goes with, still clinging to his arms and giggling in excitement as he backs them into the gargantuan changing room.

“Where?” she cranes her neck this way and that, soon spinning in his arms as she tries to spy a refrigerator amongst the rows and rows of custom suits and well stocked shelving.

He holds up his finger for her attention, and gathering all his showmanship, backs away from her until he reaches the built-in cabinets and with a dramatic flourish flings open the wooden door to reveal his mini Frigader.

“No. Way,” she enunciates dramatically as her pretty mouth hangs open in delight and his own heart clenches and-

-God! Elaine! I can give you so much, he thinks, hang in there with me, I can give so much, I'll make ya fall in love.

He throws her a wink before bending over and retrieving the planted bottle and chilled glasses from inside. The fact he’s bent over double in just his briefs only registering when he’s already got his head half in the refrigerator, and her burning stare threatens to light his ass on fire. He straightens up and spins round to present her with his ribbon adorned findings, noticing her blush scarlet and flick her eyes back to his face.

-My, my, Miss Elaine, what a curious little mind you have.

He kicks the fridge closed and closes the distance between them again, handing her the glasses while taking her other hand in his and leading her back into the dimly lit bedroom. She sets the glasses on the sideboard top and goes to put the needle down on the record after he tells her “Ella’s already on there”, while he smoothes down the profusion of crinkle ribbon around the bottle neck in preparation to open it.

Elaine adjusts the needle and gets the record going and soon Ella Fitzgerald croons warmly:

-Birds do it, bees do it

She turns back around and watches as Elvis begins to gnaw on the champagne cork with his million watt, pearly white money-making teeth.

“What on earth are you doin’?” she protests, hurrying back to him. He’s like a rabbit with the thing, she thinks humorously.

-Even educated fleas do it,

He pulls the spit slicked cork away from his mouth to explain in a loathing huff, “Forgot to bring an opener up here.” And he doesn’t want to leave his baby, goes unsaid, doesn’t wanna leave her since she said she didn’t want him to leave.

-So let’s do it, let’s fall in love

Elaine’s lip wobbles into a fond smirk even as she tries to maintain some sternness, “You’ll break a tooth, E!” she warns even as her heart throbs at the sweetness of it.

“Nah, nah I’ll get it, my baby wanted champagne n’ she’s gonna have it,” he insists as she makes aborted little movements with her hands to try to aid him but is unsure of what to do or hold. “Here, hold the end, I’m gonna try’n pull it out, probably gonna gush so, be ready.”

And so Elaine finds herself in a laughing fit, holding onto the bulbous bottom of a champagne bottle as Elvis Presley himself buries his nose in the thatch of ribbons and gnaws the cork loose, like a dog with a bone, yanking this way and that while growling playfully around it.

“This is the silliest thing—” she wheezes even as his jaw’s yanking motion makes her feet slip closer, her light weight losing ground in this tug-o-war until suddenly there’s a pop and down he goes, flat on his ass, cork in mouth, champagne showering him from above.

He’s curled in on himself at her feet, all long tan limbs contorted and white briefs quickly becoming transparent, crunched in half from the force of his laughter and partly to shield his eyes from the alcohol rain. She watches in a bit of a state, though she’s unsure of what kind, as golden alcohol glistens over that heart, pools in every divot of him and even sparkles tauntingly on inky lashes.

“Quick, quick catch it baby!” he waves at her frantically through his wheezing hiccups, “With your mouth, put it in yer mouth!” he explains and she suddenly snaps her attention away from watching his underwear cling to him and brings the bottle up to her mouth.

She chugs on command, her throat working rhythmically and her eyes wide at the new taste, bubbly spillage glossing up her chin and chest and down her slip, a dark trail that makes his mouth dry out with thoughts of other things. She pulls away with a gasp and a wet pop as he struggles to his knees, cupping himself like that’ll detract from his obvious outline, thanking heaven his jitters seem to have kept him half mast.

“Here, it’s fizzy,” she informs him like that’s news to him before bringing the bottle down to his lips and tipping the champagne into his slack mouth. His hands fly out to rest on her hips, steadying himself as she pours the celebratory drink down his throat. “Cheers!” she giggles as he taps out his max capacity on her hips, his breath fully gone and his cheeks bulging with the fizz.

“Here’s to you, Mrs. Presley,” he gasps after his swallow, smiling up at her stupidly sweet.

Elaine isn’t sure if it’s his breathlessness, those fathomless blue eyes looking up at her adoringly or the way he’s proving he’d do anything to please her, but she’s suddenly filled with a burning compulsion to eat him up. And she acts on it, bending down to slot their mouths together, one hand gripping his sticky shoulder and the other still holding onto the bottle neck.

He rises to his feet in an effortlessly smooth motion, hands dragging up the curve of her as he goes until they tangle in her hair, his arms criss crossed over her back and then the real kissing begins, the kind he had figured he’d gentle her into but she seems to have already found a taste for. It’s open mouthed and sloppy and she nearly lets the bottle slip from her hand as she seems to levitate right out of her skin and upwards to some hot and hazy sphere where a pink tongue dances with her own.

And sweet Lord, she loves the way he kisses her, large hands yanking her head back by her hair so he can pour his passion into her keening mouth from above, his arms encompassing her shoulders and pressing her to him, his plush mouth working her up to a frenzy. She squeezes his shoulder, in retribution or encouragement, she doesn’t know which, for the ache he always manages to spark in her belly. Speaking of, his soaked underwear is pressed to her belly and dampening the fabric of her slip so it, too, becomes tacky and drags as he shifts against her, almost like they’re riding waves together, grappling in a gentle struggle for leverage in this caress.

-electric eels, I might add, do it, though it shocks ‘em I know,

She’s a responsive little thing, his new wife, and fiesty in her affection, too. Her nails dig into his back and make him hiss pleasurably and he finds he can’t help but hump the little curve of her belly beneath the silk, wet briefs tantalizingly coarse against his cock. It occurs to him this is a precious moment, for many reasons, but particularly for the fact that never again will she kiss him without at least some anticipation of more to follow. What’s a kiss that goes nowhere? A kiss that devours and consumes and grapples and bites but has no destination? Her whole body conforms to his in an effort to get closer as they sway in the middle of his bedroom floor, but she knows of nothing after this, she doesn’t know it’s leading anywhere. The kiss is all she knows. It’s like she has an incomplete map, one he gets to draw the big red ‘X’ at the end of. He wonders if a body can combust if kissed long enough, if he can make her shatter apart just by ignorant need and a searingly good necking. He pours more energy into plundering her mouth and ignores her whimpers begging for a breath.

Elaine finds her free hand sliding from his shoulder down the plush side of his ribs, tacky with champagne, and thumbs at the soaked waistband of his briefs. It makes him break their kiss at last, near drowned for air and his eyes wild as he rears back to study her face.

“You’re getting me sticky,” she whispers smilingly and watches him lick her spit from his lips with a languid tongue.

“Ya could just say you want me nekid,” he quips, and nearly swallows his tongue in horror right after, holding his breath to see how the joke lands.

Elaine is… taken aback, judging by the way her eyes widen and her cheeks flame bright in the dim light of the bedroom, but she truthfully shrugs and murmurs while staring past him, “I would really like to see ya, E.”

“Whatever you want, baby,” he whispers back earnestly and she flicks her eyes back to meet his before her smile returns and she makes a motion to one handedly strip him before thinking better of it.

She takes another chug from the champagne bottle instead and he chuckles, making a motion with his hands to hand it to him when she’s done. She gives it over and he gulps down the liquid courage while trying to go somewhere else as Elaine begins to carefully peel his soaked tighty whities down his legs. Her yittle fingers make it mighty difficult.

-God, I hope she’s at least seen a penis before, he prays. Or, or actually no. I hope she hasn’t, I hope she has no fuckin clue about any other man, most certainly no trimmed up, affluent, all American, circumcised one.

While he’s busy making his nose burn with the bubbles he’s downing like water, Elaine takes a moment to feast her eyes on tan thighs and the boney cradle of his hips, defined by a lean belt of muscle descending from his abdomen and that faint dusty trail of hair that was pointing downwards to a destination after all. He’s pink and soft and harmless looking down there, very much like the anatomy sketches she’s seen in the medical books. A limp little tail-like thing that hangs between his legs with a sheath of skin covering it, pillowed atop a very heavy looking sack that’s a couple shades darker than the shaft thingy. Maybe men have a bladder on the outside, she ponders.

She finds herself a little relieved, and also stupidly endeared. It’s his privates, she should let him be, they’re not like hers that have a dual purpose of child bearing and peeing. They’re just his soft parts and he’s terribly sweet to let her satisfy her curiosity about them, and so she rises back to her feet with a pleased sigh, having refrained from the stupid impulse of reaching out and grabbing hold of them. Elvis lets out a ragged sigh of his own and looks like he’s trying to read her brain as she presses another kiss to his lips.

“Thank ya,” she chirps and he raises his eyebrows in surprise that this is going so well.

It goes well until it gets weird. And by weird Elvis means his sweet young wife starting to circle him like he’s a damn statue, her hand trailing over his skin and letting out appreciative little noises at the way his muscles twitch beneath her fingers. His ribs tickle and his arms jitter and his back tenses and then there’s that throat closing feeling of her palming the swell of his ass, admiring and entitled as you please. He feels a bit like a prize horse, being eyed up at auction, Elaine the buyer that’s testing to see if he’s a well-bred stallion. Seeing if he’s a good breeding partner, if he’s made of good stock.

Elaine’s appraisal halts at his other side, she’s got a hand gliding up his sternum like the feel of sparse chest hair is equal to the most priceless Persian rug, and her other hand keeps petting the swell of his ass as she presses kisses to his shoulder—oh god help him, he likes it, much as it makes him squirm, this entirely unexpected review of his assets has him standing at attention and hoping she approves. Something else starts to try to stand to attention and it’s through a helpless sort of mortified resignation he feels little Elvis twitch in earnest. The sorta twitch that’ll lead to precum sputtering out soon enough.

She notices. Of course she does, he feels her lips fall away from his shoulder so she can peer over it at the growing developments, and with unerring accuracy she repeats the motion she had just made, expecting a similar result if providing the right equation. His cock is feeling benevolent if a little demure tonight, and he can’t help but flex his hips as the next rush of blood makes the thing move again. Oh damn, he thinks, they’re getting somewhere now, and he’s not yet given a single lesson.

Elaine had long harbored a rather inordinate curiosity about the male figure, her swimming hole adventures and glimpses of mechanics stripped down covered in grease had all inspired a rather alarming curiosity in her girlish head as to what the male form looked like… unimpeded. She thought it silly that there was such emphasis on men’s tastes being visual, on pinups and advertising girls selling dish soap that had nothing to do with the bikinis prominently filled out. For her, Marlon Brando swaggering around in a sweat soaked singlet had done more to convince her to move to a New Orleans tenement than all those skimpy dressed floozies ever had ever convinced a regular ole father of three to buy Lucky Strikes. But to touch? To feel searing hot masculine blood pumping right beneath that terribly smooth skin and the dip and give of his muscles beneath her palm? Her chest aches and her hands move of their own accord, wondrously eager to make him wag between his legs again, like a happy tail swelling and jerking with each squeeze she gives his butt.

“Elvis, you’re so pretty,” she gushes the admiration swirling around and around in her mind and feels the whole long, lean, glorious length of his shudder at the comment.

She’s enchanted with his body, he realizes, he’s pleasing to her, and her hands flutter in a hopeless want to touch him everywhere and it’s all he can do not to seize a dainty hand and wrench her away from this sweet perusal and make her grip him here he needs it. He wants, needs, filthy things from her. And she just thinks he’s pretty. The moan he stifles with his hand is only fuel to her fire.

“Uh—” he begins, figuring he better get somethin about the mechanics of things out before this sweetness turns him feral and the tempting thoughts to just… sneak it in her… take precedence in his brain.

“What’s it doin’?” she interrupts instead, and he savors the feel of her holding his bare waist while he pinches the bridge of his nose, taking steady breaths, forcing some blood back up to his brain.

“I-i-it’s, it’s gettin’ excited,” he figures is an honest start, “F-firmin up.”

“Why?” she asks curiously, sounding ever so child-like, still petting his sides like, like—like he’s her pet.

He wouldn’t mind being her pet. He’s foolin’ himself thinkin’ he isn’t already, she’s just embracing her role with innocent confidence, unencumbered by silly knowledge of roles and shit, like he is.

“Well, uh, it’s, it’s—” he bites his lip harshly before gently grabbing her arms and moving her round to face him, stroking her neck soothingly while keeping her at a safe distance where her silk clad belly won’t encourage little Elvis any faster. “It’s gotta firm up as, it’s, it’s, it’s my key, baby,” he explains gently, watching with burning concentration for any flicker of understanding flitting across her earnest face.

“Your key?” she repeats gravely, that nagging feeling returning that there’s more to this… marriage business… then she’s been told, and she’s about at the end of her patience with being fobbed off the topic. “Elvis—” she goes to appeal for an answer to his generous nature, the lush set of his features above her sweet and sultrily eager as her own, encouraging her that he’ll humor her—

“Elaine, we gotta have a business meetin’,” he declares, effectively cutting her off, and it’s the voice he uses at conference tables with the colonel or with reporters but she knows it’s him scrambling to grab hold of some control. Ever wary of the delicate state of his emotions these days, she holds her peace. “Bout, b-bout marriage,” he clarifies and for the first time since coming up here, a cold shard of fear slices through the gooey warmth of his presence.

“Alright,” she agrees, firmly supportive, squeezing his arms to emphasize that she’s on his side in this, she takes her cues from him. It’s what good wives do, and it’s what all of humanity does when Elvis Presley starts to direct a thing.

Her compliance has the intended result of soothing him, his jitters calm under her hands and the light beam of her encouraging smile. He gives a few small nods of his head as if agreeing with an unspoken suggestion, and Elaine is entirely certain he’s got a self affirming monologue running up there in that pretty head to drown out whatever has him so panicked.

Alight with her touch, with thoughts of her and her lil house and making it good, making sure it takes, of finally having what he’s dreamed about for goin’ on two years now, he feels his knees near buckle and he murmurs hurriedly,

“Let’s sit on the–the bed for a minute.”

Hand in hand, and at a head clearing distance from each other, they mosey over to the canopied wonder that is his bed, decked out in black and gold, tufted pockets of down beckoning for a bounce amongst, and Elaine can’t help herself. Maybe it’s the champagne or a stubborn desire to keep the jubilant atmosphere alive but she slips her hand out of his with a parting squeeze and launches herself into the downy sea of gold.

His stride falters and he watches with a fondness he feels deep in his gut as his Elaine bounces into the bed like a giddy child, her long limbs splayed artlessly and the swell of her ass rippling under baby blue silk, a sliver more of inner thigh visible as it rides up, kicking her footsies gleefully for good measure before she lifts that darling face and grins at him beckoningly through a curtain of chocolate curls.

God he loves her. And this is what he’ll get to see and feel and love for all the coming nights, for the rest of his life. He moseys up to the bed and reaches out, caressing Elaine’s shiny locks back in place, matching her smile in an endeavor to help keep this mood as joyous as it should be. She grabs at his wrist that is petting her hair and pulls him atop her. Weak and wanting, he goes, registering with searing clarity the first feel of his long limbs being pressed atop every inch of her smaller frame, the bedspread tufting beneath their combined weight.

He is burning hot atop her, and so much larger than her own body, she realizes with a thrill that tingles down to her very toes. She resumes her petting of the wings of his shoulder blades, smooth and sweaty beneath her hands and she wiggles beneath the new sensation of his thighs pressed to her own, and his hips cradled by her hips, fitting together effortlessly. It’s delightful and she acts on the urge to tilt his face out from the bedspread and seek more kisses from those cherry red lips of his.

Elaine keeps undulating under him, spurred on by a thousand heady new sensations, slippery as an eel in her silk, and Elvis’s mind blanks at the feel of her eager and squirmy body beneath his. He forgets about lessons and marriage and sacred duties and instead acts on his most natural instinct which is to kiss her back ferociously and buck against the cradle of her hips ‘till his cock weeps for joy at finally being heeded.

As natural as riding a tandem bike, after the initial wobble for balance, Elaine quickly finds his rhythm and grinds along with him in a unified dance for propulsion, feeling something besides his champagne-sticky skin begin to slick up her nightslip.

That’s the wet smear of his excitement, she realizes, and rocks up more vigorously to encourage him. His penis is a throbbing pipe between them, and while she can’t see it, she can feel the thing growing and digging into her belly and she thinks of keys and she wonders, and aches. The whine her groom lets out, once hazily recognizing the fact she’s actually trying to aid his pleasure like a good wife should, is pulled from deep in his gut into her open mouth, sending a triumphant shudder through her.

“Sweet—lord—fuck—Elaine,” he blasphemes into her ear in a pained cry, his hand a mere agent of his cock as it fumbles between them frantically to pull up the hem of her slip.

Her hot breath fans against his face in shocked gusts and if he cracked open his screwed shut eyes he’s pretty sure he'd see her looking a little scandalized, which is why he doesn’t open them. He’ll save that for when he’s balls deep inside her and there ain’t a lawful thing she can do about it. For now he just doggedly hikes up her slip until it’s halfway up her belly and his balls are rubbing amongst the pettiest thatch on a beaver he ever did see. Not that he sees it now, mind you. No, his eyes stay closed and he forces her into another kiss lest she protest, but he recalls the particulars of her cunt like that addled inspection he made of her lady parts was yesterday and—

—her lil house, his promise, his duty! It all comes crowding back to his mind with an icy damper just as her hands glide down to land with a strong and naively lecherous grip on his ass and he—

—he might have made it if it weren’t for that grab. It’s not a good precedent to blame one’s wife for a loss of control but he’s afraid that’s just what it is, a precedent when, heedless of her confusion, he grips her delicate shoulders in each of his hands and leverages up, one pump, two pumps, three pumps amongst the slick petals of her pussy and then, then it’s white hot satisfaction and… Elaine.

Elaine, Elaine, Elaine—oh how I love you, oh how I want you, Elaine, Elaine, Elaine, you drive me nuts.

“Oh, oh wha—oh,” through the ringing haze of busting a nut against her, Elvis can hear her bewildered enjoyment as he spurts and slicks her up real messy, grinding against her pearl with powerful, heedless strokes.

He stops his whimpering moans and sucks in a breath, still somewhere else in his bliss and utterly unmoored, but not so useless as to stop moving along to her guiding hands on his butt.

Her breathy gasps are—they’re everything he’s ever fantasized about, and to make up for blowing his load like a green boy, he keeps up the pace she wants, slippin’ and a’slidin against her, listening intently as her pitch spikes when his cock smudges her clit with his head. She begins to replace each gasp with a noisy inhale.

“Wha-what’s oh, Elvis what’s—” she finds her voice just enough to babble as her head thrashes in a confused protest a few times amongst the golden tufts.

Then her hands clench on her handful of backside before the head of his cock slips in its glide and snags against her untried door. The bitten off shriek of surprised ecstasy she lets out, and the cruel bite of her nails in his butt, the rigid spasm of her thighs beneath his, tells him she’s gotten a taste of the heaven he just indulged in early.

“That’s it, that’s it, it’s nice feelin’, ain’t it?” he preemptively shushes her worries, the ones that gather even now on her brow the minute her pleasure ebbs away enough for rational thought to raise its pesky head.

“Elvis, I—what was—” she pants and can’t find the words or courage to finish her question, she just blushes beneath him instead, and for the first time tonight he can sense her feeling insecure.

“That was actin’ married, baby,” he answers simply, cupping her face and letting his thumbs rub soothing circles in her hairline. “You alright? Did I scare ya?” he whispers, terrified in suspense as Elaine seems to give his question thought, reviewing the recent memory of her first orgasm with typical, analytical detachment.

“It felt… tingly,” she decides, having to acknowledge no harm was done and this sated feeling of her melting into a puddle beneath him is rather lovely. “I liked it,” she decides, then insists as he still looks down at her, chestnut hair falling into his eyes and his worried mouth wobbling like a scared baby’s. “I liked it a lot.”

“Ya liked it?” he perks up, his lip curling in a smile, eager as a puppy, and she remembers him asking her the same thing, in the same eager way, about the grand staircase when he first showed her Graceland.

“Yes, yes I did,” she nods emphatically, ignoring how something seems to hang in the air about them now, something more that prods her to ask, “What now?”

Because “more” feels like a third person in this room and her curiosity has been too long deferred.

“Now we have that business meetin’,” he replies gravely, as if he suspects her of plotting against the meeting and its solemn necessity.

He tries to pitch his voice down in a bid to sound authoritative, but all she can think of are his pitiful little whimpers as he wet her belly. She smirks and reaches up to push his hair out of his eyes. “Yessir, Private,” she teases, immensely pleased with herself when he lets out a throaty laugh and rolls his eyes in response.

He pulls his body away from her, forcing himself not to cringe at the goopy mess he made of her pussy, or the resiliently adhesive string of spunk that refuses to break the connection between them as he pulls away. She is watching his every expression, he knows, every movement, the bat of his eyes, all being used to form her own opinion of this and he is careful not to show any reaction that might have her embarrassed, or worse, thinking the act gross. Sex is nasty, and he fuckin’ loves it for it. And if he can help it, so will she.

He twists off her and rolls on his side, sitting up where his legs dangle off the bed and he flips her slip back down in what he hopes is a subtle but swift enough gesture to be considered gentlemanly. She sits up beside him and folds her hands expectantly in her lap, her legs swinging off the bed beside his own and if he thinks too long about the fact he’s probably dribbling down her primly closed thighs, he’ll go insane all over again.

Get this part done and then you can go nuts, he tells himself, then it’s free reign. Or, well, nearly.

“Elaine baby,” he begins, this time his voice is naturally deep and earnest as it often is when discussing something very important, she recognizes it and gives him all her attention, “Do ya know anythin’ bout what mamas and daddies do when they go to bed?”

Her head is still fuzzy from whatever trickery they just engaged in, the way his hand now descends to her thigh making the pounding between them worse than ever even as the pleasure is sharper, more satisfying than any she’s achieved. It clouds her mind and stalls her reply. She thinks that she could answer smartly that he just showed her what they do, or she could say she knows they sleep, or she could rattle off a buncha scared suggestions that might make her seem a little less lost, a little less dumb about this whole thing. But she trusts him, trusts him to be kind and patient, to want to be married anyway. So she bites down her pride and shakes her head adamantly, not a shred of flippancy left.

“Well, part of bein’ married is makin’ babies, right?” he responds, “And that happens in a marriage bed, or least—that’s where it happens first time ya try,” Elvis explains the best he can, his voice gentle and his drawl persuasive like it had been when he showed her cords on the guitar. “Now we uh, we’ve talked bout your lil house already,” he notes and she nods with sober and locked on fascination, waiting for him to drop a hint of something that will make practical sense, “and I done told ya bout my key. You felt it gettin all firm, yeah? Then sprayin’ ya belly—sorry bout that, jus’ got me so excited, went ahead of myself—well, baby, ya see…” He twists his lower lip with his fingers in one last pained procrastination before getting the rest out in a measured slur, “To make a baby the daddy’s key has gotta go inside the mama’s house a-a-and unlock her.”

He holds his breath and watches this lesson land home on her sweet face. He takes note of each stage of comprehension as it morphs her face. First there’s her squint of concentration, then the eyebrow quirk of confirmed speculation, then the lip bite of second guessing his meaning, then crystal clear compression that seems to freeze her features in one of disbelief until they reanimate in a frenzy of emotion that culminates in her heavily fringed eyes darting down to stare at his recently spent, half mast cock. His key, he corrects himself, and like a damned pet, it wags under her wide eyed study.

“Oh ha, oh.” She tries to master her gasps and they just come out in a tumble anyway, staring at that strangely animate part of him that is nothing like any one of hers. The longer she looks the larger it grows, the sheath drawing back and revealing a tender looking tip, so vibrantly red it matches the flush splotching down his chest. It looks like it’s aches, and she suddenly has sympathy for the eager thing. At her aborted movement to touch it, she sees it sputter out clear fluid, as if weeping for her attention.

A great many bits of hearsay, of anatomical layouts studied, some Bible passages about “goin into her” and a few racy lyrics flash through her mind like star witnesses confirming his account of married life. She suddenly wants to laugh at the absurdity of not putting it all together until the wagging heft of the thing swelling beneath her stare makes her suddenly hope he’s wrong. Or, or -teasing, he’s gotta be teasing.

Oh course he is! Her shoulders loosen up and she lets out a great big sigh before meeting his stormy eyes and poking the soft rolls of his belly warningly, “You had me there!” she tsks and begins to laugh the more she thinks of the idea of him shoving his… his pee pee… up her to make a child.

Elvis doesn’t laugh, he looks suddenly quite alarmed and her merriment dies on her lips, stuttering out at the sight of his earnest face.

“You. Are. Teasin,” she repeats with a pleading diction, “You don’t really -oh gosh y- you ain’t pullin’ my leg, Elvis?” she almost whimpers, her mother’s proper nomenclature gone right out of her pretty mind at the idea of that chubby snake thing inside her.

“I ain’t pullin’ your leg sweetheart.” he swears, no hint of mockery in his voice, “That cream ya felt…coming out, the sticky stuff, i-it shoots up in ya a-a-and fertilizes y-your eggs. I-it’s called making love, baby, cause it’s-it’s makin…love.”

Elaine feels her face growing hot at that visual and would like all these components to make less sense right about now. It all comes together in her logic like a missing piece of the human puzzle, but far from being the Devine enlightenment she was expecting, she finds it’s a sticky, bobbing, whining, gushing, squelching process that isn’t remotely medical or Devine. It’s comedic, and her jaw clenches in protest at the absurdity of it all. God really must enjoy a good laugh, forcing folks to spew and shake apart like idiots just to keep the human race alive.

“Why’s it growin?” She demands hotly, resigned to the logic but quite unappreciative of the fact that the more excited about making babies his key gets, the more likely its growing size will make it impossible to fit inside her.

“It’s getting firm so it can go in,” he defends his offending boner as meekly as possible, eager to get back in her good graces and refusing to listen to little Elvis’ cries of offended honor, “A-a-and so it’ll feel good inside ya.” he makes sure to tack on and notices her incredulous left eyebrow shoot up to her hairline.

“That so?” she asks, utterly sarcastic.

“Yes!” he pleads and her face softens a little at his hurt tone, at his obvious honesty, “Once inside it’ll rub ya all nice like it felt a minute ago. ‘Member that? this’ll be like that just… even better.”

“I-I-I do, I do recall,” she softens at his worried face, realizes he thinks she’s gonna back down from this and curses the fact she’d really rather. Impotent anger rises up in her for a brief flash that she didn’t have more time to prepare for this, that no one told her so she might settle her terrified little belly to the thought of him—

—it’s too awful to be pondered for long and she takes a great deep breath and holds it in the way she learned at the hospital, to calm a bout of panic, staring off across the room at the portrait of Jesus he has hung by the closet door. She thinks about how best to fly away while he does what is necessary, she thinks about babies, she thinks about how pretty and sweet he is. She thinks about her mama, and wonders if the procedure is so awful, why didn’t she and every woman in her life warn and prepare her for it? Now her aunt’s words make sense. Be good and let him do what he needs to. If this is what he needs to do, then she reckon’s she’ll just have to let him see to it.

“Elaine?” he begs her to look at him, his warm hand gently grabbing her chin and turning her face to his like an ornery mule by its bridal. “Elaine, what’s in that pretty head? Talk to me please,” he puts his face all up in her own’s business, hands cradling her face and noses brushing, she can feel the brush of his lips when he speaks again softly, “Ya don’t think God would tell folks to be fruitful then make it awful for ‘em, do ya?”

It’s as if he’s read her mind, her own rationalization on the subject and she gives a slow nod of dissent, “no,” she agrees, and realizes due to her watery voice that she must’ve started crying somewhere along the way. It rankles her, being so skittish, being so troublesome for her groom when she’s not even been married a full day.

Lord, instead of being angry, he’s nuzzling her tear tracks across her face and swearing never ending tenderness to her. Her heart does another flip as his lips trail down her neck, and she warms again, her ache returns and it reminds her of his own. She tilts her head so he can better suck at the soft skin of her neck and casts her eyes down to his lap, finding him still eager. His key looks so desperate and needy, and despite her grievance against its size, her hand darts out instinctively to swipe at the leaking mushroom head like she would anyone’s tears from beneath their eyes.

It has a rather startling effect on her young husband.

Elvis lets out a choked cry and crushes her arms where he holds them, his kiss bitten cry turns into a chomp on her shoulder as the shock of his reaction makes her squeeze his member harder, eliciting a yet greater amount of pleasurable anguish from him. The way the previously dribbling precum gushes over her knuckles is entirely the most heady thing she’s ever managed to feel in her life. That molten warmth in her belly ignites again, and she kisses his own neck in delight at the responses he gives her, even as she drags the flat of her palm up and down his key, taking notes on the way he bucks against it.

“Elaine—” he garbles into her throat and she kneads his neck comfortingly even as she continues to watch the way this new friend throbs and gushes under her tiniest attentions. Like a personable pet or a responsive baby, it’s a joy to have something react to her with such inordinate eagerness.

“Alright, I believe ya,” she whispers soothingly as she thumbs at his leaking slit and strokes down his foreskin, noticing a definite ridge and then a puffy head differentiating the head from the rest of the shaft, “Just the tip has to go in, right?” she surveys the bulbous little head and calms herself. It’s not that big, just awfully wide. She can manage it, for the babies.

“N-no baby.” he stutters into her throat, miserable and worried sick about repeatedly having to be contrary, “S’all gotta go in.”

“But, but you can just spray up once it’s in!” she cries out, laughingly incredulous and a single sentence away from reverting back to suspecting him of playing a trick, “Why’s the whole thing gotta go in when it shoots the stuff a foot or more?”

That’s- that’s a worrisomely valid point, he thinks, but he can only deal with the logic of her hand fondling his cock right now and so he insists, “No baby, it’s gotta go deep, way up in your belly so it don’t get lost with all the cake ya ate.”

“That ain’t gonna get very deep.” she’s rather unimpressed with his length and it brings him right back down to earth with an Elaine shaped thump, “It’s the girth that’s unnecessarily…plentiful.”

“Ya sayin’ God didn’t know what he was doin when he made me?“ Elvis feigns outrage and pulls away to grin at her, to confirm she’s grinning, too.

She rolls her eyes, then that famillair, sweet smile overtakes her face as she flits her eyes all across the lean yet soft, pale yet golden, masculine yet boyish whole of him, -she finds him very good. “I reckon he knew what he was doin’,” she murmurs wryly, her stare dragging up his form, “I just object to the practicality of so few brains and so much—”

“Elaine!” he growls, gripping the back of her neck, “Kiss me, woman.”

She kisses him with the same gusto he’s previously seen her reserve only for football matches on the lawn. She catapults forward and it knocks the wind outta him, lands her solidly in his lap, a smooching, hair tugging goddess of a mad woman, and he scrambles to keep up, to assist the gearshift that just occurred. Zero to sixty it seems. Elaine can’t seem to hold still when she kisses, always leveraging up and wiggling around and it makes for two of them writhing, to the immense satisfaction of his cock that gets wedged between his belly and hers during this heavy make out.

Eventually she seems to notice -Elvis wonders what gave lil Elvis’ position away: the incessant twitching or the gallons of precum dribbling down the front of her gown.

She pulls away from the kiss and looks down, suddenly reaching and straightening his cock against her belly and through the haze of ball tingling appreciation for her touch he realizes she’s measuring the depth against her belly. That thought makes him spurt so violently he’s not sure if he’s cummin’ a lil or just, just gushin’ like he’s never seen himself gush before. Thank God this sweet little girl seems to like the fact he’s a messy, sensitive, uncut hick of a boy.

“We’ve just gotta try our best, hmm?” he stifles his anticipatory giggle at the size comparison to her abdomen and thumbs at her throat coaxingly, “I’ll try’n get it real deep, and you’ll be good and lemme, right?“

She will, for the babies, he already knows that. Knew it the minute she agreed to marry him. It’s why he wants her.

“Right.” she agrees and tries to not make it sound like she’s being condemned to torture, “I’ll be good for ya.” Be good and let him do what he needs to.

“And I’ll make it nice,” he swears adamantly and she nearly believes him, “It won’t hurt much, not at all after the first time, I’ll make sure you enjoy it, baby. Have ya begging for it in a few hours, you’ll see. It’s gonna be nice, remember?”

“Yeah.” Her tone is unsure but she waggles her eyebrows conspiratorially.

Then, before another promise can be made, she bends away from his lap and flops on her back, legs spread, baby blue silk riding up to show her wet curls, hands serenely crossed across her chest, face expectant. “Well, c’mon, gimme those babies.” she eggs him on, somehow keeping the wobble out of her thin voice.

“Elaine, honey, you’re shakin’,” he worries, noticing the visible battle in her body between desire and fear.

“I am a little chilly.” she replies very decorously, and with a liar liar pants on fire smile of assurance.

“Bullshit, you’re terrified,” he murmurs, petting her spread legs that are still partly in his lap, sliding his warm palms up her inner thighs and noting with satisfaction the way it makes her nipples pebble helplessly beneath the silk. She even rocks her hips towards his soothing attentions and that’s perfect, that’s how he’s gonna handle this, just soothe her into it, her entirely absent prudery a great aid. Although this next little detail he’s gonna teach her may push her to the limit.

“Now, ‘fore I go in, there’s a great deal of prep’s gotta happen or else I’d not be a husband, just a mean bastard, you understand?” And he watches closely as Elaine’s chest heaves in relief that she’s got a little more time before the main event. Come to think of it, he should buy her more time, maybe a bath to get her all loosened up and pliant. “How bout we take a bath first, ya wanna take a bath, baby?” he suggests and knows that it was entirely too random a segue the minute it leaves his mouth.

“Not–not right now.” she whispers honestly, her hands still crossed across her breasts and she makes a motion that hikes the neckline a little higher, telling him all he needs to know about her shyness. He’ll let her leave the slip on for now, the fact her cunt is considered husbandly property but her breasts are sacred maidenly assets makes him feral with want. “I’d like to just get this over w- to, experience it,” she does a decent job at damage control of her initial sentiment but he figures it’s understandable to want it over and done with, like a procedure, like a tooth being pulled. “Honestly Elvis, I’m too nervous to enjoy anything till we do it,” she admits, no pretty turn of phrase, just that precious honesty he appreciates so much about her.

Boy does he have a surprise for her, then. He grins and he nods understandingly, “I getcha, baby, we don’t gotta do nothin you don’t want,” he swears, “Just gotta prep ya then we’ll get on with it. Hey, stop shruggin’, ya just might like it.” He pinches her thigh and it makes her giggle, she gives him another unconvinced shrug that he takes as a gauntlet thrown to turn her into a whimpering cock slut.

“I-I’m gonna pull this up a lil,” he narrates gently, figuring it might put her at ease as he matches his words with the action of rolling her hemline up to her ribs. Her soft belly caves in with the breath she’s holding and he lays his searing palm on it, coaxing her to settle for him.

She can feel his calluses and the grounding weight of his broad hand on her womb, and the rightness of it turns her body pliant. That dreamy submission he first coaxed from her to make her sleep after her mother’s funeral -she can feel it coming over her again and settles glady. He’s never steered her wrong yet, and he’s let her keep her breasts modest, a sweet concession she is eager to thank him for with obedient compliance. She focuses on his large hand and the way it’s now petting, no, more like digging gently, with his fingertips into her lower belly, little digs and pulls upwards over and over again. She can feel each tug downstairs in her little house, like his fingertips are tugging at her little button’s string from the outside in. Her head truly sinks back into the gold tufted comforter and she absently palms a heaving breast. This part of being married is lovely.

The awed look overtaking Elvis’ cherubic features as he stares down at the freshly undressed slit between her legs is reward enough for her. Life is suddenly dreamy and hazy, like she’s viewing his rich coloring and decadent face through a stocking over a lens, like the girls do to minimize their pores in photographs. He looks like that naturally, too rich and pretty and lovely to be true, now muddled and smeared from the feelings his hands excite, he looks otherworldly and she lets slip a moan of appreciation.

“You’re so pretty.” she babbles again, unsure if any of it actually made it out of her head. It seems very pressing to tell him, maybe in lieux of the “I love you” he’s dying to hear but made her swear she wouldn’t say till she meant it.

For Elvis, the entire picture of Elaine, melted ivory skin with a halo of chocolate curls and a wisp of sea foam silk covering what he’s dying to see -she is like an erotic painting brought to life just for him to lick and squeeze and split open on a sea of gold. He shudders and keeps his finger tips massaging her giving belly, this ole trick of Johnny’s obviously not half bad, judging by the way she goes boneless and her long legs begin to spread of their own accord, knees bending out and her pink petals beginning to make an obvious flutter beneath the curls.

“You recall what Dodger said.” he asks her very softly, mumbling it into the soft skin of her inner knee as he gets her used to the feeling of his lips creeping closer to the place he’s about to devour, “remember her sayin I was to lick you?” he prods, knowing that bringing up his grandmother is not ideal seconds before slurping at his wife’s beaver, but he guesses rightly that he might benefit from some moral backup for what he’s about to propose.

“Y-yes, yes before a pecker o-“ Elaine’s already a little incoherent as he permits his hand to stray from her belly and scratch amongst their curls, digging and tugging at her outer lips from afar, making them glide against each other in a soft stimulation, like a foreskin getting rubbed over the glans.

“Pecker’s jus’another word for key.” he whispers into the butter soft skin of her twitching thigh and her hips jerk from the tickle of his voice.

“Oh is it?” she manages to laugh, even as it’s a far away little sound, “dear Dodger.” is all she adds.

“So like she said,” he carefully moves himself to a crouch, taking care not to jostle her out of her docile trance, crouching like those mountain cats between her legs, he carefully replaces his hand with his cheek as he rubs his face against her belly -entirely cat like, “like she said I gotta lick ya. See, cause….’‘fore ya use a-a key in a new lock ya gotta grease, it, right?”

Elaine Presley is so bewildered and terribly hungry for something, anything, Elvis could suggest just about any sort of fuckery right now and she’d agree. As is, she thinks she’s read in the Bible about a man kissing his woman down there, a vague reference to pomegranates that King Solomon might’ve thought real slick, but wasn’t subtle. There was certainly more of an illusion made to it in the good book than anything about chubby snakes going up inside a girl. She has no qualms against it, also very few brains at her disposal right now it seems, and she finds it’s nice having one’s mind wiped blank after such a hectic two weeks of planning and organizing.

“S-so I’m gonna lick ya down there, a k-kiss sorta a-“ Elvis is explaining, unnecessarily thorough in a pained, urgent, desperate whisper that he uses when he wants a thing bad but he wants you to think you want it badder and she-

-Later on in life, later on the next day even, Elaine could never quite tell or explain where the urge or the bravery or the biblical amounts of entitlement to his services she suddenly felt in that moment. All either of them had was the memory of her fresh as a daisy self, steering her groom by his hair till he was face planted between her legs, doing his duty. Licking her open, pink tongue wriggling and lapping.

Terrified shitless that somehow, somehow he’d mess up the one thing he was certain he was remarkably good at, Elvis’s skilled tongue had bolted into her wet heat like a colt through the starting gate with a lot to prove. And he maintained that ferocious pace and fervor for a undocumented and unrecalled amount of time. He was not sure how he managed to breathe down there for the hour or more he spent sucking and licking and jabbing his tongue into Elaine’s long dreamed of cunt, living off fumes from the sweetest pussy he’d ever tasted, hair tugs of gratitude his only payment and the sounds of shock and awe spilling out of his new wife at every bout of pleasure he tore from her.

The sounds she was making -they were the same as when the two of them went down to the flower festival in New Orleans, while he was on set, where she’d gasped and cried and exclaimed joyously over five street blocks worth of Lilies and Dahlias and the stringy flower bushes Elvis’ didn’t retain the name of.

“So, so nice, oh, oh right there”. This frantically happy compliance, this unabashed enjoyment by a virgin girl smashing his face into her snatch -it was more than Elvis’ wildest, most self indulgent fantasies could have hoped for.

He had noticed in Elaine a peculiar sort of common sense that most people didn’t have in common. If a thing was not harmful or explicitly forbidden, she had no objection to it, in fact, she considered it free game. And bucking her hips up to meet his tongue and utilize his nose against her button -was obviously one of those non prohibited joys of life. And he set about to make it so addictive that she would be collaring him for a lick every day of her life for the rest of their days. His hands slowly gravitated up her belly, squeezing and appreciating the firm give of her sides and up to her breasts that she still guarded with panting lassitude. He didn’t know if he had snuck his hands under hers to knead the firm mounds or if she’d allowed him under of her own accord, and placed her hands atop his in blessing. But either way, he stayed bent like that, hands groping at her tits and jaw near unhinged to swallow her down, his own hips rutting into the mattress, the seams of the bedspread chafing his cock pleasurably.

“Can I have another?” she would ask eagerly after having shook apart and dribbled over his tongue for the tenth time.

Who was he to deny her?

He worked his fingers in gently, but after the amount of spit and slick they had produced together, it was a mere pinch for her when he snuck in first one long finger, then another. Careful to keep her revving, he dallied for a while with just the two, scissoring them and spitting inside the tight little hole until her objectioning mewls turned to breathy sighs again. Working in the confines of her wet heat near drove him mad, feeling how tight she was around just a few digits had his cock aching and groans of his own came pouring out of his mouth, buzzing her clit and causing her to writhe.

He took to curling his fingers inside her, her walls giving under more readily after his patient coaxing and he rubbed the calloused pads of his fingers up and curled untill he found a soft, giving little spot unlike its surroundings, spongey in a way he’d only ever heard about. Her reaction to his touch there was also something that had before only been mere hearsay from the boys on the road. Her hips leveraged off the bed like she was possessed, and through the smash of her thighs about his ears he heard her scream, and perverse determination was entirely to blame for the way he forced his fingers to keep curling as her little house clamped down around them and suddenly his head was being crushed like a melon between her legs and a jet of sweet, Elaine flavored goodness was spewing at his grinning face.

“Sweet Jesus would ya look at tha-“ Elvis heaved in a dozen breaths the minute her legs fell apart again, propping up on his forearms and watching his stunned wife tremble violently, her belly and thighs shaking like they were motorized, her pussy still gushing feebly and her hands patting herself down as if to make sure she was still all there. He’d only ever heard of squirting, and here he was now, half blinded by her spray.

The sight of the teary eyed, mortified yet pleasure dumb confusion clouding her exquisitely clever face had given him no other option. He had to have her, had possess her, had to take, had to fuckin’ take his due. Now.

She was in no position to deny him, shaking in pleasurable shock and splayed out boneless and unsuspecting. Through a tunnel of starry spots she saw his glistening wet face come in to view, hovering over her own, and felt the warm weight of his body settling over hers, famillair and steadying. She tried to raise her floppy hand to pet his rosy cheek, to somehow convey how lovely he made her feel, but her hand wouldn’t respond beyond flopping around a few inches from the mattress like a beached fish. She began to giggle and could not stop, thinking she should stop so he could kiss her: ya can’t kiss a giggling woman as her lips aren’t available when she’s giggling and he’s gonna kiss her —

—he didn’t kiss her, instead he had gripped her cheek and it steadied her enough for the giggles to die out almost as effectively as the sobering feel of a blunt, slippery, heated thing pushing at her entrance.

“No, no, no” Elaine’s mind whimpered in betrayed protest, “no, no it had been so lovely, it had been so lovely, it had been nice acting married.”

Tears that had gathered and spilled from the nerve wracking ecstasy he had forced out of her, now spilled afresh down her splotchy cheeks. Her dark eyes glittered like dazzling pools of hurt, her head tilted to the side in disagreement with his plan.

Of course, of course, she thought, there’s always something more to be asked of a woman, a banquet can be enjoyed but there are always dishes afterwards, you get your pretty breasts but you have to bleed every month for them, you can have your house licked to madness but it’s only so that a hungry boy can more easily split you apart.

No, no, why? it had been so lovely…

Elvis had of course thought about fucking Elaine Phipps until she cried, he sometimes dreamed about her thrashing from too much pleasure her eyes streaming tears and her mouth twisted as she tried to let him finish, as he made her enjoy it more than she thought she had the capacity to. He’d thought of it, but it wasn’t the same as trying to push into a hole belonging to a girl mindlessly whimpering “No, no” beneath you.

Having an innocence kink, Elvis was discovering, was a lot sexier in theory, before stupid feelings emerged and pesky consciences nagged and the shuddering terror of your wife beneath you was abundantly tangible. That was a fantasy best kept between himself and his fist, and rock hard as he was, and nearly unhinged from waiting, he just couldn’t manage to do it this way. That old insecurity, that burning awareness that he had always wanted her more than she had wanted him came crowding into his mind, making his own eyes burn in rejection and fear.

“Shhh, shhh baby, it’s alright’ sweetheart, hey, hey it’s me, me c’mon, look at me.” he had begged her, hands engulfing both sides of her face, “I’m sorry, Elaine, I’m sorry.” it spills out in cry of his own because he doesn’t know how else to admit his long harbored expectations of her, the carnal weight of what he has wanted all this time, and all the wasted years he’d never told her he worshiped the soundboard her yittle fingers so cleverly levered , “I’ve loved you ever since I came back and found ya grown. I’m sorry, I’ve -I-I’ve wanted to have ya for years. You’re the most perfect thing alive. I-I-I just gotta have ya, I just gotta. I-I’ll d-d-die if ya don’t want me, too, honest I’ll die.”

When she looked at him then, looked and truly saw the soul of him stamped on his face -suddenly she saw everything she once doubted existed. He loved her. Elvis loved her and she was at peace.

It was Elvis. Dear ole Elvis, the boy at the studio who liked her sandwiches, the boy who she could most likely find sitting on the couch with his mother talking about his day, the boy who brushed her hair out for her the day they buried mama. It was Elvis, who was gonna give her babies, who’s gonna make sure she never wants for a thing, who is never going to let her be lonely or purposeless again. Elvis who was the most beautiful, exquisitely potent man she’d ever known, laying on top of her, shaking in desire to be inside her. He wanted to be inside her, so badly in fact, that all his power and his verve and his pride were shaking and shuddering above her.

“Oh my darling, you made me feel lovely.” she whispered to him, wanting that said before he split her open and took away her innocence. “Your love makes me happy, so happy. How could I not want that?“

“You want it?” he begged against her lips, he begged to hear it again while grabbing his tip and smudging against her clit, making her jerk and bow up in his arms. A reminder of what he can do to her, what he can give her, why she should be obedient.

“Yes, yes I want it.“ she repented of thinking anything unkind about her husband’s cock that’s gonna water her garden and grow her a family, that’s going to pry her open so children can pass through.

“Alright, ok.” he gathered his wits one last time, terrified to think of how he’s gonna lose all grip on himself once inside her after expending so patience beforehand, “Here's what we’re gon- we’re gonna let you control it.''

His brain pumped out fragmented explanations but he managed to sit up and bring her with him, landing her in his threatening lap, his arms cradling her little self, and he scooted higher in the bed until he was sitting upright, the padded black headboard at his back.

“There, here… we’ll, we’ll get it in like this.” he took to referring to his own body like it was a stranger, heaving in ragged breaths like a snorting racehorse. “At’cher own pace, baby. Ya-ya can…ya can sit on it.” He was no longer bothering to make sense, and thank God she seemed to realize that.

Being naive did not mean she was a fool. The novel concept now explained it was abundantly obvious in mechanics. Elaine grasped the slippery length of him firmly again, relishing the aliveness of it, holding it as she had when measuring him against her tummy.

She bit her lip with savage determination. Babies, he’s gonna give her babies.

Her husband’s face was all lash fanned anticipation, his pouty mouth grimacing in barely contained fervor and his eyes crinkled in a wince of pleasure from her grip. She saw a single tear escape his thicket of lashes and run down his prominent cheekbone, headed towards his hairline. She swiped at it tenderly with a thumb and had her hand grasped by him in response, tremblingly guided to his shoulder.

Leverage, she realized, he was giving her leverage and she raised up with her thighs like she would in the saddle, felt his hand meet her own down there to line him up, the size of his head against her giving her a thrill of horrored excitement.

Gently hovering and squatting, she gentled the puffy, leaking head of him in. The burning little sting of it only served to confirm that Elaine was about to be split apart when the rest followed. Now nestled far enough to need no guide, he grabbed at her other hand and put it in place on his shoulder, their noses touching, their legs bent atop the each other’s, arms encircled -suddenly this embrace made it feel completely essential to Elaine that they be connected in that remaining way. As if he could feel her submit around his first inch, his eyes flew open and a hungry azure gaze burned her up as her hair curtained around their faces and—

“You were made for this.” he reminded her as she whimpered at another little bit of length inserted, “You w-w-were fashioned u-up i-in heaven f-for this m-moment.” and the young man who couldn’t be made to stop wiggling in a Church pew tried to hold still as his drippingly tight wife cringingly lowered herself more, “In the doll factory u-up above, h-he m-m-made this lil house to t-the direct d-demensions t-t-to squeeze me d-dry —oh fuck, baby c’mon! That’s it, m-more come on, take me. Take more of me!” he groaned, his head bowed and watching where he began to disappear inside of Elaine, the culmination of all his madness.

“God Elvis it’s-its already awful.” she admits, staring at the stupid black headboard and registering every pulsing inch and vein and ridge of his rock hard, half jammed penis inside her tiny canal. “I dunno if i can-“

“Aww no ya don’t! No -don’t ya dare.” his snarled and gripped her hips as she began to raise up and dismount -it was only going to make it worse to try again and he was gonna make her finish this for her own sake, “Good wives don’t get off their husband’s cock till he says so. We’re ruinin’ ya for anyone else, babydoll, course it's gonna hurt something awful first time. Gotta see it though, don’t ya lose our progress.”

He saw a vicious emotion flash across her face -and he recognized it. It was the one from the mirror before a show, that wretched look of ambition that keeps him from fleeing from a crowd when all he wants to do is hide and puke his nerves away. He barely had time to brace his back before she was impaling herself on him again with teeth gritted ferocity, seething in his ear something about how she’d rather get kicked by Trojan -her gorgeous quarter horse. It made Elvis think of horses and her thighs working in the saddle and horses and stallions and stallions mounting mares and fuckin ‘em full and he-

“You’re gonna, you’re gonna take me.” he declared inexorably as she whimpered, “You’re gonna do what God made ya for, you’re gonna take my cock.”

“I can’t.” she wasn’t even whining, she could just feel him hitting a barrier and she couldn’t take more. “Please E, be nice, I-I ca- it’s not gonna fit, E!”

“It will, you’re my wife, ya will. You’ll take it all.” he kissed her check while reminding her steadily.

Then he snapped his hips up to meet hers in a powerful pump that tore her right through. She landed flush in his lap, a gush of virgin blood pooling between them, full to the brim with his thick cock nestled inside. Not even a cry let past her lips, just open mouthed shock, as if he’d punched the scream right out of her diaphragm.

Holy shit, his mind supplied, she was the tightest, most spectacularly tight -tightly wet pretty- tight woman. His whole body shook in delight at the wet, moldable grip of her walls, and he held her closer, blessing her for being so perfect, mumbling in between her still clothed breasts that he was gonna ruin her cunt for any other fella.

Elaine recalls just trying to breathe, even while clutching at his shoulders and listening to the filth pour out of his panting mouth, filth that confirmed his confession that he’d had designs on her body long ago. It made her shiver, which rubbed him inside of her and she doubled over into his chest, whimpering at the fullness and the burning sting of her stretched entrance. A thought flashed across her mind that he was mean to make her take all of him, the tip would have done just as well, and now she feels like she’s impaled on a pipe and his hips won’t stop squirming to force it that much deeper. He sounded like he was enjoying himself, maybe even having a vision of heaven buried inside her, and in that alone she took joy and made herself disentangle from him enough to glance down at the marvelous union they’d made.

It made her gasp in awe. She had swallowed him whole with her own body, taken him down to the root, his sack warm and full beneath her petals, absorbed him till there was no longer a he and she in the bed, but merely them. The Presley’s.

“Lord almighty, you’re tighter than hell.” Elvis moaned in appreciation of the absolute restructuring of her privates that he’d just done, gripping her back with his sweaty hands and letting his eyes roll into his skull in ecstasy.

“Tight yes -great balls of fire E, it hurts like hell.” she reiterated, a little petulant over his enjoyment of her wounded kitty, but he could tell even now she was recovering from the initial tearing open. “It’s not, it’s not supposed to -I can’t believe it fit.”

Curious despite herself, Elaine snuck a hand between them and gingerly felt the stretched ring of her hole and the thick base of him where they were flush, dark curls meeting together. He put his hand on top of her own and encouraged her exploration, making her pet herself and making her squeeze him despite the pained whimper she let out each time her pleasure made her please him.

“Jus’ ruinin ya for anyone else.” he repeated and she shivered in his arms, flicking her eyes up to meet his and sensing a beastial sort of claiming in them she had never seen before, “My wife,” he gloried in the title as his hips began to gently rock her in his lap, making her mewl, “my pretty wife, my good wife, look at you takin’ every damn bit of my cock, look at ya makin yourself useful, pleasin your man, ya like pleasin me dontcha? I know ya do, I’ve felt ya shiver when I praised ya before, I feel ya watchin me to make sure I like a thing you do. I know you, ya might not love me but ya love to please me, I know what you want. You wanna please me, always have since I first saw ya. Ya know what pleases me baby?” he tilted her face to his by her chin, her cheeks wet with tears and her mouth panting as he ground inside her deep and hard as granite, ignoring her whimpers -only her eyes showed the wild revelry she was feeling at being spoken to like this, “Know what makes me happiest?”

“No sir.” she gasped, respectful and suddenly aware of how helpless she was in his lap as his huge hands engulfed her plush hips and made her to swivel and grind on him, the motion tugging her lil house apart even more.

“Pleasin’ God by pleasin myself by filling you up. That’s what. That’s what makes me happy” he stated, the look of girlish shock she showed at his language shooting straight to his cock and making him jab up into her body until she clung to his shoulders and wailed, painfully aroused by the concept and terribly hurt by the process.

“Please, please.” she sobbed into his neck as he gripped her ass and leveraged her up and down on his thick shaft, his groans mounting joyously and her body trembling at being used so presumptuously. It’s too much, he’s too much of a man and her womb aches from his thrusts.

“Please use me?” he grinned into her neck wildly, “That wha’ you’re tryin to say, lil one? can’t get it out with a cock in ya, can ya? So yittle I bet I’m clean up through to your throat, ain’t I? My poor lil wifey.”

It was his glutted acknowledgement of the fact he knew she felt like he was spearing her beyond her capacity, yet he wouldn’t stop, loved her too much to stop driving himself into her, making himself fit in her. He wanted to be a part of her so bad he’d grab her wrists and bruise her hip with his grip and snap his pelvis against her own ruthlessly -just so he could be close to her. Just so she would be his.

It had her moan again, this time from something besides pain.

“Elvis.” she moaned out, trying to tell him, to somehow alert him to the fact she was willing and good and could feel her body had begun to give into its natural purpose, she was slumping into his chest, and her pussy still burned and ached but had surrendered to the veiny little conquerer plundering her depths. “Elvis I-I- yes, yes, use me.” she managed and was given a proud and searing kiss in return for her submission. “You’re so pretty.” she said it like it was some dazed explanation for her obedience.

With Elaine’s pussy giving and wet from blood and slick, he knew he could begin in earnest now. So, gently, he tipped her backwards out of his lap again, laying her on the golden sheets and falling deeper inside her as he got back on top, never pulling out through the whole maneuver. Her eyes rolled back as she felt him lay atop her, buried to the hilt, her legs pushed apart to bracket his waist and allow him deeper. She threw her arms around his neck and breathed in like she was about to be dropped on a rollercoaster, some imminent adventure obviously looming as he buried himself deep and got a thorough grip on her shoulders before kissing her ardently.

It was when she was kissing him back and thinking how wonderfully sweet he was that she first felt those famous hips pull back, then drive himself inside of her with shocking precision. It made her cry out, and before she could suck in breath to replace her cry he was pulling out and pumping in again, little gusts of shock mined out of her at each powerful and measured pump and her back began to rub against the bedspread, her whole body seemed to shake from the force of absorbing his vigor.

“Thank me.” he required, aiming to find that spot that had made her spray his face, determined to wipe that pained grimace off her face and replace it with pleasure.

“Thank -thank you?” her tone was dazed and he wasn’t sure if her confusion stemmed from what she was supposed to be grateful for, or if she disagreed. She gripped the comforter, hands above her head and out to the side, absorbing the ripple he drove into her flesh.

“I've made ya a woman.” he reminded, proud and smug as only a 23 year old boy can be when tumbling his pretty young bride in the sheets beneath him, “So thank me.”

She pensively watched him as he swayed above her, blocking out the gaudy chandelier, his hair flopping into his eyes and moving with the cadence of his body, his body was unforgiving and driving into hers with a steady, slow beat, but his face was still desperately insecure, searching for approval and a hint that he was doing well. She loosened one hand from the counterpane and brought it to his cheek. He melted, a huffed out whimper of his own, in sharp contrast to the rigid power of his desire.

“Sweet man.” she whispered, “So good to me, always so good to me.” she assured, and he gave her a wet kiss full of wanting, letting her pet down his neck, over his back, stroking the swell of his flank, remembering the reaction it had elicited in him and figuring she’d thank him once he managed something worthy of it. Which he was very close to doing, she sensed, if he could relax himself. “Elvis,” she nuzzled his nose with hers, propping herself up on her forearms, to look down the length of her belly at the place where he speared her, “gimme those babies, and I’ll thank ya.”

Her daring grin had the intended effect, his nostrils flared as he heaved in a breath and his pupils blew wide, he pried her other hand from the bedding and interlaced it in his much larger one, pressing the knuckles to the mattress,

“I love you.” he swore before gripping her hip and tilting her pelvis off the bed, to the angle of his satisfaction before he drove his hips in with the purpose of finding that place that made her wild, the one his fingers had discovered and got her to spray for him.

He knew he’d brushed it when her face went from sweet compliance with the discomfort and placid curiosity for the proceedings to eyelash fluttering shock.

“E!” she gusted out urgently and a little unsure, unsure that this horrid taking of him could really be morphing into the spine tingling thrill she was now feeling each time he drove in, the tug and ache of his size still apparent but almost serving to heighten the aliveness of her feelings down there. “Right -right there it’s, it’s oh, it’s-“ she hadn’t a word for it, as the feeling was growing in strength and any moment there might be some shift that turned it back to pain, his speed was picking up and it scared her as much as it excited her. Like when he started speeding on the winding roads of North Carolina just to hear her shriek, conflicted between excitement and fear.

“Yeah?” he huffed, shining with sweat and heat above her, his hair darkened and his eyes darkened and his lips darkened and he- he looked so flushed and dark and decadent and she moaned at the sight of so beautiful a creature possessing her, pleasuring himself with her body, like any animal or male would do with a mate. He could have just hunted her down on a forest floor, chosen her for her scent alone, pinned her fist to the ground and her hips up to his pelvis and -it was that primal. She loved it. Like all the energy and raw potency of life he had in him when performing was now being driven into her aching belly. “Yeah? Yeah that’s where ya like it? Tell me how ya like it, jus’ tell me and I’ll do anything. Anyhtin’ for ya, Elaine. I done told ya, told ya I’d make it nice.”

Nice was a pathetic word for what he was making her feel and she found herself wishing she had an extra hand to stifle the sounds that began to wail out of her throat at his unforgiving depth. His own moans and breaths were shuttering across her face and the intimacy of what they were doing filled her with a serene joy she’d only felt on crisp, tea drinking early dawns in autumn. It made her squeeze him closer and she could just feel the comfort he took in it, his whole body melding to hers. Elvis’ slow and long pumps had her adjusting well and the unerring accuracy he maintained when noticing something she liked soon had her clenching from pleasure rather than pain.

“You’re in me.” she stated the obvious with a little shock in her voice, turned silly beneath him as he shuddered and pumped in her, “Oh god you’re in me, and, and it’s, it’s -you’re so good at this…”

There was a kind God above after all, and she let out a giggle at the joy of it, at the joy of taking Elvis Presley to the hilt like she’d been born to do. The pride on his face came through the feral pleasure painting it, his hands beginning to map her own body, feeling the jiggle and give of her as he fucked her up the length of the bed, shock coming across his own features as he registered something new that first made a flash of panic burn through him.

He was in her, entirely bareback. And, well, he knew that of course but suddenly, the mind bending intensity of sensations around his cock made sense. It was the first time he’d been inside a woman without a barrier, no condom to distract from her silky grip, his precum gushing and spluttering, slicking up the way for his cock to drive in, turning their love making into a lewd cacophony of sounds that made the man in him exult. It’s my wife, he reminds himself both jubilantly but also to keep the reflexive panic of going in raw at bay, it’s my wife and I need to give her babies. To keep her I gotta fill her up.

“Look at that perfect face.” he groaned aloud to himself, and he meant Elaine’s “taking-cock” face, which he had imagined a million times, but her open mouthed, eye fluttering, hands in hair image below him was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen in all his life, “Look at that perfect fuckin lil face.” he repeated as he forced himself in her all the way, bumping at her crevice and making her let out some form of sob.

“Y-you’re in deep enough?” she gasped out an inquiry, suddenly able to recall what this was all for, accepting of her purpose and close to feral in desire to accomplish it well.

“Ya can take more?” He asked, truly about to lose all grip on himself and wanting her blessing for it, “Gonna lemme get deep, baby? Make me a daddy, hmm? Gonna make me a daddy?”

He sped up with each sentence, her frantic nods and her “yes, yes Elvis, give me more, all of you!” spurring him on till he was driving into her and making those gorgeous breasts of her’s bounce wildly beneath her much abused silk nighty. “Get it deep, please, please get it deep.”

In theory he knew she wanted his swimmer's up past the cake she ate, his own perverted lesson suddenly coming back to bite him with a vengeance as her pleas sent him careening towards his own orgasm faster than he had any intention of blowing. But he was a man, and all his cock heard was “deeper.” And so he drove in deeper and harder.

“S’good.” she continued and her perfect diction was now slurred, her tongue heavy in her mouth and nothing but Elvis Elvis Elvis in her view and in her mind and in her body. “Gonna be good, it’s so good I-come on E, gimme those babies, please please, yes, you’re so good to me.” she was looking up at him in awe, her body spasming and shaking so hard he wasn’t sure if she was coming constantly or having one terribly intense build up. The sweet darling certainly had no clue, and that thought made him grip Elaine harder and he felt his mind grow hazy at her praise, “Elvis you’re, you’re so pretty like this!” she cried out, her neck strained as she clasped her hands around his face and stared deep into his eyes as he plowed her, those carmel colored eyes holding an intensity he’d never seen in a woman.

It shook him to the core and plunged him somewhere deep and subservient, the world felt like it was tilting and he was fading to a place where he was a pretty boy and a useful stud and he-

“Fuck! Elaine you-“ he wanted to tell her she couldn’t, she couldn’t say such things to him, it would turn him mindless, he knew the symptoms. He’d no longer be the strong husband she needed but her goddamn slave, a whimpering pathetic mess. He was going to come.

He pulled out abruptly, and as if his cock stuffing her pussy was filling the whole of her with strength, like a doll with batting. she deflated against the bed in confusion at the sudden halt and withdrawal.

“Baby?” she questioned him in a forlorn whimper, her entire consciousness begging for more as he patted her thighs soothingly and fought to grapple his sanity back in place. He couldn’t slip and turn ‘little’ tonight, he simply wasn’t able to do that to Elaine. He stared down at her freshly gaping little hole and swore he didn’t mean to be an ass, but he was just a man, and she was his wife to do with what he wanted. She wanted his babies, and she didn’t know better than to let him do whatever it took to give her that. And right now, he couldn’t handle the adoring looks and innocent dirty talk pouring out of the mouth of a virtuous girl he had long harbored such obscene intentions for. It turned him very desperate and perhaps a little mean.

“Forgive me, mama.” he muttered when leaning over Elaine and kissing her hard before he gripped his bride’s delicate waist and flipped her onto her knees. “It’s better for breeding this way.” he gritted out at her confused gasps, palming her ass where her slip had ridden up to expose her. He lined himself up with her pussy and watched with savage enjoyment as his girth slowly stretched her pretty pink rim beyond all seeming capacity and her following whimpers were music to his ears, her trill of confused enjoyment as he slid to the full, the cutest thing imaginable.

Immediately she missed the sweet intimacy of his embrace, the pleasurable sight of his face above her, also. And this angle, this method, it was deeper and tugged again at the petals of her house that had just gotten used to his usage. She thought to object, to tell him she didn’t like it this way -he had told her to tell him what she liked. She assumed, hoped, that stood for what she didn’t like, as well.

Elvis is a good boy, she heard her father say in her head, Elvis is a good boy -even as this good boy lined his inordinate organ up with her sore little place and thrust inside again. She was going to have to tell him she didn’t like it this way.

That is, until she lifted her head from the sheets he had tossed her in, belly first and face down, and noticed the mirror hanging opposite them. In it she saw a perfect view of her own face, a face she knew but hardly recognized, so…matured…was it in the gilt reflection. Her face was flushed and richly colored and her mouth gaping like one of those steamy movie posters where the woman has succumbed to the man’s embrace-and god knows whatever else it was the man was doing to her below the waist where the posters always seemed to cut off. The man was snapping his hips to push himself inside the woman, that’s what they were all doing. Now she knew, and she watched enthralled as Elvis mounted her from behind like a damn stallion, his broad hand gripping her shoulder and yanking her back against him as he snapped forward, the other fiddling under her hemline until he found her little button and began to play.

Nevermind, she thought, focusing on trying to breathe as he began to set a demanding pace again, pain and pleasure in this act equal parts for her as she propped up on her forearms and watched him watch what he was doing to her virgin hole, -nevermind he can keep at it, she decided.

His calloused fingers were petting and swirling and tugging so perfectly in her little nub in time with his strokes she began to happily anticipate the next thrust, rocking back on her own accord, feeling the bliss build again but this time stronger than what he had given her before with his mouth. In the mirror she could see how the strap of her slip had fallen off her shoulder and now lay partway down her arm, her gaping neckline now exposing a whole breast showing how it jiggled obscenely with each of his movements. It made her cheeks burn.

Elaine tried to right the strap but holding herself up with one arm made her nearly wobble face first into the sheets again and it made him lose his rhythm and suddenly it was entirely too good like that, face in the bed and hips propped up, and she needed that hand to stifle her shrieks of pleasure as he pounded into her without a hitch at the new position.

“Ya like it like that, hmm?“ he gritted out as she folded and screamed beneath him, speeding his fingers up on her clit as her thighs began to clamp shut. “God look at these hips, anythin’ but cradlin’ babies would be a goddamn waste of ‘em.” he squeezed at their plush width while yanking her back on him again and again.

“T-t-they’re gonna hear me.” she wailed once, and he realized she meant the guests downstairs, that once she realized that he wasn’t going to stop just because her pleasure had her in a place where she could no longer be in possession of herself, she had begun to fear for their reputation.

“Let ‘em.” he growled, taking his wet hand from between her thighs and running it up the length of her bowed spin, relishing the way she was drenching his thighs too, “They all know what I’m doin’ to ya. They knew what you were signin’ up for, even if you didn’t.” that thought made his balls tingle and he knew he close, that and the fact Elaine’s had her pretty little face barely propped up enough to watch them in mirror, watching as he plowed her from the back in tear stained, shocked, pleasured obedience to his wants, “Whole world’s gonna know what a good wifey you are, soon enough. They’re gonna see ya swellin and fillin out and they’re gonna know how good you are for me, how well ya take me, how much ya enjoy splittin’ yourself on my cock.”

“Oh God!” she screamed at the thought and at the thrill of his praise and buried her face into the golden bedding in abject submission and ecstasy, no longer able to compute the image of her dear, sweet Elvis mounting her body and snarling in pleasure in the mirror as he used her to chase his relief.

Elaine, to his lust clouded mind, had the prettiest ass on earth and it filled his hands perfectly, and her overstimulated shrieks and mewls and squeals sounded every damn bit like a Disney Princess. And somehow, that thought really did it for him.

Elvis hadn’t given it a lot of thought before, mind ya, hadnt spent time contemplating what it would be like to make Snow White touch her toes while getting skewered or how it would be to push Cinderella’s sweet face into the sheets. But he was pretty sure that if one of those doll-like little ladies had ever been made to take cock after true love's kiss, they’d sound rather like the squeaking little thing writhing beneath him right now.

He jabbed harder just for the fun of that, just for the enjoyment of the fact he was balls deep in a virgin cunt about to blow his load inside a woman for the first time ever. His jabs and swivels and fucks made she squeal more, clinging to the foot of the bed, no rich alto moan left in her with every inch he made her take.

She sounds like Tinkerbell, if Tinkerbell ever had the sweet misfortune to be loved on by Elvis Presley. He grins at the mirror, grins at the bowed figure of his little wife, gives a passing prayer of thanks for this perfect woman he is gonna spend the rest of his life loving in this way.

Take this, Tinkerbell, he thinks excitedly, ramming home once more and feeling himself drain inside her at last in long, pulsing, gushing spurts.

She knew that feeling, she realized in a daze. Yes she had felt it just this night when they were writhing against each other but -this hot gizer of warmth shooting inside her… the porch swing. He had wasted his seed in his pants on the porch swing. He wasted so much wanting her without telling her, it makes her heart ache for him. She spreads her trembling legs apart and tries to wiggle him in deeper, pushing back onto his key as he shudders to a halt, trying to be of help for him, to get it where it needs to go. No more waste. No more pining. It makes him sob and groan as she milks him, her sweet boy returning as he drapes over her back, a boneless weight before gently rolling onto his back and taking her with him, still impaled. A stopper of sorts, to keep it from leaking, from wasting.

There is not a single part of her body that does not tremble, nor of his either, they cling to each other, fully equal in post-coital vulnerability now and try to remember what world they belong in. His hands cradle her lower belly, pressing her close to him and swiping his thumbs along her spine, just as she pets over his arm and nuzzles into the hollow below his throat. She’s so touchy, caressing him and squeezing him like she needs the contact as badly as he does, and it’s exactly what he always wanted, hoped, didn’t dare ask heaven for but he’s got it. She’s here, she’s his.

“You’re my wife.” he marvels, and he is referring twofold to the act that just made her so and he means it wondrously by the way she lov- cares- for him so well. “You make me so happy.” he says against her lips.

“Thank you.” she whispers, cracking open her eyes to see him soft and gentle right there beside her, “For choosing me.”

“Didn’t have a choice.” he croaks, “Never has been a choice with you, I had to have ya, was more your choice than it ever was mine to lemme be yours.”

“You are mine now, aren’t ya.” she muses and he sees the way that thought sparks some life back into her heavy lidded eyes.

It’s good to belong to someone, he thinks, comforted as he brings his mouth down to hers. “Yeah, always, always gonna be yours.”

He kisses her long and slow and she returns it, her body sated beneath his caresses in a way his masculine, virulent one could never be when laying beside her, buried inside her still, newly laying claim. It is a gentle rocking when he begins again, quite helplessly, to move inside her, and she is so busy tugging at his cropped hair and nipping at his lips that she doesn’t seem to notice that they’re swaying vertically until he draws her leg over his hip and begins to drive up again in earnest, her moans a sweet melody she pours into his mouth. It’s quiet this second time and unrushed, and she has grown used to the ache, he thinks he should tell her soon to use the restroom, but he’ll have to take his fill again first.

He wonders when he’ll find the time to tell her to go between telling her he loves her. She asks him if they can do this often.

“Bout as often as we can manage.” Tumbled out of his lips happily.

“And how often’s that?” she urged him breathily, her eyes losing focus they were so close to his own.

“Enough times to lose count, Laney.” he promised, “Gotta fill ya up, best we can. Gotta be diligent.”

There was no soaring crescendo to this session, he merely clutched at her harder on one lazy upstroke, her fingernail had caught his nipple and zapped him straight to heaven like a thunderbolt to the frenulum. And then she felt him spilling inside again. Warm and hot and soothing the battering of her walls. His fingers took hers and pulled them down between her legs to pet the damage again, smearing him around like ointment on a wound. They had acted married twice now, she figured. They’d done marriage twice. The second she had liked even better than the first as he held her all the while, even though no searing height had happened to her.

“When you were with other girls,” she whispered into his chest later as they dozed between bouts of kissing and cuddling, “this isn’t -you didn’t…” she faltered for a moment before lifting her face to gaze down at him with warmth and gentle pleading, “-you didn’t do this with them, did you? You don’t act married with them, right?”

Perhaps most men would have chosen to lie. Elvis had no need despite his experience and his reputation. He had, a dozen or a hundred times, wrapped himself in latex and put it in a dozen or hundred women, some he cared for genuinely and some who were life preservers in a sea of lonely travels, but he’d never acted married. He’d never done this sort of intimacy before. He figured he was practically a virgin too, in that sorta way. In making love with the intention to bind himself, trap himself forever to one single soul. It ought to have been terrifying, that commitment, but feeling himself drip out of Elaine into the cradle of his hips he just felt right, like he was home. Like he’d just given himself to someone who actually wanted him. “No honey, I didn’t act married with any of ‘em. You’re the only one who gets my seed. I swear, really I do, now or ever.”

She could tell he meant that promise, and now he’d taught her how to express herself in this new language, she thanked him the only way she knew how, by gleefully rolling atop him again. It was a language she realized she was seeking most of her life, ever since anger and joy and want had flared in her and had been summarily instructed to be curtailed.

Propriety. Mildness. Rise above it all. She was good at the art of it all, and had been praised for it. Yet here was a man who coaxed vehemence out of her, taught her to inflict it on his body, who found pleasure in this grappling, wrestling, messy way that made such sense to her now she had found it.

I could love you, I’m going to love you, I’m very much in danger of loving you, was said with each swivel of her hips and lick of her tongue down his neck. “Oh Elvis.” sounded sweetly in his ear as he bounced her like a doll in his lap and made her fall apart.

Elvis had kissed her temple as he panted his breath back in again. Kept himself plugged in as long as possible till he shrank to nothing and slipped out. His destructive cock a now harmless, wet little thing that she cooed at in a most embarrassing way for him, but he was too happy with her laying on his chest to protest the curious fondling she gave his sensitive cock.

“This new house by Fort Hood, the one that agents of your’s got us,” he had murmured huskily while swigging from the chilled bottles of water retrieved from the mini fridge -with Elaine riding on his back to the closet and then the bed again, refusing to be apart, “it’s got a split layout, ya see. Top and bottom floor’s got a kitchenette, might not be the easiest for cookin’ but it’ll give us -space.” he assured, and she bit her lip imagining what he’d want the privacy for. “Wouldn’t ya rather a lil privacy ‘stead of a big ole countertop? I-I-if not I-I can-“

“Sounds perfect.” she sighed dreamily, thinking about making him meals and him coming home to eat them, gallant and lean in his pressed uniform. “You’re real handsome in your uniform, ya know that?” she figured it didn’t hurt to admit it, her man seemed to thrive off compliments from her, and he never did seem to get a big head from them. Except for the other little head that twitched and swelled at any compliment at all.

It was getting late, or early more like, and as she felt his interest grow yet again, Elaine played at denial. A silly, jokingly, little sort of thing where she wriggled away from his grabby hands and tried to make it out of the bed -headed to god knows where, the champagne bottle or the record player or downstairs, she didn’t know as she had no real intention of fleeing. But being seized from the back by her husband and playfully thrown back on his bed, made to sprawl out on the corner of the mattress , her legs hanging apart and her pathetic little slip still hanging onto her modesty for dear life, it was rather thrilling the way he had muttered,

“Oh no ya don’t, good lil wives don’t run.” and put himself back into her overused body, relishing her moan at his first thrust in and the fucked out compliance of the grinning girl beneath him. “I wanna see my pretty wife’s tits,” he asked as he watched them bouncing and jiggling with each absorbed fuck, “C’mon baby, be good and lemme see those pretty pillas of mine, you won’t deny me will ya? Come on, baby, so pretty, so round, gonna make ‘em blow up soon enough, whole world’ll notice ‘em. I wanna be the first to see ‘em before it. Up we go, lemme, come on yittle one, thas it, lift it up.”

He watched as this woman of his who was currently impaled on his cock blushed and smiled and bashfully pulled up her slip till her buttermilk soft mounds were bare, pink nipples pebbled and a scared, hopeful look on her face as her slip bunched at her clavicle.

“Goddamn, I’m a lucky man.” he had groaned and not missed her relieved smile. Then playfully flicked the slip up and over to hide her bright red face before folding himself enough to suck on a rosy little nipple while pistoning in and out. Soft, pliable flesh giving beneath the weight of his jaw and the nudge of his nose.

It was bizarre to Elaine, her sight obscured by the slip, her breathing hampered by the same, sound and feeling her chief senses this time. Just the sounds of him enjoying himself alone had a warm feeling curling in her chest and her belly, too, his hums and groans sending delightful zaps through her previously respectfully ignored nipples. His hands running up and down her ribcage, sometimes seizing her waist to pull her on him, sometimes fluttering over her diaphragm to feel himself moving within, nearly up her lungs he felt.

She felt as if she had finally been given privacy in which to truly feel and enjoy this, veiled by her own last shred of modesty, she let herself feel -and what she felt was astounding. She felt cherished. And she felt ravaged. And as if no one was here or anywhere on this earth to judge the way she screamed in delight, she yelled it and heard him answer her:

“that’s it, lemme hear ya” his teeth snapping at her nipples as he talked around them with his movements causing him to miss, sparking a fresh wave of noise to humidify the satin covering her face,

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

She chanted in happy panic as her legs drew up on their own, up and up and trying to close against the delicious onslaught, only to realize too late that it made the fit even tighter, the friction even stronger, the glint in her husband’s eyes wilder. He pinned them to her chest, with a single hand, to keep them out of the way. Slapped at her clit instead, made her scream in a way he didn’t think she was capable. Thought about doing it twenty years from now, thought about how he’d have the rest of his life to make his Tinkerbell scream. He slapped her there again and this time no scream, just a hissed in breath that had no exhale, her whole body clamping up in rigid ecstasy, tightening so strongly he couldn’t even keep his thrusts going to help her through.

Almost alarmed by her lack of breathing, he thought to pull at her slip, up and over her head till her face was visible again -she looked as if she were in some great agony, and his smug heart flipped at the sight, before leaning down to kiss her.

He was all chestnut hair aglow, wicked dark eyes and sweet lips, hovering down into her hazy view and her body wasn’t her own anymore, the damage had been done and the cliff she was teetering on gave way beneath her sanity when his lips met hers, his warm chest rubbing against her spit chilled nipples. For the second time that night she sprayed him, and through the eye rolling, rapturous tingle of it she heard him asking if she was “coming.”

“Oh goddamn, goddamn look a’that, oh fuck me sideways that’s hot as hell.” he blabbered, pulling out just long enough to wiggle his cockhead against her petals and force another jet out, coating his own abs with it, relishing the way her belly shook and her legs clamped together straight in the air, her hands clawing at the slip like she was trying to fight her way out. “Sweet Jesus you’re so sensitive.” he praised, pushing back in despite her hiss, and the way her feet tried to plant themselves on his shoulders to push him away. “Gotta lemme back in darlin’, I got another deposit to make.” he joked, loving the way she was clawing and wiggling away from him on pure, over fucked insinct, red painted nails dug deep enough to rip into the gold bedding. “Come on, be good, be good for me, lemme in baby, lemme in , doin’ so good, so good I know you’re so damn full, just a lil more, lil more. Don’t want any to go to waste do ya?”

He was wicked for using those magic words to make the shaking girl open up and let him in again, but he made up for it by the kisses, he felt, and in praise, and promising her if she stayed good she’d have those babies. Careening headlong towards another orgasm of his own with the sounds she was making and the lewd squelch of how wet she was down there, downright squelching with all his contributions and her own slick, he swore she was everything he’d ever dreamed of. She smiled at that.

“I’m gonna come.” he promised her almost in a beg, pleading for her to understand why he sped up and started to pound her again in earnest, erratic thrusts.

“W-whats coming?” she whined, her eyes screwed shut and her thighs shivering beneath his shoulders, “Y-you’re already here…”

The more he drained his balls, the more his mind seemed to leave him as well, all catered sentences and prim vocabulary gone straight out the window with his last shred of self restraint. “This-is-comin-“ he punctuated as he drove himself in, then felt his balls draw up and try to offer up residual bits of spunk but nothing seemed to come out. Served him right how white hot and painful it felt, sputtering dry inside her. He hoped she didn’t notice the deposit was a blank check. Also hoped she didn’t hear the pathetic whimper he’d let out as lil Elvis heaved his last attempt at it. By the way she was humming and petting at his hair, cradling him gently as he sagged atop her on the corner of the bed -he was afraid she’d heard and felt it all.

“Why’s it called that?” she whispered in his ear, and he wondered that she had any energy at all.

He burrowed his face deeper into her neck and mumbled, “Damned if I know, darlin.” he thought on it a little while longer while also thinking of the drip, drip, drip of their mess melting between them, “Unless it’s cause it makes ya feel like you’re havin a ‘come to God moment’, ya know?” he suggested and laughed when he felt her poking his cheek. “Do ya- do ya like it when…when ya-“ he couldn’t manage it now in the gentle afterglow, starting to get a chill after all his sweaty exertion cooled and left behind clammy skin and pooled secretions, feeling how naked and soft and lonely he was suddenly upon feeling sated for the first time tonight.

“Can we really do this as often as we want?” she asked instead, and her tone held no dread in it, only hopeful excitement. Suddenly the lonesomeness was gone again.

He felt her hands stroking his back and down to his ass again and he had giggled happily, not able to hold back his relief. “Yes, darlin.”

“Gosh.” she mused, petting him still, “To think I-I didn’t know about this and now it’s…” he propped up his chin on his hands to give her an inquiring look, begging her to finish, “it’s all I wanna do now.”

“That so?” he quirked his eyebrow and she flushed and began to shake her head, her tone pleading:

“Oh, not now, not right now -oh, please, please E, I’ll die if ya do, give me a minute.” she laughed and kissed him again.

“We should sleep.” he mused, half asleep already, pillowed on her boobs, his legs still technically still standing him upright as his upper body lay across the bed, across his new wife. “And bathe.” he realized.

“It’s very sloppy.” she agreed, and the thought of how uncomfortable she must be, stuffed with a half a dozen or more cum shots roused him to action.

He picked Elaine up bridal style and carried his now gloriously naked woman into the en-suite bathroom, seating her on the chilled marble countertop and grinning at the way she melted, spineless and used against the mirror, a soft smile lighting her dear face.

She liked watching his long lean, boyish figure, hard in some places and soft in others, strangely inviting in its combinations, ripple and flex as he bent and turned on the tub faucets, snagging gold embossed towels off the rack.

E.P. they read, gold thread glowing on the black cotton.

E.P.

For the both of them. It could be for either of them, it probably had been in his mind when he’d had them made, stocked his home full of monogrammed luxuries with her future initials on them E.P. --and all the while she had been fretting of dying a loveless old maid.

She laughed happily and found she couldn’t stop, catching sight of his embossed robe, hung on the door with the same initials. E.P. She was wanted, she was so very wanted here with him. It made her slide her jellied legs off the counter and hug him ferociously from behind, pressing kisses into his spine, and the freckles that smattered his shoulder blades.

“E.P.” she whispered and he got what she meant, turning round and grinning at her.

Once in the bath she dozed in his arms, near suffocated by bubbles and relishing his embrace, the warm water and his massaging hands soothing the ache between her legs.

“We haven’t washed the babies out have we?” she asked, groggily staring into the receding bath water as he tenderly toweled her off once stepping out of the tub. “I-I-I want those babies.“ she insisted and it must’ve been the lateness of the hour or the sheer amount of muchness she had been subjected to tonight but her lip started to wobble at the idea she’d carelessly risked her hopes down the drain, swirling away with the last of the bubbles. “Elvis I-I- didn’t mean to rinse them out!” she wailed, near hysterical with fatigue.

He tried assuring her but she wasn’t easily pacified. “I-I could give ya more.” he finally offered timidly, entirely uncertain either of them were capable of enduring another round.

He was toweling off her calves as he said it, pressing kisses to her knees and noticing the tremors in her thighs. To his shock she dropped to her knees beside him on the bathmat, eyes half mast and nearly insane looking in their fatigued determination,

“Please, please give it another try.” she nodded before spinning around on the bathmat, shakily swift and presenting him with her shapely ass.

‘Better for breeding this way’, came back to mind. God she was a quick study, and he prayed for strength and some shred of self restraint in indulging her. Instead, he found himself burying his face between her cheeks and licking at her devotedly, afraid they may have washed her slick away and worrying the burn of entry would be too much for her, fresh out of the tub and swollen from overuse as she was. No woman had let him do it this way, his face near buried in her bath warmed ass and his tongue kitten licking at her slick hole, but Elaine bore it with decorous appreciation, entirely unaware of being anything but eager in her responses, her spine arched and a rosy cheek pillowed on her forearms. Her yittle hand came down to pet Elvis’ diligent head as he worked between her legs.

“That’s it, I love it, E, like that, I love it when you…” she was mumbling in a slurred litany of praise he gobbled up ravenously, just like he did the shuddering little trickles of sweetness he coaxed out of her. “I’m -I’m, yeah yeah-“ he felt her grind down on his face as she shook again, and then it was as if the top half of her body nearly melted into the mat, just his hands keeping her ass in the air. “Please put it in.” she whispered, her hand still down there between her legs and reaching for something else of his now, her tone so soft and polite, like Cinderella asking for cock.

He aimed his cock into her waiting hand and watched with barely suppressed desire as her palm rolled over the rip and her nails gently raked across his veins as she moved to grip him and point him where she wanted him. There was a lewd sucking noise this time when he went in, like her body was finally trying to swallow him willingly, and he saw her head toss on the mat, dainty fingers woven into gold shag and her neck craned back to see him as he pressed in deep. Her face was flushed deep red and the makeup had worn off and she looked so innocent, so young beneath him, a single curl plastered dark and wet against her cheek from the bath. He’d unmade her, turned her back to her simplest form. He snapped his hips, lost his mind, noticed happily how her hand went to her hip and joined his there. He held onto it like a handle and jerked her back on him again and again, her cheek rubbing against the mat and her teeth sinking into her other fist to hush her cries. Those cries of hers, maybe something was very sick inside him that he liked them so much but he did, he did and he worked hard to draw more from her just as he dreamed of this, dreamed of her fluttering pink hole trying to take more and her eyes rolling back from the fatigue of it, her body unable to deny him.

“My poor belly,” he thought he heard her whimper, yet unsure he reached down and pulled her fist away from her mouth, it pushed him deeper in, bent her more starkly, speared her cervix, “Oh god, my belly, my poor belly.” she kept saying for sure this time.

“You alright, Lany?” he draped over her and brushed the damp strands off her face, her face that was red and splotchy from sensation and blood flow. She gave him a whimpering nod.

“You’resodeep” she accused him even as he felt her squeeze and shake around his girth, her mouth gaping for a brief moment at the unexpected little pleasure. “My poor belly.” she said it over and over again and he couldn’t stop. It was more just a bewildered mantra to comfort herself, as her mind betrayed her and wanted him but her body was so well used that was she was just…taking it

“You poor little thing,” he cooed, making sure to move slow and deep in a way that had them both shaking and stepping into madness, bent all over her bent frame himself, “you’re takin’ my cock so well, so obedient, never was a more righteous wife, never was, you’re a goddamn wonder, that’s what you are. I’ll thank God for ya every day.”

His praise always soothed her and he kept it up, not even sure what he was saying anymore as he chased his own release, focused on the bent little thing beneath him and the way it made her waist look minuscule in this position, her pink face, too. At one point he saw tears instead of bath splash on her face and as he felt himself begin to spurt he shushed her the best he could with the first thing that came to mind:

“Don’t cry Tink, please don’t cry.”

The nickname tickled her consciousness like a feather on the neck, some goosey thrill that tickled up her spine and added to the satisfied throb between her legs as he splashed hot and thick inside her.

“Tink?” she thought she had asked him, bewildered and charmed to have been christened. Maybe her words got lost in the bath mat.

He did not answer her, must’ve not heard her at all, but picked her up with his own shaking arms and like a couple of bambi's they toddled into the massive bed, throwing themselves under the covers quite unceremoniously. He tried to swat at the lamp as if that would turn it off, and realizing she was the more capable of the two -he seemed almost insensibley drained by that last encounter- she leaned over his chest and pulled at the lamp string, dousing the glow that surrounded them, only to realize dawn was splashing a violet haze through the crack of the window curtains.

“Good morning, Mrs. Presley.” he had teased softly, noticing the dawn too, his head tilted on the pillow to watch her shut off the lamp.

“Good morning, husband.” she murmured, wriggling on top of him as he held her fast, arms locked over her back and her head pillowed on his chest.

This cuddling was familiar, this drowsy holding of each other until he stilled and fell asleep, an art she had perfected since his mama died. But now she was the woman in his life, and strangely now that the hunger had been glutted and abated, they entwined around each other like babes or twins in a womb, this naked closeness the most natural of assurance in the world. Something Elvis had been missing since his brother had left him, since Jesse entered the world before him and chose not to stay and endure it with him, fell into place.

My sister! My spouse! -King Solomon had called his lover, and Elvis had felt that supremely odd when snooping through the Song of Songs as a boy. But now he knew -too many roles did she fill to be confined to one, and Elvis felt tempted as Elaine fell asleep atop him to whisper, “my brother, my spouse!” into her hair.

Sometime later, when deep unconscious, dreamless sleep had possessed them and held them fast, but not a long enough time for Elvis to be remotely cheerful about it, a obnoxious clanging sound broke in on their peaceful repose. Elaine jerked awake atop him with a startled little squeak and he put his hand to the back of her head to shush her, encouraging her to lay her cheek back on his shoulder. The noise resounded again and this time he was lucid enough to determine it was coming from outside the bedroom door.

Clang-a-lang-a-lang-clang-a-lang

Elaine huffed and rubbed her tired face into his chest, his sparse hairs there tickling her nose and making her sneeze. That made him laugh and with neither able to keep up the pretense of sleep, they raised their heads and looked towards the door with matching, raised and unimpressed eyebrows of displeasure.

“If this is the boys idea of a practical joke,” he growled with sleepy morning grit in his voice, “they won’t be boys much longer.”

“Will ya put them in boxes and give them to me?” she inquired and he realized with a self satisfied smirk that her melodic voice had gone hoarse from all the screaming he’d made her do the night before.

“Heavens Mrs. Presley,” he marveled, “ya sure have gotten comfy askin’ for things -I like it.”

“I could think of a thing or two I want right now.” she bit her lip and her eyes slanted hungrily and some scared part of him that worried she wouldn’t want this as much as he did got buried teen feet below the earth, locked away forever.

“Breakfast?” he acted dumb even as she propped herself up on his chest and gingerly tried rolling her hips along his thickening shaft, hissing at the soreness of her own petals.

The sheets falling away from her and pooling round her hips like some goddess that had condescended to come down to earth and make use of her spied after Adonis, Elaine was ethereal and happy and Elvis sank his head back into the pillow and watched her, wishing to pinch himself but the roll of his foreskin against her bud told him it was real. “Breakfast and water, breath mints and fresh air-“ she listed while speeding up and causing his cock to begin to weep and slick her way along-

Clang-a-lang-a-lang-clang-a-lang

“What?” he yelled fearsomely at the door and she shivered in spooked delight at his temper.

“I’m comin’ in wi’ breakfast,” came Mary’s unmistakable drawl through the door and to his horror he watched the gilt knob begin to turn, “y’all’s best disentangle yo’selves cause I done waited till two in the afternoon to feed yous, and I ain’t taking chances for waitin’ any longer-“ Mary stepped into the room about at the same second Elaine accomplished a dismount and roll that the would have made the marine corps proud, diving beneath the covers, only a bride sized lump to be seen by the cook as she came in with a heavy laden tray, her ingenious cowbell left behind in the hall. “Lawd Mr. Elvis, you’re wearing that loved on look just nicely, if you’ll lemme say so.” she admired his marital blush and scratched shoulders as only a proud auntie could, “Miss Elaine, you best come outta ‘der, I got bagels and cream cheese, jus’ as you like.”

“Oh Mary, you didn’t!” Came Elaine’s moan of appreciation beneath the bedding and it was altogether too close to his pelvis for Elvis’ sanity, “You’re much too good to us, you know that?” Elaine wriggled till just her head peeked out and bestowed on Mary a smile of such adoration the lady forgot the ache in her arms from carrying the tray upstairs.

“Yeas, well, wouldn't do to have y’all’s dying of malnourishment.” she huffed bashfully patting Elvis’ beet red cheeks while unconsciously setting the trey in his stiff lap.

He groaned. In appreciation for the eggs and burnt bacon, Elaine had to presume.

“Don’t you take your fill again till you’ve taken your fill, you get what I mean?” she wagged her fingers at them, first at Elvis, then at his bride as if she was second guessing who here was the more likely instigator, the groom seemingly meek and the bride grinning altogether too widely than was proper. Delighted, Mary couldn’t help her matching one, “Eat up.” She nodded, backing away while eying them suspiciously, as if at any minute they might overturn her carefully prepared victuals and begin to maul eachother anew.

“Wouldn’t think of letting it get cold!” Elvis assured her adamantly and to prove his point, stuck a bagel into his bride's mouth before getting into the eggs himself.

Satisfied, Mary left them and shut the door. They heard when she picked up her cowbell and the retreating sound of her footsteps down the hall assured Elvis it was safe. He moved the platter off his lap as if it were scorching him, flinging the offending sheets off his erection and patting his thighs, jerking his chin at a wide eyed Elaine.

“I’m a very talented man, I’ll have ya know,” he told her as she settled in his lap, his chest pressed to her back, “I can feed and fill ya at the same time.”

“So,” she began genially as she wiggled him in and got comfy, sucking cream cheese off his fingers and taking advantage of his compromised blood flow, “Is Tinkerbell gonna my nickname?”

Elvis choked on his bacon, and proceeded to cough into a pillow case. “I’ve no idea what you're on about.” he denied.

“Hey,” she grinned at him without wavering, “if you can enjoy splitting me in half, I can enjoy a nickname that outs ya for bein’ a lil nasty about it, hmm?” and she chucked his chin.

She -she had a point, Elvis supposed. “Sure, Tink, whatever you say, Tink.” he droned.

Masterlist

Taglist

@paradsol000

@eliseinmemphis

@prompted-wordsmith

@ab4eva

@foreverdolly

@powerofelvis

@butlersxbirdy

@crash-and-cure

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@heartbrake-hotel

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@pennyroyalcreep

@notstefaniepresley

@ellie-24

@renaissingle

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@presleyenterprise

[fallen-shamans-spirit]

What do you think the P in Elaine P stands for?

I.

...

I don't. Know. There's no use speculating.

... did Phipps have family in Cyril?

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Jesus My King Elaine Phipps | Runtime: 7mins 13secs

[annafcsmith]

Nasty Women Wigan. Cross Street Arts 11th Aug - 2nd Sept 2017 

Team: Anna FC Smith, Paula Fenwick Lucas, Amy Cecilia Leigh, Lucy Sharkey, Jane Fairhurst, Emily Calland, Wendy Bowers, plus additional support from Cross Street Arts: Martyn Lucas and Steven Heaton 

Exhibiting artists: Lo Green Olivia Brazier Jane Fairhurst Jo Barcas Buchan Ffion Pritchard Elaine Phipps Rosalind Barker Claire Doyle Alice Watkins Vanessa Alves Ellen Moss Hazel Roberts Gaenor Deacon Maryamsadat Amirvaghefi Maria Walker Anna FC Smith Paula Fenwick Lucas Lucy Sharkey Amy Cecilia Leigh Jacqui Priestley Rachael Finney Ellie Barrett Jenny Drinkwater Sally Barker Emily Calland (Eat Your Kids Illustration) Emily Ashcroft Helena Denholm Lois Hopwood Wendy Boyers 

Photos by Michael Orrell Photography

[vidalinav]

Dance Like Your Falling In Love

Summary: One shot; Cassian doesn’t know how to dance, everyone tries to teach him but he’s hopeless.

I implore you to listen to The Dance from Martin Phipps, one of the best scores I’ve ever heard from BBC’s War and Peace. Please Please listen as you read. Youtube, Spotify. Whatever, This whole fic is based off of that score.

Masterlist

~

“You have faced beings larger than you, more powerful, more dangerous, and yet you’re telling me that you’re afraid to dance,” Rhys offered skeptically.

“I am not afraid…” Cassian grumbled. “I just don’t see why I have to do it.”

It, being the dreaded waltz that they were now discussing as being “necessary” for future political endeavors. Bull. Shit.

Feyre leaned her head back against the settee where Rhys was shuffling through papers. “The next meeting we have with the high lords will be at a ball.”

“And not just the high lords will be there,” Azriel chimed in, “the leaders from the continent as well.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. “So what? We have to show off our table manners to get them to sign a treaty?”

“Whatever it takes Cassian,” Mor sang from where she lounged on the couch.

“I’ve hired Anna Pavlova to come tomorrow to…” Rhys gave him a pointed glance, “brush up on our skills so to speak.”

Cassian’s look of disgust must have said enough, because Amren snickered at her position at the coffee table where she was completing a puzzle in the middle of their strategy meeting.

“That old hag,” Cassian complained.

Amren huffed a laugh, “Our skills,” she said mockingly, looking to Cassian. He tried not to take offense to that.

Cassian crossed his arms, sitting back as if he were a child who’d just learned he was getting extra lessons as opposed to dinner time and an hour of play. This was unfair.

“Remember to dress nice,” Azriel grinned.

Rhys looked to him with a teasing glint in his eyes, “You know how Madam Pavlova can get.”

~

Cassian did know how the Madam could get, so he chose to wear pressed slacks, in which he only owned one pair and a nice dress shirt that Cassian hoped was clean. He had found it in the back of his closet, and after asking Nuala for an iron he’d almost burned off the sleeve.

He wished he’d burned off the sleeve. Maybe then he could get out of this ridiculous lesson like he was twelve again. But no, knowing Rhys, he’d probably have a whole suit for him. Cauldron forbid, it would have probably been sky blue with frills.

That bastard.

He twisted the tie around his neck, and after several minutes of twisting and knotting and twisting some more, Cassian yanked it off and threw it on the ground, stomping on it as he let out his frustrations.

When he was younger, Madam Pavlova would pick and prod at his tie, saying, in that thick accent of hers, that it needed to be tied tighter so the neck will have no room but to remain straight and tall. He’d nearly tore it to pieces every night after their classes had finished.

It was their mother’s idea to put them in lessons and Rhys hadn’t minded so much, the bastard he was, and the Madam had praised Azriel as almost every tutor and trainer did. Cassian though, she’d complain about. He wasn’t doing enough, he was goofing off, he glued her bag to the stage… the last one still made him laugh on occasion. Point being, Madam Pavlova hated him, but mostly because try as he might, Cassian could not dance.

So, Cassian walked with a certain amount of apprehension through the gardens where this “brush up” would take place. An impressive array of flowers were around the square, most noticeably the incredible rose bushes that were tall and in full bloom surrounding the paved open space.

True to his High Lord’s excessiveness, there was practically an orchestra by the square, tuning their instruments and strumming lightly. Practicing for the event of the season, Cassian thought sardonically.  

As soon as he noticed the female, her gait tall and thin, Cassian shirked back, wanting to turn away. Madam Pavlova had not changed… and Cassian didn’t know what to do with that information. She was no closer to death and something about that made him snap at his luck.

She raised a brow at him as he entered, calling him forward in attention.

“Let me look at you.”

The others were already gathered, including Varian who’d stayed with Amren in the past week, and Nesta and Elain. The former he tried not to glance at, not even a little.

“Yeah Cassian, spin for us,” Rhys teased.  

Cassian flipped him off. At the displeased look from the Madam, Cassian lowered his hand slowly, grumbling to himself.

“You have grown since last I’ve seen you. Though I see, your clothes are still wrinkled and you can’t keep a tie.”

“You haven’t changed either, Madam. I see your still a bi—”

“Best we get started soon, I think,” Azriel interrupted.

The Madam smiled sweetly at Azriel. “Yes. Yes, my dear. The sooner we start, the better the dancers you become.”

She looked at them all, pursing her lips, her fingers pointing at each one of them. At last, she snapped.

“There is not enough partners!” the Madam raised, her voice going deep with displeasure.

The others looked at each other, perhaps deciding silently who would sit this one out, but it was Nesta who claimed the decision. She didn’t even acknowledge the Madam as she left the line of them, going to sit on a bench. He watched as she opened a book that she pulled out of her skirt and began reading as if that what she was planning to do all along.

Nesta promptly ignored them and she looked every bit the part of a painting. Picturesque boredom, Cassian would call it. Madam Pavlova looked to her and sniffed at the lack of manners, but Cassian snickered. It was perhaps the only entertainment he’d get today.

Leave it to Nesta to get under the old bat’s nerves. He almost felt proud.

The Madam knocked her cane next to his feet in attention, and when he looked away from Nesta, the Madam was standing in front of him a look of disdain on her face. Cassian tried not to feel twelve again, shrinking where he stood.

But she dismissed him, raising her nose and walking back through the line of them.

“To waltz is to dance as one. You and the other must constantly move with each other, anticipating the other’s move,” She stood taller, gesturing with her hands in length. Cassian wanted to laugh at the innuendo of size, but he was not a child. Besides, he doubted she’d appreciate the joke. “This is the space that should be between you and your partner, like magnets attract, you must remain within this space. Pushing, pulling, but always close.”

He could hear the wicked tap of her heels on the concrete. “Now when we begin, gentlemales, I want you to bow, and ladies, I want you to curtsy before and after the dance as properly instructed.”

Cassian watched as Rhys grabbed Feyre’s waist, pulling her forward as she rolled her eyes.

“You do know I don’t know how to waltz, don’t you?” She drawled.

“If I’m leading, Feyre darling, you know how to waltz.”

Feyre scoffed, laughing as she said, “You know, your ego might make us both fall over.”

When Cassian looked in front of him, Mor was grinning at him, taking his hand with confidence. Oh right, he thought to himself, she hadn’t arrived yet when they were first taught this. Well, she was in for a surprise.

He gripped her hand tightly, his back rigid as the music began to play. A cacophony of noise in the background. A melody of strings and woodwinds.

Cassian stepped forward as Mor stepped forward, and in a fit of perfect chaos that only he could cause, they smacked their foreheads together.

“Ouch,” Mor gasped, holding her head in her palms.

“Sorry,” Cassian mumbled, pretending his own head didn’t hurt.

Asking if she needed ice or a bandage, Mor simply rolled her eyes and grabbed his hand once more. Cassian looked to Madam Pavlova and he could see the glare in her eyes. She lifted her chin and Cassian knew it was her way of telling him to get to it.

And he tried…

“By the Mother, Cassian. It’s forward then right.”

Cassian threw up his hands, “It’s not my fault you’re leading. The male is supposed to lead!”

“I wouldn’t have to lead if you were good at dancing!”

“Enough,” the Madam called out, stomping her cane as she eyed them all. “Switch partners.”

Elain went to Rhys, Mor to Azriel, and Feyre, at last, to him. Amren refused to let go of Varian, and he thought she might have latched on to him like a spider monkey if they tried to pull her away.

Feyre smiled up at him, and laughingly curtsied as he remembered to bow. Grabbing his outstretched hand, she titled her head with concern, probably feeling how clammy his hands had gotten.

“Relax Cassian,” Feyre spoke, her brows furrowing. “It’s just like being on the battlefield.”

“How do you mean?” He asked a little too eagerly.

“Well, I’d think you’d agree that there’s a certain level of movement in battle that resembles dancing. A step here, a step there, parry, cross…”

Cassian nodded slowly, his voice sounding out of breath. “Okay. Parry. Cross.”

But when Cassian tried this technique, he only ended up stepping on her toes. He could hear Rhys and Az snickering in the background as he profusely apologized to Feyre.

“Ten silvermarks says he trips her next.”

“Twenty says they both land on the floor.”

Cassian chose to ignore his friends, making a mental reminder to beat them when they trained later in the evening.  

“Okay,” Feyre exhaled, “One step, two step—Ow!”

“Sorry! Sorry!”

He heard the hard tick of the cane abruptly hit the concrete and the deep sigh of disappointment as Madam Pavlova stopped the music. He watched as she covered her eyes with her hands, as if she couldn’t stand to see the shame.

“We will start again,” She announced with that thick accent of hers, “Switch again.”

They began to shift, but Cassian caught Nesta’s gaze. Her book abandoned, sitting at her side and he mentally grumbled that his pain must have been entertaining to her.

Technically Amren was next, but she pushed Elain towards him.

“No chance I’m dancing with him.”

Cassian made a face.

Elain giggled. Flowers were tucked in her hair, and as she curtsied the petals glided in the soft wind. Cassian bowed sheepishly, already regretting being paired with someone as sweet as her. He knew she wouldn’t tell him when he hurt her, and he already felt guilty as the music started.  

“I apologize in advance for stepping on your feet.”

He was right of course, because when the monotonous tune once again stopped abruptly, Elain smiled through the pained expression.

And it was that look that made deep frustration fill his chest. After all this time, after all this practice, he could still not waltz. He had not learned at twelve, he’d not learned at five like Rhys or Mor. No tutors or governesses had taught him how to be adequate. All Cassian had learned as a child was to hit where it hurt and to take anything he could get his hands on.

His mother would’ve been ashamed.

Rhys’s mother—the only mother he knew—would have sat back and sighed. As disappointed as Madam Pavlova. He could almost see it, the look as the Madam had told her that he wasn’t progressing like Rhys and Azriel were. That he wasn’t fit for the life of a socialite or high-class citizen. He was rubbish, bastard trash.  

It will bring you skill in battle and luck in love, she’d said as he did behind the desk, waiting for the classes to be over.

Cassian didn’t feel skilled or lucky, and he clenched his fists, his impatience sounding as loud as that orchestra that played the same tune over and over. He wanted to go over there and shove that flute up the musician’s—

Cassian felt a hand on his shoulder and his gaze landed on hers as he settled his hand on her waist.

Her hair was in that ever-present coronet, but today, it had been tied with a white bow on the back. Cassian could see the ends of the ribbon touch her neck, flapping lightly. His eyes drifted the whole of her. She was wearing a sleeveless dress, the short straps bordered by delicate lace at the shoulders and neckline and all of her looked like the picture of elegance. A beautiful, proper lady.

He was not fit to hold her, not really. Not even if he wanted to, even if he imagined it sometimes—when he allowed himself to dream. Cassian was certain of it as she grasped his hand. It was so much smaller than his, her skin so much softer than the callouses that lined his palms.

Nesta blinked up at him, her long lashes casting shadows along her face. The teal color of her gown brought out the blue in her eyes.

A perfect female indeed.

As the music started, he felt the strongest urge to pull away so she could not see how inadequate he was. Never mind that she’d never see him that way. Cassian did not want her to see him in any way that pointed out his flaws. He’d already shown her too many.

But she took in a breath, her chest rising and falling, and he unconsciously did the same. A calm setting over them like the soft notes of a piano playing.  

“It’s just you…” She said softly, lower than the whisper of notes. He focused on her mouth as she spoke, eager for the words to reach his ears. She moved a step. Cassian lured by her movement, followed. “And me…” She mouthed as she moved another, her grip warm in his palm.

“And the music.”

Cassian didn’t realize they’d been moving as he stared, staying closer to her. As she moved, he moved, as she dipped he followed. If she spun he was there, holding her hand to bring her back to him as if they were in orbit. The earth and the moon in constant rotation, holding each other together as they traveled around the sun.

The music slowed around them, and it was not the same sound as when they began. Perhaps, Cassian had tuned it out altogether in favor of staring into Nesta’s eyes as if she could see all the way to his soul.

She had come to him, come to his rescue when he was panicked and alone, and Cassian once again felt it in his chest—that deep feeling that… Nesta had known him for all his life. Had understood his darkest places, his bitterest fears.

They slowed to a stop, but Cassian didn’t let go until the clapping started. Nesta cringed as she pulled away, clapping slowly as she chose to look anywhere but at him.

He didn’t look at the others, but he thought perhaps they’d been watching them for their applause was… teasing and careful.

“Oh!” Cassian gasped. Nesta’s gaze flew to his, but he merely bowed lowly, his hair hanging from his face.

Nesta smiled lightly, a soft, cautious tilt of her lips. Her neck and back were straight as she curtsied, grace in every moment.

She backed away from him, and Cassian tried not to reach for her, tried not to be noticeably discomforted from that lack of closeness. He watched as she picked up her book, and settled back on the bench, her teal gown bright against the red rose bushes.

He refused to look at the others as he turned away, but Cassian looked to Madam Pavlova.

She was nodding slowly in approval.  

~

@allilal @ekaterinakostrova @soitsgorgeous (I forget who to tag. So I just tagged people I know??)

I honestly don’t know where this came from because I wrote it in a hour, which clearly says I’m a liar when I say I cannot write in a timely fashion. 

Umm, I hoped you liked it. It was technically I guess suppose to go in my longer fic, but since ACOSF is coming out soon, I feel like I won’t finish that, so I’m thinking of just posting one shots of things that happen. But Idk. This might have just been a shot in the dark. 

Anyways Happy New Year!!! Nessian makes everything better!

Comment, Reblog, Like for more and happy reading!

[elxpearson]

— ❝ wait is that GRACE PHIPPS? or is that ELAINE “EL” PEARSON who arrived in las vegas FOURTEEN years ago? SHE is a TWENTY-FIVE year old. last time i checked they were a OWNER OF VIOLET VINYLS & DRUMMER OF CRIMSON AND CLOVER. rumour has it they’re very WISE and very CYNICAL. the CISFEMALE reminds me of HAZY SHADE OF WINTER BY THE BANGLES.

hey y’all ! my name is em, i work at a theme park in hell florida and i’m half of eightysevenhq’s admin team here to introduce you to my chaotic queen el. feel free to send me any plots or connections you think we could fit el into & i’ll be reaching out if you give this a like !

TW: death, bullying, drug use

originally from london, uk. elaine was born an only child to two very loving, free spirited parents. they lived in a town where everyone knew how they were -- always about free love and never judging anyone -- and they were accepted

when el was 11 they moved to las vegas to open the vinyl store they’d always dreamed about, as they were a very musically talented family who bonded over jam sessions (which is how el learned how to play the drums from such a young age -- thanks to her father teaching her)

her mother was all about spurts of wisdom and just overall being a decent human being to everyone, “peace and love” was literally her motto, while el’s father was the same as well but he passed on a lot of his personal likes onto his daughter: music taste ranging from classic rock to heavy metal, drumming, horror movies

during school, elaine almost immediately fell victim to bullying. she was the weird kid with weird, hippie parents who all had thick english accents. she didn’t fit in with a lot of kids in her school and elaine was very outspoken when it came to what she believed in and stood for -- she believed she could do anything and everything the boys were doing and was very aware of the political situations and injustices going on in the world ever since she was little

at some point, the bullying led her to rebel the ways her mother taught her so much about showing love and respect to everyone. she was sick of it and began being somewhat of a trouble maker in school only to those who messed with her or anyone else, really, who didn’t deserve it

she was seen as unapproachable and gave off a pretty intimidating aura to those who didn’t know her (she didn’t have many friends throughout school who did know her) she was constantly being sent home and getting detention in class but her parents never really gave her shit once she explained she was defending herself or someone else

even though she was a handful in school, she was still top of her classes and always kept her grades up

summer before her senior year of high school, elaine’s parents were in a nasty car accident and died from their injuries at the hospital hours later so el’s aunt came down from london to live with her throughout her last year which was immensely hard for her for a multitude of reasons, one of them being rumors in school that elaine killed her parents. she knew it was a stupid rumor but it hurt to have to walk into school every day and be taunted throughout her time still in mourning -- but elaine puts on a very tough front and never let them see her suffer so she went through it and graduated with honors

in high school, a band formed in elaine’s garage which was named Crimson & Clover (sound is a combination of the regrettes and the bangles) which el is the drummer and occasionally does backup vocals in. it was formed around her junior year of high school but they didn’t start playing locally until pretty recently and she hopes they take off

other than her band, elaine didn’t have any real wants to do anything specific after high school. she had to take responsibility of her parents’ vinyl store VIOLET VINYLS which she works at most of the time if she’s not playing gigs with her band

she’s been part of a roller derby team for 5 years now called the Brutal Beauties. she is #03 the Unholy Roller and she’s quite good too. it helps a lot to keep her mind off of things she doesn’t want to think about. she thinks of it as her therapy and she doesn’t tell anyone she’s part of it unless they see her there as it’s her way of releasing any pent up emotions

PERSONALITY: she can be playful, funny, frightening, warm, chilling, vulnerable, impenetrable…all depends on how she feels about the day ahead. she can be trouble – and she takes great pleasure in pushing the boundaries with people she meets when her morbid humor arises. outwardly she appears uninterested and aloof. she has a look in her eye that seems to go on forever…something dark that’s hard to name. it’s impossible to know what she is thinking or feeling, because something is missing. once you’re close, el will never let you go. growing fully attached to those who harbor a soft spot in her heart – if she lets anyone get that close. el’s biggest fear is being left so she rarely gives anyone the chance to leave because she’s cautious with who she allows to become that close. HOBBIES: smoking (cigarettes and pot), drinking, trespassing sO eDgY, staying up too late, reading books written by feminist authors, activism,  roller derby, finding new bands to listen to, practicing on the drums

CONNECTIONS: THE REST OF THE BAND!!, friends from school, bullies, unlikely friends, enemies, high school crush (unrequited or not), frequent vinyl store customers, coworkers, fans of the band, haters of the band, rival band members, neighbors, exes, roller derby buddies or roller derby fans…anything & everything !!

[the-record-obituaries]

July 4, 2018: Obituaries

Lillian Church, 91

Lillian Crysel Church, age 91, of Wilkesboro, passed away Friday, June 29, 2018, at her home. She was born December 3, 1926 in Wilkes County to Jeter and Melinda Welch Crysel. Lillian worked at Peerless Hosiery until its closing. She also worked until retirement at Modern Globe. She was preceded in death by her parents; husband, Aries G. Church; a son, A. G. Church; a brother, J. P. Crysel; and three sisters, Edie Mae Hodges, Mary Nell Church and Carolyn Evans.

               Surviving are five daughters, Brenda Roope and husband, Dean of Hays, Sylvia Church of North Wilkesboro, Libby Davis and husband, James of Wilkesboro, Vickie Johnson and husband, Kemp of Traphill, Fran Amburgey and husband, Dave of Kernersville; two sisters, Margie Pendry of Wilkesboro, Phyllis Byers of Valdese; daughter-in-law, Sissie Miller Church of Wilkesboro; sister-in-law, Margie T. Crysel of Wilkesboro; Nine Grand-children; Robert Wade Church, North Wilkesboro, Nikki Church, Wilkesboro, James Martin Davis, Asheville, David Lee Davis, Boone, Michael Todd Church, Clingman, Kimberly Lewczyk, North Wilkesboro, Lori Mathis, Traphill, Caroline Lyon, Kernersville, and Kathryn Petitt, Kernersville. Sixteen Great-Grandchildren; Hunter Church, Emily Perry, Amber Perry, Hailey Holman, Ava Davis, Naya Davis, Samuel Lewczyk, Isaiah Lewczyk, Joshua Lewczyk, Abbigale Church, Lyla Church, Victoria Davis, Natalie Mathis, Noah Mathis, Lilly Lyon, and Fox Petitt. Two Great-Great-Grandchildren; Alayna Willis and Chloe Perry.

               Funeral service was held  July 3,   at Union United Methodist Church with Rev. Dr. Susan Pillsbury-Taylor and Rev. Ken Boaz officiating. Burial   followed in the church cemetery.  

               Flowers will be appreciated or memorials may be made to: Union United Methodist Church, 2257 Boone Trail, North Wilkesboro, NC 28659 or Wake Forest Baptist Health and Hospice, 126 Executive Dr.,  Suite 110, Wilkesboro, NC 28697.                                Miller Funeral Service is in charge of the arrangements.  

 Paul Ray, 61

Paul Eugene Ray, age 61, of North Wilkesboro, passed away Thursday, June 28, 2018 at Wake Forest Baptist Health-Wilkes Regional. He was born July 6, 1956 in Kirkwood, Missouri to Paul Edward and Juanita Lynn Sullivan Ray. Mr. Ray was a US Army Veteran. He enjoyed watching NASCAR, football and baseball. Mr. Ray was of the Baptist Faith. He was preceded in death by his parents; and brother, Jerry Ray.

               Surviving are his wife, Janet Denny Ray; sons, Ben Ray and wife Summer of Boone, Matt Ray and wife Jan of Wilmington; granddaughter, Eden Ray of Wilmington; brother, John Ray of Texas; sister, Michelle Zanola and husband Kevin of California.

               Memorial service was held  June 30,   at Miller Funeral Chapel with Rev. Clifford Jones officiating. In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to the donor's choice.

               Miller Funeral Service is in charge of the arrangements

 Lucille Walter, 97

Mrs. Lucille Bentley Walter, age 97 of Wilkesboro, passed away Tuesday, June 26, 2018 at her home.

               A Memorial service was held  July 1st, at Wilkesboro church of Christ with David Pharr and Lowell White officiating.  

               Entombment was at Scenic Memorial Gardens Mausoleum.

               Mrs. Walter was born October 2, 1920 in Cabarrus County to Frank and Ellen Snipes Bentley. She was a lifelong member of Wilkesboro church of Christ and was the owner of Catawba Valley Insurance Agency in Hickory North Carolina before her retirement.  

               In addition to her parents, she was preceded in death by her husband; Van Clifford Walter and two sisters.

               She is survived by two daughters; Brenda Fite and husband Ed of Jacksonville FL, Sandra Church of Wilkesboro, a son; Steve Walter and wife Thricia of Wilkesboro, seven grandchildren and seven great grandchildren.

               Flowers will be accepted or memorials may be made to Carolina Bible Camp 1988 Jericho Church Road, Mocksville, NC 27028.

 Johnny Greene, 92

Rev. Johnny Bruce Greene, age 92, of Deep Gap, passed away Tuesday, June 26, 2018 at Wake Forest Baptist Health-Wilkes Regional.             He was born February 6, 1926 in Watauga County to Vern and Etta Smith Greene. He was a US World War II Army Veteran. Rev. Greene was an Evangelist and a member of Mt. Paron Baptist Church. He was a very talented wood carver, and enjoyed singing with his wife Juanita. Rev. Greene loved history and learning about the world. He also loved sharing his knowledge of the Bible and the Lord. Rev. Greene was preceded in death by his parents and numerous siblings.

               Surviving are his wife, Juanita Smith Greene; his children, Steve Greene and wife Teresa, Sharon Greene and fiancé Emery Reed all of Deep Gap, Shane Greene and wife MaryBeth of Todd; grandchildren, Shawna Greene Miller and boyfriend Erik Watson of Selma, Jama Greene Maples and husband Randy of Hendersonville, Jonathan Greene and wife Katherine of West Jefferson, Sawyer Greene, Tobiana Greene both of Todd; great grandchildren, Ridge Miller, Savannah Miller, Ada Maples, Mae Greene; and sister, Elsie Van Keuren.

               Memorial service with military honors by Veterans of Foreign Wars Honor Guard Post 1142 was held July 1,  at Miller Funeral Chapel with Rev. David Wellborn, Rev. Sherrill Wellborn, Rev. Kenny Phipps and Rev. Harold Mash officiating.   Flowers will be accepted.                             Miller Funeral Service is in charge of the arrangements

 Elizabeth  Melton, 89

Mrs. Elizabeth Lovette Melton, age 89, widow of Ed Melton of Millers Creek passed away Tuesday, June 26, 2018 at her home.

               Funeral services was held  June 28,   at Pleasant Home Baptist Church in Millers Creek with Rev. Jason Bumgarner officiating. Burial was in the Church cemetery.  

               Mrs. Melton was born October 12, 1928 in Wilkes County to Anderson Jerome and Queenie Bumgarner Lovette.  She was a member of Pleasant Home Baptist Church and retired from Wilkes County Schools as a Teacher's Assistant.

               She was preceded in death by her husband; Ed Melton and five sisters.

               She is survived by one daughter; Elaine Perry and husband Larry of Millers Creek, three sons; Larry Melton and wife Cathy of Moravian Falls, Barry Melton and wife Barbara of Purlear, Derek Melton and wife Maria of Millers Creek, three grandchildren; Heather Freeman and husband Joel, Tiffany Caudill and husband Joey, Brandon Melton and wife Heather, seven great grandchildren; Will Caudill, Makenna Freeman, Addisen Freeman, Connor Caudill, Maddie Caudill, Avery Melton, Rylan Melton and one brother; James Lovette and wife Colean of North Wilkesboro.

               Flowers will be accepted or memorials may be made to Wake Forest Baptist Care at-Home Hospice, 126 Executive Drive, Suite 110, Wilkesboro, N C 28697

               Pallbearers will be; Randy Melton, Steve Melton, Dean Melton, Joel Freeman, Joey Caudill, Will Caudill and honorary pallbearer; Connor Caudill

 Dalton Shell, 21

Mr. Dalton Glenn Shell, age 21 of Millers Creek passed away Monday, June 25, 2018 at Forsyth Medical Center.

               Funeral services were held   June 28, at Reins-Sturdivant Chapel with Pastor Tommy Mikeal and Rev. Brian Stafford officiating. Burial was in Mt. Zion Baptist Church Cemetery in Ferguson.  

               Dalton was born October 3, 1996 in Watauga County to Thomas "Tommy" Shell and Dianna Michelle Greene.  He was a member of Assembly of God's Word.  Dalton was West Wilkes Homecoming King in 2015.  He was a W.W.E. Wrestling and Sponge Bob fan.  He enjoyed time with family, trips to New York, the beach and he enjoyed fishing.

               He was preceded in death by a brother; Thomas "Anthony" Shell and niece; Nia Richardson.

               He is survived by his mother; Dianna Greene and husband Jeff of Millers Creek, his father; Tommy Shell and wife Wilma of Ferguson, seven sisters; Jodi Day and husband Brandon of Wilkesboro, Ashley Shew and husband Austin of North Wilkesboro, twin sister; Dakota Shell and Collin of Millers Creek, Selina Richardson and husband Daniel of North Wilkesboro, Nicole Richardson and husband Chris of Millers Creek, Brooke Cockerham of Wilmington, and three brothers; Joshua Shell and fiance' Katie of Austin, Bradley Shell of El Paso, TX, Tommy Cockerham and wife Danielle of Wilmington, eleven nieces and nephews and many family and friends.

               In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to Hunter's Hope Foundation, PO Box 643, Orchard Park, NY 14127.  

 Carol Vanduzor, 76

Ms. Carol Ann Ulrich Vanduzor, 76, of Hays, passed away on Tuesday, June 19, 2018.

               Carol was born on December 9, 1941 in New Jersey to the late Albert Lawrence Ulrich and Evelyn Marie McCaffrey Ulrich.

               Carol is preceded in death by her parents.

               Carol is survived by her children, Barbara Jones (Matt Reynolds) of Hays, Lorraine Jennings (Keith) of N.Wilkesboro, Bobby Smith (Jenny) of Roaring River; sister, Barbara Keay of New Jersey; grandchildren, Kristin Pridgen (Bryan), Chelsie Jones, Kodie Jennings; great grandchildren, Kylee and Keegan and many nieces and nephews.    

               A memorial service will be held by the family on Saturday, July 7, 2018 at 1 p.m. at the Journey of Grace Church.

               Pastor Tim Pruitt will be officiating.

               In addition to flowers memorial donations may be given to Wake Forest at Home Baptist Hospice Care 126 Executive Dr #110, Wilkesboro, NC 28697

               Adams Funeral Home of Wilkes has the honor of serving the Family.

[iihih]

A compilation I put together of 60 vintage black and white photos of Hollywood (and some UK) actresses celebrating Christmas from 1920 through 1970.

Shown in order of appearance:

Fay Wray Norma Shearer Louise Brooks Alice White Jayne Mansfield Clara Bow Elaine Shepard Grace Bradley Rita Hayworth Sally Phipps Myrna Loy Joan Crawford Shirley Temple Olga San Juan Joan Crawford Phyllis Brooks Ava Gardner (and dog) Marilyn Monroe Carole Lombard Iris Adrian Thelma Todd Patricia Northrup Kim Novak Irene Hervey Mary Martin Vera Allen Martha Vickers Dorothy Malone Carole Lombard Elizabeth Taylor Cyd Charisse Ann Miller Sandra Dee Janet Leigh Debbie Reynolds Debbie Reynolds again Kim Novak Cyd Charisse Lana TurnerJayne Mansfield Norma Jean  Baker (aka Marilyn Monroe) Diana Dors Belinda Lee Esther Williams Suzanne Pleshette Sophia Loren Joan Collins Julie Christie Sharon Tate Barbara Eden Barbara Eden again Sophia Loren Jane Fonda Jane Fonda again Brigitte Bardot Ann Margret Yvonne Craig Audrey Hepburn (and Santa) Ann Margret

Merry Christmas!

www.ifitshipitshere.com

[aconflagrationofmyown]

The Great Elvis & Elaine Conspiracy of ‘58

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: Elaine’s father, Mr. Phipps’, perspective on that two week engagement

Warnings: lots of talk about wifely duties, virginity and sex-ed being withheld from a bride, Elvis continuing to be a very sweet but slightly creepy fiancé if ya think too hard about it (or think at all), grinding and an untouched male orgasm resulting in ruining pants, brief, blink and you miss it mention of entrapment

Special thanks to my darling and ever so capable beta reader @prompted-wordsmith for her plotting and her editing and her killer addition sentences 🌹

Hope y’all enjoy and don’t hold back in my comments and dms, your feedback is aqua vita. And trust the process, this got you one shot closer to that wedding night fic 😈

“Who’s gonna tell her…about her…marital duties?” Mr. Phipps, alone in his truck, asked his speedometer the question that had been tormenting him ever since Elvis informed him he was gonna marry his daughter.

Mr. Phipps missed his Eleanor every day since she passed, but the days leading up to the wedding of their only child made him miss her more than ever. Elaine was as ready and molded and perfect as any mother could have hoped for in a child, steady and good, even in Eleanor’s absence. But decorum and hostess skill and tax smarts don’t prepare you for falling into bed with a rockstar. Mr. Phipps was young once, too, and hungry, dirty, uncontainable passion for his Eleanor had created Elaine, after all. He knows the drive, the spine tingling urge, the rabid hunger of a man for a woman. It shames and terrifies him to speak of it now that object of his passion is moldering in the ground. She would have known how to phrase it in lofty, gentle, tender words that would elevate so crass an act as sex into the sacred verbiage of marriage. But she was gone.

And there was never a good time for it ever since, stupid hope had led him to believe that what his daughter didn’t know would not tempt her. Now he wished she knew more, every hint he dropped to test her knowledge she passed with flying, pearly white colors of stellar virtue. And meanwhile the days passed and Elvis Presley watched her like a man possessed, large hands already entitled to holding her own whenever they were together, his smoldering eyes raking and surveying his imminent conquest—her ripe, young body.

Mr. Phipps shuddered over ham sandwiches and asked Elaine if she believed in storks. She had laughed long and hard over her lunch before rolling her eyes in bemused exasperation with her father and returning her focus back to the list of personal items to be moved to Graceland tomorrow.

“Who’s gonna tell her?” he asked his truck, pulling into the back of the groom's mansion.

This would be his girl’s place, legal and symbolic, before the week was up. She’s a clever one, his Elaine, business savvy even in the thick of romance, just as she is terribly, terribly innocent in carnality. He has a sick feeling that Elvis, like a lotta young men including Mr. Phipps himself twenty years back, finds that combination achingly delightful. That thought always kills right in its tracks his cowardly impulse to leave it to Elvis himself to tell his bride all about it.

God knows what sorta perversion that could lead to. Eleanor would kill him, he’d kill himself if he let Elvis hurt her, shame her, defile her.

But it’s a slow death as is, trying to clear his throat and think of a way to describe phalluses going into vaginas that ain’t inappropriate for a father to relay to a daughter. These attempts always end as they begin, with his daughter looking expectantly at him and offering lozenges, confused as to why he interrupts her preparations when he has nothing to say.

He thinks Divine inspiration has struck when upon pulling up to the back of Graceland he sees Mary, the hired cook who’s more family than employee, coming out to help him unload Elaine’s dishes and servingware. Eleanor’s heirlooms, famillair china pieces of no great value beyond sentimentality, but Mr. Phipps loves his daughter for the fact she moves her mama's dishes into the fully stocked mansion, solely because they were her mama’s.

Elvis had cleared a place beside Gladys’ newer collection with his own two hands, pressing kisses to Elaine’s forehead and swearing his home was her home now. The married cutlery in the drawer proved it.

Mr. Phipps couldn’t deny the boy's sincerity when it came to his feelings for Elaine. Those feelings gushed out of him in gifts and promises and tears and thanks, in petting and holding and kissing and watching and in grinding—her father suddenly squinted at Mary and the Divine thought came to him.

“Say Mary, uh, you’ve been around awhile,” he stuck his foot in his mouth and marched right on over it, “uh, do you reckon you could take Elaine under your wing? Ya know sorta, show her the ropes, fill her in on uh… womanly duties and such?”

“Why, Mr. Sam,” Mary had chided him with a large smile on her face, stacking the heirlooms lovingly, “course I will. Though I reckon that girl knows all there is to know, never seen a child so proficient in the kitchen as your daughter. Makes Mr. Elvis’s eyes pop clean outta his skull the way she handles a spatula.” Mr. Phipps did not want to think of just what went on in that wiggly boy’s head concerning his daughter in an apron and wielding such an utensil.

Mary’s voice had trailed off, a dreamy look of admiration on her face as she reminisced on Elaine’s culinary proficiency. His hint entirely misinterpreted, Mr. Phipps returned to his truck in melancholy resignation.

“Wish we could give ya a weddin’ shower, let the ladies at the church spoil ya a bit.” He had later tried this track with Elaine, too, meaning he wished they could spill the beans about the upcoming wedding so the church ladies would squawk and flutter round to give the necessary advice to the young bride.

“Oh daddy we can’t!” Elaine had dropped her fork and grabbed his hand earnestly, acting as if he’d just proposed betraying government secrets, which come to think of it was about the scale of leaking Elvis’s intention to marry, “They’ll let the papers know and that'll alert Parker an’ it’ll be a mess! Just the family, it’s gotta be just the family, and I’m alright with that.”

Family. The remaining female population of the family consisted of a sister of Eleanor’s and Minnie Mae “Dodger” Presley.

Dodger no doubt could do the job of educating the girl well enough, but Mr. Phipps was loath to bring up the subject of sex with the wizened old bird. Not so much out of embarrassment so much as a gnawing presentment that such a lady could sniff out a man’s background and inner thoughts, that she could look into his skull as if it were a crystal ball and see that he had once nearly failed his own vows and banged his secretary. He had no appetite for chancing Dodger being as intuitive as he worried she was.

So that left the aunt, Eleanor’s sister. And initially, when he asked her to talk to the girl about wifely duties, it went over shockingly well. The aunt had marched up the stairs to the girl’s room right away, and came back downstairs five minutes later, saying it was done. Mr. Phipps wanted to know what all had been covered and explained in a meager five minutes, wanted to know if Elaine had taken the lesson well or was perturbed by it.

“Brother,” she had corrected stiffly, “these are not matters for a man and woman to discuss. I told her to be good and obedient. That’s all she needs to know.”

And the aunt was right, there was nothing proper about discussing it, but somehow not discussing it and letting poor Elaine bounce into her fancy new bed on her wedding night only to have that boy roll atop her and shove himself in with no explanation struck him as equally horrible. And it kept Mr. Phipps awake at night. Someone had to tell her. Someone, he thought with a growing headache, that he had yet to find or convince or conjure up. He was running out of time to perform this miracle, too.

Elaine herself had an irksome feeling something was being kept from her. But now that her curiosity was burning and her clock was ticking, she found all avenues of knowledge thwarted. Books she went to rent raised eyebrows and she could not bear to approach the library desk and have them checked out, the prospect of returning them once known and famous as the new Mrs. Presley a very real hurtle. Similarly, asking young girlfriends or their mothers would cause chatter and later be remembered and tied together with her union to Elvis. People would talk and say he married someone unprepared, a girl and not a woman. What she did in these upcoming weeks would reflect on him for the rest of their lives, every interaction, every glutted curiosity, every blush would be recalled and documented as hints of the Great Elvis and Elaine Conspiracy of ‘58.

So she contented herself with Elvis’ assurances that they would work and his promises that he would teach her in due time. She watched the silver screens fade to black during movie kisses and had to assume the scene fading before her hinted at sleep. What else was there?

Until that “what else” arrived, she was worked off her feet to keep the wedding under wraps and shift her belongings and schedule to align with Elvis and his orbit.

And in the meantime there were his kisses.

It was right and proper to hold hands now, Elvis assured Elaine. It was permissible to let him put his arms around her. Acceptable for him to map out the curves of her hips and waist over her day dresses when he kissed her.

Kisses, oh his kisses… now, those were new, exciting, and bizarrely addicting. A large hand cradling the base of her little noggin and the other wrapped around her waist, those kisses could be gentle or fierce, but they had her melting in his arms, awakening a deeper level of that hunger she’d first tasted when he had lifted her skirts and proclaimed her perfect.

He was still sore, deeply mourning his mama and wildly veering from joy to melancholy, an emotional rollercoaster she patiently rode alongside him. His entourage were not aware of their plans as yet, but already they accepted Elaine as a feature and a staple in his life. Miss Gladys haunted that place and seemed to arm the girl with authority and wisdom.

And Elvis clung to her like a lifeline, cuddling her and taking comfort in it, wrapping his body around hers like a giant child and sure, it caused Mr. Phipps to fret when he came across their intertwined bodies on the living room floor, but nothing objectionable was ever occurring, all hands quite visible and clothing buttoned primly. It was a gentle communion and he did not have the heart or moral high ground to disrupt it.

It was a lost cause, anyway, his baby girl was gonna get plucked in mere days, and he trusted Elvis to be right about it, kind about it, wait for the proper time. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a shock to have a man stuff himself inside her if he’d held her hand first.

So, without even speaking, the men in her life came to an agreement and Elvis clung to her a little harder and longer as the days went by, standing in the kitchen, sitting on the piano bench, laying on the couch, keeping her overnight as her father slept in the armchair just to keep up appearances.

“Elvis, son, you’ll be gentle with her, won’t ya?” Mr. Phipps couldn’t help himself from pleading as Elvis flopped next to him, worn out from spinning Elaine around to the suggestive lyrics of “The Girl Can’t Help It,/She Was Made to Squeeze”.

They’ve got a nice and private little shindig going on here at the old studio, a rehearsal dinner of sorts if they had bothered with a rehearsal. There’s been finger foods and music and laughter, the happiest he’s seen Elvis since Gladys passed. The young man was back in his civvies and he’s got some of the old carefree swagger in his step. He had doted on Elaine all evening. Watching him go over across the room to kiss her bashful lips in front of the crowd of friends and family, insisting to her she was family now—it had settled the panic Mr. Phipps felt growing in him as each subsequent night had marked one day closer to giving the girl away. That calm was unsettled by then watching Elvis twirl Elaine around, at arm's length so he could fully admire her figure as she spun, a reminder of the boy’s hunger. Miracles, as it turned out, were rather hard to come by on such short notice.

Mr. Phipps had no doubt Elvis was very good at… making it good. That was hardly a secret around town. It was just that good was very different from gentleness, from patient explanations while sitting on the bed with a clueless virgin. What he needed to know was, if he was gonna be passing the buck to her virulent young husband, Elvis must know it and swear to treat her innocence as the precious thing it was, not an embarrassing oversight in her education to be disposed of quickly and savagely.

“I’m gonna worship her, sir!” Elvis had sworn in response, not wasting breath or vanity in acting offended or embarrassed by the injunction.

Elvis Presley was a good boy, and an honest boy, Mr. Phipps reminded himself. She could do much worse.

So Mr. Phipps let it rest. He comforted himself that night—when he went up to bed, leaving them together on the porch swing—he comforted himself with thoughts of young people on desert islands who knew nothing but came to understand each other by the time of their rescue, of Adam and Eve and the command to have children, the way they had figured out how left to the fog of time.

Mr. Phipps would allow Elaine’s carnal education to run the same course.

Below him on the porch swing Elvis has Elaine snug in his lap, her legs folding over his own as his feet push against the peeling porch boards to propel the bench swing to move. Back and forth, back and forth in the cozy veil of night, his large hands interlocked over her belly a steadying weight and the sway of it makes her ache strangely and wiggle atop his thighs.

When she isn’t at Graceland with him, he is here with her, his motorbike hidden in the garage and the dead honeysuckle vines draping up the porch, their screen from the outside world. It’s too cold for fireflies or cicadas, but the wind makes a tinkling choke of the swing chains and Elvis’ frozen nose sniffles softly in her ear. He has wrapped his oversized coat around them both and buttoned her up in it with him like a baby kangaroo, much to her delight. It’s a furnace in the fleece-lined haven and her legs are chilled beneath the thin fabric of her dress but neither can make a move, it would invite a chill and they just got warmed up and a little sweaty, his lips smooching her neck and his cheek pressed to hers.

Besides, despite the late hour they’ve no desire to part and Elaine is regaling him with details of her machinations to combine their lives without alerting the general public. It’s a full on special service style operation and he finds he loves this side to her more than he ever realized. Watching her run the March of Dimes was one thing, witnessing her play cat and mouse with the Colonel is hella funnier still—and alarmingly sexy. The fact she’s doing this for them, dodging, scheming, bribing and finagling all so he can have the private wedding he longed for… it hits the spot and he finds himself holding her closer, the rocking of the swing speeding up as her story progresses, a tale of lying to caterers about the need for cake at Graceland.

She had told them it was Dodger’s birthday, the day after tomorrow, and she wanted “forever and always” in icing piped to celebrate turning seventy. Elvis can’t stop his giggles which spurs her on to more dramatic tellings, and he can’t stop swinging the swing and making them rub against each other, his loose trousers strained as his throbbing cock innocuously wedges itself between the globes of her ass. Elaine can feel the thump thump thump of his heartbeat down there, matching the way hers is always bounding these days, worse when the butterflies hit her belly or his kisses melt her insides. She can feel the pulse of him down there, and there’s a funny little twitch occasionally when his feet shove off the porch just right, it drags against her lil house just so, and her story suffers from the momentary jolt of pleasure.

These lapses of clarity are happening more often in his company, his kisses wipe her active mind blank in a way she craves, like sleep to the insomniac. Such helpless responses of her body to his have felt natural since he first rocked her to sleep, now they are lawful, too. She has logistics and a future to worry about, the way he makes her shudder and gasp from a lick or press is not of consequence.

“I told the fella that Fettucini Carbonara isn’t the same without bacon bu—Elvis?” his hands had begun to clutch her belly, fingertips digging into the plush curve of her achy womb and his breaths were tumbling out quick and urgent against her neck, a reaction entirely unwarranted by the story. “Elvis?” she repeated, sensing something building, though she didn’t know what.

It’s funny, Elvis is thinking, one never knows what a person will be like in bed until you’re, well, in bed with them. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have clues. And he’s done his fair share of detective work and then proof proving in his time with women.

Elaine has taken up more of his curiosity than anyone before or after he first began to think of her that way. From her athleticism and vigorous competitiveness he can assume she has stamina, her curiosity and lack of judgment indicates a propensity to experiment, her selflessness suggests she would be generous and eager to please but it’s her… craftiness… that makes him shudder now, that strong capability he always liked about her, but is now taking an edge that makes him think of laying beneath her and being used up himself. The fantasy has never veered this direction before but it hits him sticky, searing and potent, even as he shudders through it, hips jerking up to the rhythm of the all consuming thought -use me use me use me, Elaine, use me for your clever purposes—

“Elvis?” much softer this time, her tone is unmistakably concerned, as it should be with him limply shuddering behind her and a wet patch forming between them. “What’s goin’ on, darling?” her hand, that was occupied inside the jacket spinning her large new diamond ring, snakes down to his thigh and rubs it solicitously, unintentionally extracting a last little sputter out of him as he sucks in the chilly night air like he’d been cut down from the gallows.

These past few weeks she’s dealt with his moods and snot and that clammy, sweaty way he gets when worked up, never once flinching or so much as grimacing over it, used to children and hospital work, bodily functions have little power to disgust her. But he reckons that wetting the back of her skirt might be the thing that pushes the envelope, and he thinks he should explain, explain he didn’t just piss himself or half die on her but all he can think in his hazy post-release haze is to mumble

“I love you.”

against her neck, ardent and boyishly certain despite his awareness she won’t, can’t say it back just yet.

“Oh, E,” she whispers, turning her face to him, her nose cold as it nuzzles his cheek sweetly even as she probably thinks he just soiled himself, “Are you alright? What can I do?”

That’s her version of “I love you” and it’s one he’s happy with, now his mama is not there to say it, Elaine must and she never fails to.

“M’alright,” his mouth is dry and his brain is jelly and he can feel his mess growing sticky and cold where its excess drips down his pant leg, he wants to never let her go or he’ll get similarly cold all over, “I jus’ got excited, s’all.” he mumble into her ear and she listens intently, always curious, always eager to learn.

“Excited?” she repeats in a whisper, as if alone on the porch, hidden by the inky blankets of midnight she can preserve his dignity with a whisper, “So that’s not—what were you excited by?”

She changes course midway through her sentence and his drugged mind suggests now might be a great time to talk about sex but this whole arrangement it tenuous enough as is, he can’t bear to spook her with the mechanics and details until she can’t back out, ‘till the law says she’s lawfully his to keep and use, not until she’d have a mound of divorce papers ahead if she doesn’t like that concept of them joining. He has a smug feeling that even if she pursued a separation initially, he could make her like it, bring her around to the idea before she filled out more than two pages. It’ll keep.

“Was ‘cited by you.” he answers truthfully, “by bein’ with you, always makes me happy.” and that’s not a lie, not at all, his heart and his soul and his body cleave to her and adjust themselves to her presence like sunflowers to the sun.

“Oh.” she sounds so pleased, even as her eyebrows are drawn together with the weight of so much knowledge just out of reach.

It’ll keep her up tonight if he knows her, thoughts and confusions and he contemplates reaching beneath her skirt and stroking the ache he prays is there for him to soothe. But that seems risky, too. Day after tomorrow, he can do anything he damn well likes to her. And he’s got a laundry list, it’ll keep. He worries at that thought like his guitar strap. It’ll keep, it’ll keep.

“Ya know how you get damp down there when you’re excited?” he figures this tiny part of the lesson won’t harm anything.

She jolts in his lap and gasps like she’s been caught with her hand down the cookie jar, and if the light were better he knows he’d find her blushing like mad. “H-how’d you know?” she hisses urgently and he’s smug as hell she has no shame to ask him, that he’s the one she wants to learn from.

He wants to laugh but forces himself not to, even if his lips keep trembling in a happy smirk, “Oh baby, it’s natural, jus’ a natural way of your engine revvin’ up. Figured a healthy girl like you—gotta be real slick sometimes, waitin’ to get used.”

“Used?”

“Like the ache ya told me ‘bout,” he deflects, “it’s there to help ya grow those babies. I saw ya glistenin’ when I checked ya house, ‘member?” he prods and she begins to relax in his lap as facts slot into place in her mind, his brand of logic taking root. He pets her belly again, hoping it makes her ache worse, trying to recall her own terminology about this to use against her, “And that’s how ya know you work with someone, if they warm your engine, get ya drippin, means they excite ya.”

Elaine thinks of the night he crashed her date, driving her home and bullying her in the car with sensations and emotions she’d never felt before, and then in the kitchen as he backed her against the stove, delighting in making her uncomfortable. His whole act had been alarmingly purposeful despite his protestations of loyalty to his girls. She knew then he wasn’t playing, or not to the degree he said he was, and now she knows why. It wasn’t a lack of being comfortable with each other, it was suppressed excitement.

She excited him, and he had excited her.

But back then it had been wrong. It wasn’t right to excite someone you’re not gonna marry, not right or not even possible, she’s unsure which. Maybe that’s the problem everyone has with Elvis, he excites girls—a nation's worth—that he’s not gonna marry. She huffs out a relieved prayer of gratitude that he’s gonna marry her and she doesn’t have to be sorry for or fight against this feeling for the rest of her life, that all those nights of wedging a pillow between her legs and begging for that ache to burst were out of loyalty to the man ordained for her.

She nestles back against him contended, even as she wonders at the sheer amount of his excitement soaking her backside and making her dress cling to her. “I’m glad.” she whispers with a wide grin on her face as she stares up at the porch’s beams, “I’m glad I excite you, Elvis.”

Upstairs, as he tosses in his sleep, Mr. Phipps hears the chains of the porch swing resume their creaking rhythm again. He doesn’t recall when the rocking grind had stopped.

[aconflagrationofmyown]

idk if you’ve talked about this already (sorry if you have) but how did you decide on the name Elaine? is she named after Elaine Stewart or is it a happy coincidence that it’s her face claim? How did you choose her last name? Just curious. 🖤

I’m honestly not sure we’ve ever discussed it.

Yes, Elaine Stewart was a inspiration, or the tipping point you could say. Mostly though, when choosing names I try to pick one that evokes and matches the essence I’m tryin to create, playful or regal or of the era.

Elaine, to me, had that balance of playfulness with a bit of polish, yet youthful and timeless. Goes well with Elvis too, and the Presley name. Sounds southern to me? Maybe due to my having many family members named that from the same decade as she would be from.

And using Phipps as her maiden name was a complete piggy backing off of Elvis’ producer Sam Phillips. I always intended her to be the daughter of a figure like Phillips but planned on too many inaccuracies to use their name in good conscience.

[elxpearson]

in order to try and restore my muse for elaine, i’ll be changing my fc from emma mackey to grace phipps! so i MIGHT be dropping some threads but i’ll be reaching out once i change everything up to get more threads down.

she’ll be the exact same! just a diff. face so i’ll be back on here probably by tomorrow