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be-my-ally · 2 years ago

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Big Bunny

Playboy Bunny Reader x Elvis on the Playboy jet request

it might be 3:30am here, i may have work today at 9 and i may have to proof read over this again tomorrow but still, here, have a bunny themed fic - very apt for a slightly (at least for where i am) belated good friday gift (for those who celebrate and a spring themed passover/ramadan/weekend gift for everyone else) !!

I genuinely did not expect to end up doing nearly as much research for this as I did - and therefore there ended up being significantly more back story than I anticipated for what I had planned to be a short smutty one shot lol so… here’s a p ridiculous 9.8k fill xx

pairing: jet bunny reader x 1973-4 elvis (yes we are going that specific this time) - early big daddy era.

summary: freshly hired shy new playboy bunny reader and elvis get up to some fun away from the other passengers on Hugh Hefner's private plane, the aptly named 'Big Bunny'.

warnings: 18+, 18+, penetrative sex (p in v), oral (v receiving), lil bit of fingering, gratuitous use of the term 'bunny' and all accompanying euphemisms, elvis (as always in my writing) refers to himself as daddy.

wc: 9.8k

You nervously adjust your scarf around your neck; it’s windy, and you’re worried about your hair—that its carefully styled easy look might be ruined by the breeze. You roll from one foot to the other in anticipation; you can already feel the leather of the new, tall boot starting to rub behind your knee, and you’re hopeful for the chance to switch it out for your regular heels on board. The other girls are quiet, and that’s how you can tell that they too are nervous or excited—anticipatory perhaps. Usually, they would be chattering away right now—at least, that’s your experience from the last few flights you’d worked. But for some reason, the knowledge of this special guest had made them all fall silent, worrying their scarves or hair, and checking one another’s lipsticks, even more so than when Hugh was on board. Perhaps it was, like the Bunny bible said, because there was the knowledge that you were all representatives of the brand, and that was even more true for someone who wasn’t the owner of the brand, or perhaps it was simply because it wasn’t just any boring old investor but Elvis Presley flying on board today.

You’re all too young to remember much of him in his early prime or his dizzying launch to success, but you know that every girl in this line-up had watched the ’68 special, probably at a similar formative age to you, and had an experience; it had been impossible not to. You had been on the cusp of being 16 and were utterly gobsmacked and captivated by the television set as you watched him gyrate in a full black leather suit. Your mind had gone blank, and you couldn’t have told anyone what your father had said about it—you honestly couldn’t hear him because you were so shocked and excited by what you were seeing. Suddenly, you understood. You’d all discussed the marvel of the possibilities of the use of the satellites for the Aloha show only a few months ago, and you knew you weren’t the only bunny in the group who still found him almost alarmingly attractive. The concept, therefore, of being loaned out to him with the plane made you more than a little nervous. Another fragment of your anxiety for this flight also revolved around your new uniform—you weren’t comfortable in it yet; a teeny leatherette dress that somehow seemed far more revealing than your corset had ever seemed. Perhaps because it felt less like a costume in some way, perhaps because it simply was so unlike anything you would wear in day-to-day life—the over-the-knee boots were uncomfortable still too.

It’s unclear how you’d become so attached to the little corset costume when you were still so new to the plane and to this life as a whole. You’d been well-trained and ready to use your newfound, extensive bar knowledge while working as a table bunny in the club in LA. Although you had hoped that you might be spotted and bumped up to a more senior position in a little while—that one day you might be able to work your way up to the mansion or maybe even be handpicked to be a playmate—it all seemed so glamorous, and the attention was so exciting. You’d never dreamed you would, after only working a month, be handpicked as a jet bunny. It had been one of the most exciting moments of your life. Since then, you’ve not been flying for very long, although the training had been intense and your first flight had only been two weeks ago. And it had been a pretty slow start, with just Hugh and a couple of colleagues on board. They had their favourites, and while you had been chatted to and flirted with—treated well—you had also been mostly ignored.

Elvis, as far as you could tell, didn’t have favourites; he hadn’t requested anyone in particular from the thirty or so girls on regular rotation for the jet, and it made you relieved to think that you were on a mostly even keel with the other girls. You’d gossiped about it as you packed your bags onto the plane before you’d all ended up where you were now: standing in a row waiting for him to pull up, having been given word that he was mere minutes away. When you looked down at the other girls, you couldn’t help but wonder why, as one man with a small entourage for the flight, he really needed the bunny equivalent of five stewardesses. But, you think to yourself, at least he did because, as the most junior of the bunch, you definitely would have been the first to be bumped from the flight.

It’s only another few minutes until his long, sleek, white Cadillac pulls up in front, another car close behind, and his long legs are immediately sliding out of the car, almost before its even come to a complete stop. He seems eager to be away. He’s arguing with someone and barely acknowledges any of you as he starts to storm up the stairs towards the jet entrance—clearly familiar with the plane already. It becomes pretty clear pretty quickly that he wasn’t arguing with someone physically with him but was instead recounting what had been discussed on the phone in the car—you could hear him swearing as he went inside,

"I fuckin’ asked her to come out here with me, and now she’s being all cold, just then she was sayin’ she don’t wanna see me -" You can’t hear anything more, and you look down the row before Darla in front shrugs her shoulders and starts greeting the other couple of men still coming out of the car, and in the car behind, there were around a dozen guys in total, no women other than you five, which wasn’t unusual on the jet but wasn't entirely expected either.

A moment later, Elvis is hurrying back down the stairs, panting slightly as he comes. He arrives back in front of you, the last in line, with a series of apologies.

"Lord, where are my manners? I’m so sorry, girls. Hello, nice to meet ya; well, aren’t you all pretty little things?" You blush, and he catches your eye, winking at you as he presses a kiss to your cheek. He smiles at the rest of them, and Darla launches into her ‘Welcome to Big Bunny’ spiel as she directs him back up the way he just came. Your mind is racing as you follow them all up the stairs, and you’re more than a little distracted as you close the door and conduct the safety checks. Does that mean something? That he singled you out?

You weren’t meant to be his main assistant; of course, the main focus for today was keeping him happy, but you’d been specifically told that your purpose was to make sure the other passengers felt that they were getting similar attention. You didn’t have the experience, as Darla had told you, to understand how to deal with men like him. Those that think they’re special or that just because you’re wearing a bunny outfit they have some sort of claim on you, that you’re all the same and your centrefold is owed to them. And also, she’d flippantly added, you were still very inexperienced, and first and foremost she had to consider the brand. Now as you watch her take his arm up the stairs, you think you might be understanding her motivations a little more; her hips swaying more than they usually would. But you can’t say you blame her or that her other observations were wrong. You were inexperienced, both in flying and with men. But, as you’re locking the door shut and heading around to fetch towels and drinks before the pilots engage the engine, you can feel his eyes on you, and you think, I know what that means.

It’s a pretty long flight for a domestic flight—four or five hours, depending on the route the pilot takes—so you have plenty of time to get to know the passengers and ensure they’re all well taken care of. You’ve heard rumours from some of the other girls that this kind of flight can often go one of two ways: either the men are rowdy, raucous, and handsy, or they’re quiet, appreciative, but distant. You had assumed Elvis and his entourage would be the former, but from the way he quickly gets himself situated and settled in the forward compartment, you’re inclined to believe it will be the latter. You can’t help but notice he’s sequestered himself in the back; a couple of the men are with him, but the rest are a series of seats away. It seems like even the inner circle has an inner circle.

Before serving the drinks, you have a chance to look over at him. Trying to be inconspicuous, you’re surprised at how large he is. You’ve never realised how tall he really is, but he’d remained a few inches taller than you even in your heels, and while the plane is more spacious and furnished less compactly than the average, it still serves to make him seem bigger in contrast to the environment. He seems to take up more space than his body needs too, like his presence needs allowance; he looks incapable of staying on one seat, and the way he spreads his legs, his knees falling open, it’s like he doesn’t even realise he might be taking up more than his fair share of space.

You don’t realise how long you’ve been standing there, peering behind a partition wall, pretty much directly at his spread thighs. Until you move your eyes up, tracking up his body past his famously large belt to his open collared shirt, through which you can see tiny wisps of chest hair peeking through. You assess how his shirt is lying on him, clinging but well-tailored, and his trousers too, tight around his thighs and well-fitted on his waist but equally well-tailored, looking comfortable and well-fitted. Your eyes continue to roam over him until they come to rest on his face, and you realise he’s been watching you look at him. He’s smirking at you, clearly used to the attention but perhaps still flattered that he inspires it, and winks through his lavender-coloured glasses. You immediately duck back, taking a moment to gather yourself from the embarrassment of being caught out, before heading back out with the first tray of drinks.

It wasn’t your place to be, but you couldn’t help but be pleased when he showed himself not to be the type to start demanding wildly complicated cocktails—in fact, rolling his eyes when one of the men, Red, perhaps his name was, asked for a mai tai—and at his clear desire to remain sober, simply requesting a Pepsi. You take a breath, plastering your customer service smile on, determined to ignore any embarrassment, and swing around with the tray. Praying you don’t trip or spill anything in front of him.

Thankfully, you make it around without consequence, your thorough club training coming into play and keeping you steady even when there’s a mild bump as the plane engines start to roar. He grins up at you when you hand him the drink, and you can’t help but return it, beaming at him, forgetting your practised coquettish expression. You have to head back, sit down for a moment while the pilots announce your takeoff, and try not to grimace, knowing that your face can be seen from the compartment, at the feeling of taking off. You’re fine in the air, but that whooshing feeling of the plane jetting forward and up, the moment where you can feel the balance of the wings against the air as the engine battles its way up, still sends a wave of anxiety over you. Maggie brushes her hand over yours where it lies on the little armrest between the steward seats, and you thankfully grasp it, taking deep breaths. Once the pilot has announced you are officially flying and will be for approximately four more hours, you’re pleased you can finally stand up again and relax somewhat.

You’re not really needed for much for a little while, so you bounce about, chatting and keeping them company, talking with some of the other girls as you help to serve more drinks and food, and setting up the games tables when asked. Elvis has demanded the theatre be set up, so you arrange that, praying that when you return to the room he’ll have picked one of the latest cinematic releases and not, as you feared, one of the many adult releases available. You’re not sure you could keep a straight face if you had to watch him watch Deep Throat; it would just be too much to bear.

So you’ve avoided the lounge by staying in the forward compartment and helping the men there. Before you were sent on a mission to see if there was any peanut butter on board, a special request had apparently been made, but whether it had been complied with was yet to be seen. When Michelle, one of the more senior girls, suddenly appeared beside you, grabbing your arm and speaking in a hurried, hushed tone, she told you that you really ought to change. You panic for a second that something was wrong with your dress, but she’s quick to assure you that it was nothing like that. But Elvis had taken her aside and mentioned that although he "love[s] your yittle skirts, like yer spies or somethin’," he was "missin’ them little bunny outfits" and had left that with her. He hadn’t specifically requested anyone should change, but she’d successfully read between the lines of the very obvious hint and was, therefore, suggesting that you, Daisy, and Maggie change into your bunny corsets. You’d all planned for this possibility, so it wasn’t entirely unexpected, but you were still slightly surprised. You’d not been given the impression that Elvis had been that bothered by the theme of the plane, of you, but rather was utilising the plane for the luxury and convenience of the travelling experience. But if he was requesting your bunny outfits, clearly he was more into it than you thought.

It’s not long after that you do as requested and emerge from the powder room in your little patented corset teddy, the black silk highlighting your complexion and the little collar and bow emphasising your neckline. You were slightly annoyed that despite your careful packing, your little cottontail puff had been flattened, and so you’d had to spend way too long fluffing it to bring it back to life. This also meant that you were the last to emerge, and there was no way you could deny noticing that Elvis himself was sitting back in the forward compartment, turned so that he was practically facing the powder room door, watching you exit with a satisfied smirk on his face. You try to ignore him, listening to the conversations happening around you and trying to anticipate everyone’s needs. In your absence, more substantial snacks have been served, and you can see the remnants of some sort of peanut butter sandwich situation dotted around the room, so clearly that had been found too. There’s now a discussion happening about whether you should turn on the lights in the disco room or wait a little while to eat first. Eventually, it’s decided a proper meal is imperative at some point in the flight, but that right now? They wanted music.

So you all move down the plane. You end up walking directly behind Elvis, and when the plane bumps up and down briefly in the tiniest spot of turbulence, you trip into his back. You right yourself with help from one of his arms, apologising, but you’re flustered. It’s only worse when he turns to you.

"No need to be sorry, doll; you can fall into my arms whenever you like." It was one thing to imagine how he felt, but to be able to remember the feel of him, even from behind, even from just a brief moment of contact, was a heady feeling. Especially when he felt just as you’d imagined he would—soft but firm and broad. So broad. Walking behind him like this also made you nervous for another reason: it made you feel as if your movement down towards the intimate bedroom quarters at the end might be signalling something. The cosiness of the rooms between -- the disco and the lounge, perhaps reflective of the internal struggle you’re facing; the disco the butterflies in your belly.

You know you won’t be able to prevent meeting his eye again. The thought worries you; you’ve been around attractive men before, of course, but never one that, just by looking at him once, has made you feel like you would risk giving up everything for a few hours of fun. Lose everything you have simply for the pleasure of touching him. Maybe this was what Darla was concerned about; you can see her glance over to you every now and again, checking in, and you can tell she’s a little bothered by something.

Once you’re in the disco, the girls and you are well-practised at setting it all up, making sure there are enough tracks ready to be played and that there was easy access to free-flowing drinks and bar snacks. You’re also all very used to essentially having to start the dancing yourselves, having to encourage the others to join in despite their enthusiasm in suggesting the disco. You hang back slightly, holding a tray, when Elvis lightly grasps your elbow. You jump, having not seen him come to your side, and look questioningly at him.

"Dance for me, baby?" You’re not a stripper or a go-go dancer or anything like that, but it’s not a request that’s unheard of in the clubs. And you enjoy it; you wouldn’t be in the job if you didn’t get a slight thrill from being looked at, watched, wanted. So it’s easy to agree, especially when you’ve always found it hard to ignore a man when he adds a pet name, and besides, you want to. So you do. Elvis sits himself down, and a few of the men join in, and you and Maggie and Daisy all dance around them. You prance and shimmy, and soon most of the passengers onboard are dancing around to the music that plays from the surround system.

The group cheered and laughed when Burning Love was played on the 8-track, and Elvis sang along, laughing and joking when he missed one of the high notes ("God almighty, that’s high"). You notice that after a while Elvis has disappeared back into the living area and looks like he might be close to nodding off; sat there with his head back. You suppose he must be tired—you don’t know what he was doing prior to the flight this afternoon, but you do know he was coming off of the back of a week straight of shows and heading towards another one. You again know it’s not your place, and yet you still can’t help feeling like you ought to check on him.

You head over, leaning over, and crouching in the way you’re told to, almost in a bunny dip. He blinks up at you when you touch his shoulder.

"Lord, you’re a vision." You’re taken aback and can’t do much more than crouch there, stuck in place. "Talk with me, honey?" He pats your arm, and you nod, standing upright again and looking for a place to perch. There’s nowhere for you to sit down, or perch, few seats as there were in this living area, attached to the disco, and with the other men and girls also collapsing around you, you awkwardly look around for a moment before Elvis’ hand comes out and wraps around your thigh, pulling you down onto his lap.

"Oh!" You gasp, "Oh, I—I, uh, don’t think you’re meant to touch me, sir."

"Bunny, for the next three hours, I own you." He chuckles but removes his hands from your legs, although he makes no attempt to shift you from his lap, instead sitting further back, causing you to fall more securely onto his lap. You avoid what is sure to be judging looks from the other girls as they hand him drinks and chat with the other boys on board. You’re wrong about them watching you and judging you; of course, all the other girls are distracted, and even when they do glance over, it’s mostly to check that you, as the new girl, are still doing okay. Despite any jealousy they may be feeling about the attention he’s giving you, they still know how shocking and abrupt all of this can suddenly feel when you’re being confronted with men like him.

He’s surprised when you look shy, and you know the rumours abound—about how you’re all able to make extra cash—the private parties for the number one keyholders. But it’s not something you’re forced into just by virtue of being a bunny, and it’s not something you’ve been interested in finding out more about. Still, being perched on his firm lap, the seams of his suit rubbing against your silk tights, you can’t help but wish that you had asked more about it; found out if there were expectations. You wouldn’t want to let him down. You awkwardly sit there a moment before opening your mouth,

“So, uh, what did you wanna talk about?” He smiles,

“Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself honey.” So you do, giving him the basic information of your life, while he hmms and uh-huhs in all the right moments to show he’s listening to you. You’re starting to run out of steam and you’re about to ask him to tell you something when you’re distracted by him reaching to the side of you, jostling you a little.

He lights a cigar, and you can feel the heat of the tip. You shift the tiniest bit; you don’t know why it’s getting you so hot. You’re suddenly grateful for the subtle but multiple layers you’re wearing. Thankful for the fact that you’ve never listened to the few girls who swear it makes more sense not to bother with panties; you’d never been convinced that it wasn’t asking for trouble—something was sure to slip or become exposed. But you also always wore a double layer of pantyhose. He grunts the tiniest bit as you bump back into his stomach, and when you pause for a moment, you can feel a dampness growing between your legs. Through all the layers, he can’t feel it, thank God, but he does murmur to you: "Lord, are you a hot little Bunny." He strokes the small of your back, and you somehow know he doesn’t just mean it in the attractive sense, but that he can feel your heat.

You wriggle back against him, thinking, - don’t waste your chance, girl; don’t do it; you may as well go for it. All of your sense of propriety is lost, and you’re suddenly completely ignorant of the happenings around you. You can feel where the rubber around the edge of the leg bands of the teddy is starting to roll, being unable to stay put on the slippery tights and causing it to fall further away from your thighs riding up. You know he can feel it too, as close as you are. And while you’re still theoretically clothed, you can feel his trouser leg better on your thigh after it rolled up; he said you were hot, but he’s burning, it feels like. You push back onto him, feeling his tummy nudge against you, and under your tail, what felt like a growing erection. You don’t know what’s come over you, where this sexual confidence, this determination, this lack of self-consciousness, has come from. You wonder if it could just be the adrenaline of being so close, but you still go with it, and you nudge your ass back to him, grinding a little.

"Don’t baby," he pushes you forward a little, with his one free hand, blowing smoke past the side of your face, and you giggle, putting on a faux deep voice.

"Don’t procrastinate; don’t articulate…" You can’t even get the words out of your mouth you’re giggling so hard, wiggling in his lap, and it sets him off too, shaking his head and murmuring against your ear.

"Lord save me, girlie, you’re trouble, ain’t ya?" He holds you still. You try, but you’re practically incoherent because you’re laughing so hard.

"If you're lookin' for..." But your laughter cuts off when he hooks a finger in the corset and strokes it down your inner thigh—somewhere that you would have slapped anyone else and whispers,

"You came to the right place." You gasp, head going back, and his own tucking into your shoulder - he holds out the cigar, and, despite having barely lit it, rests it in the tray to the side of you so that he can use both hands to grip your waist. It’s ridiculously cheesy, and you don’t want to think about how many times and with how many girls he might have used similar lines, or how easy it must be for him.

"You want me, Bunny?" You still don’t know if you should be playing hard to get or if you should just give in to the inevitability of it all. "Can feel your little tail pressin’ into me - little puffy thing. Twitching ‘gainst me;" You wrinkle your nose cutely at his words, and he smiles into your neck: "Even a little twitchin’ bunny nose!" he presses a finger to it, and the strokes down to your lips. He rests it there for a second, "Do you wanna do this, bun?" You decide you may as well give in and nod—there's no point trying to play it cool when you’re sitting on his lap. You open your mouth, trying to catch his finger in your teeth as he fools around with you. He pulls you around, so one of your bent knees is now pressed against him and your other is resting on the seat, facing him. You shiver, loving how his sturdy hands manhandle you. You lean forward, as if to kiss him, when he stills you,

"Baby, we’re surrounded." You glance up, confused expression on your face, and a question in your eyes: Why would it matter? They all know the score. He shakes his head. "It’s your job isn’t it? You can’t - we shouldn’t?" You shrug your shoulders, he’s technically right and mere minutes ago you’d been worried about it yourself, but... It’s also not completely true to say that you would be discouraged from doing this with him.

"Say doll, how’d’ya - how’d’ya feel about joinin’ me?" Your heart flips, you glance around, but it appears the other girls are either preoccupied or purposefully avoiding looking at you. Plausible deniability. You’re frozen, and he stands up, pushing off of his lap, and leaves without looking back at you, only stopping at the door to the bedroom to call back,

"You coming or what?" So sure that you’ll follow him in. You glance around, and only Darla catches your eye. You’re wide-eyed and panicked at being caught, but she looks at you for a moment before nodding slightly and winking as she turns away. Somehow, it untangles the ball of anxiety that you didn’t realise was holding you so tense. Seconds later, you stand up, clearing the empty glasses from the tables around you, when Michelle swoops in, taking them out of your hands and nudging you with her hip towards the bedroom. Right then. You follow where Elvis had gone only a minute or so ago, and you cross past the little faux wood door into the bedroom. You look around but find that he’s already in the bathroom—perhaps so certain that you would follow that he didn’t even need to check that you had come in.

You sit anxiously on the big, round, fur-covered bed as you wait for him to reappear. You cross your legs before immediately uncrossing them and standing up—wondering if it was too presumptuous to be sitting there waiting for him. A moment later, leaning against the wall, you change your mind, deciding to sit on the edge again. It really did make the most sense. And while you didn’t want to make it seem like you were assuming something, you doubted he’d invited you back here to play checkers. He comes out and watches you for a brief second before coming over to stand in front of you, mere inches apart, so you’re forced to crane your neck up to look at him.

You’re a little skittish, and he can tell by the way you tremble when his hand comes up to touch your shoulder; he leans forward as if to kiss you, and you pull back. He pauses.

"What’s the matter, little Bunny? Why are’ya so twitchy now?" He doesn’t want to force himself, but he also can tell you want him, even before you willingly followed him here. He also knows that you must know the score—you can’t be that innocent in your role—and you must understand what he’s asking of you.

"I’m, I’m just -- it’s just a little surreal, you’re Elvis Presley. I don’t know how to, I've never been with anyone famous." He smiles, thankful that he hadn’t misread the situation — god forbid what the newspapers would have said about that if it had leaked: Elvis forces himself onto Playboy Bunny, BANNED from Hefner’s jet. It doesn’t bear thinking about. So he does the one thing he knows he can do well — can do so well that most women forget their worries and tilts your chin up to kiss you. He brackets your body with his thighs and cups your face in both hands. He’s masterful at it, knowing all the right moves, just the right amount of tongue forced into you, mapping your mouth. His lips are so soft, and his little nibbling bites on your lower lip hurt just the right amount for you to be totally consumed by his actions. He nudges you to move further up when you break apart, and you shimmy up a little, your legs coming up so that only your ankles are not on the bed. He presses one knee between your legs, balancing so he can move forward enough to kiss your cheek, his own high cheekbones rubbing against your face, and whisper,

"I’m just a man, hon, just like any other — don’t, don’t worry ‘bout it." He leans over and you’re forced onto your back, his hand catching you and lowering you down gently onto the fur coverlet. You lean up to kiss the exposed part of his neck, your nose nudging against his high collar.

"I, uh, god, I haven’t been around that many men in general — not like this, so that doesn’t actually make me feel a whole lot better. " You respond quietly. He pauses where his hand had been starting to fiddle with the zipper on the back of your corset. Pulling himself up to look you in the eyes.

"You, have - you have been with a man though? Right Doll?" You nod, frantically, you might be nervous but god don’t let him stop now.

"Yes - yes, just, just only the one." He moans on top of you, clearly liking the answer. You feel the zipper come down, and your chest is finally allowed to expand properly again, free from the restrictive boning. You suddenly panic, holding the garment close to your chest as you force him back a little. He rolls sideways, onto his elbow, to watch you;

"What’sthe matter baby?" He looks concerned as you force yourself up into a sitting position,

"Uh, could you - could you just close your eyes or something while I take this off?" He frowns,

"Well, sure, but… I don’t think you need to worry ‘bout modesty right now." You smile nervously back, trying for a blasé air —

"No, no, I know it’s just — it would just make me feel better." He looks at you, clutching the corset teddy to your chest. He nods, starting to close his eyes and you let out a sigh of relief, immediately standing up and wriggling out of it. You’re bent over, folding the fabric over itself when he starts to talk,

"I ain’t got a problem making you comfortable, babe, but if it’s about them little cottontails stuffed down your top I already know." You pause. Whirling around to see him peeking through his lashes at you. You forget to be shy, stood there topless, braless in nothing but your pantyhose and heels and you put your hands on your hips.

"How on earth —“ He laughs at you, opening his eyes properly,

"I’m not new to this game sweetheart." You can tell he’s teasing, but now he’s made you slightly worried that it's always been obvious thatyou weren’t quite as endowed as you were claiming,

"How’d you tell though?"

"You’re not the first girl meeting me with something stuffed down their shirt, darling, you just, sometimes you can just tell— I don’t know what you’d be stressin’ over though," He takes a moment to very obviously look you over, "they’re some pretty little tits." You’re pleased, but annoyed that he’s still decided to use the term little.

"Well - isn’t that why! Little!" He laughs at your indignation, reaching a hand out to pull you back to him, but he can barely speak through his giggles.

"No, no, no I didn’t mean it like that." You frown, but his amusement is infectious and you find yourself also giggling - "See, see, there’s a good girl - no reason to be sore about it, much more than what you’ve got’sa waste anyway mama, you’ll see."

He puts you back where he wanted you to start with - on your back, as leans over you. The feeling of him still being fully clothed against your chest, your near nakedness, makes you tremble - the soft silk of his shirt rubbing against your nipples. You can smell him, the slight musk of the day masked by cologne - perhaps reapplied in the bathroom a moment ago. His hair is looser than you expected it to be and it’s already starting to flop forward, it unnerves you slightly because it allows you to somehow forget who it is lying over you - the loss of that trademark making you forget that he’s practically a patented figure at this point. Until you catch sight of his blue eyes or his little curled lip and you’re reminded all over again. He strokes up from your waist to your neck and then back down, gentle fingertips dancing over your skin. He leans down to kiss you and your arm winds around his neck, pulling him closer. You’ve never felt a hunger like this. Desire like this before. You’re suddenly desperate to be closer, forgetting to play it cool you’re tugging at his shirt,

"C’mon get this off!" He laughs at you again, but stands up, ignoring your request. You lie there on your back looking up at him as he assesses you. You can’t help but puff your chest out a little and curve your back. Then he bends to grasp your left ankle, slipping your heel off. You yelp at the unexpectedly quick motion but the relief is almost immediate. He grabs your other ankle to take the other heel off, flinging it against the wall of the plane. Then his hands are immediately going to your black tights, he tries to pull them from the ankle but quickly realises that’s getting him nowhere, unable to get a proper purchase on the slippy material. So he works his way up to the waistband, grasping it and tugging it down. His finger catches by your knee, the rough bitten edge of his nail snagging and you hear the tell-tale ripping sound of them laddering, He laughs as you groan,

"Oh, no! Those were my last good pair; they cost me nearly seven dollars!" It only makes him laugh harder as he tears them off of you.

"Tell you what, honey, I’ll make sure you have ten new pairs by the time we land." He throws them somewhere near the rest of your clothes and turns his attention back to your stomach, only to be surprised when he’s met with another pair of pantyhose — this time in a sheer nude.

"Lordy! How many layers’is there?" You laugh at him, as he begins the process of rolling them down too — lifting your hips to allow them to come down easier than last time; it’s not that you don’t believe he would replace them, but just in case you’d prefer not to rip these too.

"Not meant to be being touched am I, Mr Presley?" It’s like, as he exposes more of your skin, he can’t help himself from pausing — the tights stay rolled around your knees to allow him to kiss your thighs, or the patch of skin between your belly button and your panties. You lift your leg, allowing him to roll down the last of the hosiery. He rubs over the arch of your foot and you moan at the relief — you may be getting used to the heels now but it didn’t mean that your feet didn’t still ache as soon as they came off. He gives the same attention to the other foot, rubbing firmly, before physically pushing you up the bed.

"Oh darling, call me Elvis." He strokes up your calves, before he stops again at your feet, "God, has anyone ever told you you’ve got real pretty sooties, Lordy these little toes are gorgeous." You wiggle them at him, you’ve never given much thought to your feet other than deciding what colour to paint your nails. He pulls your foot towards him, lifting your leg up. He kisses along the ball of it, before taking your big toe into his mouth.

You had never, ever, been turned on by the thought of someone playing, or sucking your feet, but suddenly it’s like electricity zapping up your legs to your tummy and core — you can feel yourself growing damp just from his gentle tongue lapping around your toes and you can’t help little moans falling from your mouth. You’re normally ticklish but this time the sensation forms little jolts through your tummy, making it flip slightly, and butterflies form. He lets go with a little pop, his lips forming the perfect round little ‘O’ of suction and the warm wet heat is suddenly released, causing the air to feel colder and your feet more sensitive than ever before. When you look at him standing there, holding your ankle, caressing your calve you have a sudden flash of what it must be like to be a man — and suddenly you think you can understand why men love being sucked so much. The sight of him, his lips red, your toes wet, is overwhelmingly erotic.

He keeps going - right up your foot, before he holds your leg up, kissing up it before he put his knees on the bed again, lowering your limb to allow him to kneel over you. He places little kisses up your thighs, and you can feel his chin rubbing against your stomach as he kisses his way up there, he uses one elbow to lean on, keeping himself somewhat horizontal, but his other hand is following his lips.

"Time to prove it to you, little bun-bun." He whispers against your sternum, before turning his head, licking a line across your breast and capturing your nipple in his mouth. His hand reaches to squeeze your other, pinching the nipple until it hardens into a little nub. He pulls off of where he’s been sucking and blows onto you. The cool air over your wet nipple sends a jolt straight to your pussy — it’s clearly an education for you tonight since you’d also never before known how sensitive your chest really was. He laps at the other side, giving it a similar treatment, palming the breast around it. While you gasp and wiggle underneath him you can feel his length straining in his trousers, and the slight feel of his lowly buttoned shirt, allowing you to feel a slither of the hairs on his chest and tummy is enough to send your arousal into overdrive. You start tugging at his top and trying to feel around his waist to undo one of the belts that had become synonymous with his image, far more insistently than before. Demanding he takes it off, even as the words fail to make it out of your mouth alongside the moans and gasps caused by his ministrations. He pulls back, planting one last kiss on the side of your chest and laughs at you when you beg.

"Please, gotta see you, wanna see all of you - please Elvis, dreamed about this, gotta see it." But still, he complies with your request, sitting himself up to strip off his shirt; unbuttoning the last few buttons and then standing to kick off his trousers, pulling off his belt. You stare at him. Incapable of doing anything else. He’s carrying more weight than before, especially around his middle, although he’s still clearly a man of generally slim build, padded tummy over muscle. But regardless of his weight, or maybe because of it, he’s still beautiful. You reach for him when he lies back down, stroking the hair on his head - the hair that ensures you recognise that this is no longer the slicked-back hair of his Hollywood days and that he’s no longer a boy in anyway but a man and you need only look at his chest to remind you of that. The few sparse hairs that used to be there have been joined by a collection covering his chest and stomach in a soft carpet.

His hands move back down the sides of your body and he whispers to you, "Lift up baby," as you would while trying to undress a child to pull your panties down and off of you — throwing them god-knows-where also. You wriggle, nervous and self-conscious as he stares at you. He’s flushed pink down his face and chest, and he looks you over, assessing. He nods, clearly satisfied and smiles when you breathe a sigh of relief. You bring a hand down, and he follows with his own, going to stroke you.

"God Bunny, you’re dripping." And it’s true, your inner thighs were already sticky with your own slick and you’re genuinely not sure you’ve ever felt this wet without having even touched yourself. He brushes over you lightly, circling your clit, before going to press a single finger into you. Your own hand rests on top of his, ostensibly as if you were guiding him, but really being dragged by him. You let out a moan as he pulls your hand down to join his, directing and tugging your finger to join his, pulling them both out and pushing them back in together as if your two hands made one. It feels wild, it’s so out there, your soft hand intertwined with his rougher fingers pressed against one another as they delve into your most intimate place.

You’re not unused to the sensation in general but his singular finger alone was similar to two of your own and so you can feel a slight burn at your entrance, a barely-there sting that cuts through the pleasure. Like a pinch of salt atop a cookie, it only enhances the flavour — the feel andyourhips circle around as his thumb finds its way up to rub at your clit.

"Gotta make sure you’re nice and loose for me huh baby, just like a new set’a wheels gotta grease you up." You moan at his words, the objectification for some reason really doing something for you. He uses his other fingers to stroke gently at you and the tickling sensation is almost enough to tip you over the edge. He seems to hold you there for a miraculously long time, and you realise you probably ought to be trying to return the favour so you reach down to tug at his hard cock. It’s a different feel than what you were used to, you’d never been around an uncut penis before, and you didn’t really know what to do with it other than pretend that it was exactly the same as the two others you’d touched. He winces slightly when you roll your palm over before his foreskin has retracted back causing you to roll the skin around, pinching him as you try. He bats your hand out of the way, pumping himself. You take note and recreate his actions as best you can, and you know you’ve hit the sweet spot when his own hips jerk and his hand tightens around your wrist. He pulls his fingers out from you, dragging your hand back with him and flings your arm away, before going back down with three fingers, he prods them at your entrance, testing the boundary before slowly sinking them in. You whine at him, panting,

"Please, god, Elvis, you gotta, I’m ready for you, I swear I’m ready for you," he pulls his fingers out, and pushes your hand away from his cock, rolling you firmly onto your back and kneeling himself up again.

"Ok, Ok, Bunny, ok, I hear ya, I can feel you’re ready for me, just, just didn’t wanna hurt you, just wanna make you feel good little Bunny." He pulls your hips towards him and lines himself up.

He thrusts into you, pulling you onto him and you whine as you feel his sticky head stretching you open. Despite your claims of being ready for him it has been a while. His stomach is resting on yours, his tummy pressing down on you. It’s almost like he’s smothering you, he’s entirely enveloping you. His hands are holding your waist, bracketing you to him. If it were anyone else you think you might find it claustrophobic, so close together that your breath is mingling, you can see his pores, feel his belly button. But for some reason it just makes you want even more of him, getting as close as humanely possible, desperate for however much you can get. His taste, his smell, his everything.

"Oh god," as he pushes in further, devastatingly slowly, "Tight as a fucking virgin aren’t ya… you sure you haven’t still got your cherry? Sure I’m not about to - ah - pop it ‘gain?" You moan, trying to relax your breathing from its quickened state as you adjust to him inside you. He moves one of his hands to touch you, feeling where you’re spread open and up to press your clit, and you buck up involuntarily at the contact, forcing a few more inches of him in. He groans at the unexpected tight pressure and heat. You clutch at his shoulders as he responds with his thumb speeding up on you. He drives into you, and you clench down as you start to feel his fingers doing their job, along with his cock jabbing against your internal walls. You don’t recognise the noises coming out of your mouth, they’re not the practised noises that you might expect from a woman of your occupation, but the very real moans and groans from a woman surprised at how this could feel.

He’s breathing heavily, and you can see the sweat starting to form, but he keeps the pace — clearly, his near-constant performances have maintained his stamina. A bead of it starts to form on his brow and you watch it drip, slowly, down his cheek towards the little patch of sideburns. You suddenly yearn to taste it, it’s sure to be salty, and maybe a little sweet, but his musky smell is already filling your nostrils and you can’t help but want to lick it. You try to distract yourself, don’t want to embarrass yourself like that, how unbecoming that would be. You try to look at a point beyond his shoulders, but you fail when you feel his hot, large, heavy, hand on you - cupping your cheek and drawing your eyes back to his face.

"Where ya going little Bunny?" He huffs, "Stay with me." He’s pleading with you and it immediately catches your attention. You nod, frantically, as his hips rock back and forth into you. He grips your waist and hips tight and leans closer, pausing in his rutting to press into you, deep, and catching your mouth with his. When he pulls off of you, he goes to kiss the side of your face, curving over himself to kiss your neck and you can see another drip of swear forming. It’s too much to take and you reach with your hands, both of them cupping his head, pulling him back up to your eye level from your shoulder. He looks up slightly confused at why you’ve stopped him but his eyes quickly roll closed as you lean forward,

"Wanna taste you, let me taste you daddy." He nods, and you hold his head in place, kissing the side of his mouth, before licking his cheek, little kitten licks before a broader stripe up to his temples, where the sweat is forming. You were right; it’s sweet and salty, manly. His hips stutter a little and you can feel him twitch inside you, your own walls fluttering and clenching a little in response to his feel and taste. He pulls back a few inches, about to thrust back into you but you put a hand on his chest. He frowns down at you, disappointed that you were blocking his movements.

"Let me, let me — can I, wanna ride you." His eyes roll back and his bitten, pouty, lips fall open in pleasure as he doesn’t say anything but starts to remove himself from you. When his cock pops out, bobbing between you he rubs it against your folds, cockhead bumping your clit. You grind against him, before moaning at the loss as he sits himself at the head of the bed, sliding down to be in a semi-reclining position.

"C’mon then doll, have at it." He gestures with both hands at his crotch. "Hippity hop little Bun." You grin, you don’t normally love the bunny jokes and comments — you’re not ashamed of your job and in fact, you’re normally quite proud of your career, but you do like to keep it separate from your private life; it’s still your work, and you’re more than just a playboy bunny. But coming from him? If Elvis wants to call you Bunny, he can call you a bunny — hell you’d hop about the room, eating a carrot, until he was satisfied if he asked.

You sink down onto him, your slick and his precum have lubricated your entrance enough by now to make it far easier than his first push into you, although your mouth still falls open at the feel of the stretch. You moan at the feel of the different angles, hitting different parts of your walls as you bottom out before rising back up, only to rock yourself back down again. You try to pay attention to his face, work out what feels the best for him but honestly you’re too distracted trying to get the angle right for yourself. He seems content, though, to let you do the work, offering you a near-constant stream of praise;

"Uh-huh that’s it, good girl, good fucking girl.” You circle your hips in response, grinding down and he’s moaning at you, telling you that you’re "treating’ me so nice, oh god, oh yes." You bounce on him until your thighs are shaking and you’re so close, but you just need a little more something. You’re about to say so, and you’re reaching down one of your hands that had been on his shoulders to touch yourself when he says,

"It alright bunny if Daddy takes over again now?" You feel yourself clench, his slightly condescending tone for some reason heightening your arousal even further, and you nod rapidly. He lifts you off of him, his forearms flexing, and manhandles you into turning around - pushing you down onto all fours. Your arms are a little shaky and you lean down onto your elbows to compensate.

"Arch your back baby, that’s it." You comply with his request, feeling a little like a whore and how strange it was to feel, as fucked open as you were, the air running past your pussy. He grips your hips and lines up again, one hand staying around your hipbone while the other strayed around to hold you close to him, palm splayed across your lower stomach as he pushes into you again.

He slides in, the stretch lessening each time — you can still feel him, of course, but it’s less of a burning sensation and more of a gentle pull now. He’s constantly talking — praising you, telling you you’re "so goddamn fucking pretty" that "you were born to take this," and that you were "such a good girl." You’re not used to the noises he pulls from you, and you probably should be more concerned about how thin the walls are - he reminds you a few times that you "gotta be quieter baby, gotta quiet down, be a quiet little Bunny for me", but when his balls are slapping against you, his tummy knocking into you, and his cock is stretching your hole you lose the ability to stay quiet.

A stream of swears and words of approval coming from your own mouth, "C’mon, please Daddy, please, that’s it, that’s it, give it to me Daddy."

He reaches around, stroking you and rolling his fingers over the little silky soft patch between his cock and your clit, feeling around where you’re joined. It’s filthy - and unlike anything you’ve ever experienced, and when he reaches down with a hand - rubbing his fingers over you just so you’re reminded that you’re not the second person he’s ever fucked. He seems to know all the right moves to get you where he wants you, your head turned against the bed, gasping. You’re knocked momentarily silent when he pulls out, rubbing his cock up and down your folds, jabbing it against your clit before he presses a hand agaisnt your back, forcing your ass up higher and presses back inside you. This time he’s aiming, going deeper than his shallower thrusts before, and he knows he’s aimed true when you wail as he hits the bumpy little spot inside you. He breathes a laugh like your reaction is amusing to him — perhaps because of the sheer shock in your tone and he continues at the same pace. Hitting that same spot and focusing his fingers once again on your clit.

He circles his middle finger and thumb around, moving closer and closer before eventually, finally, brushing directly over it. It’s enough to make you cry out, thrashing around a little, legs jerking, as you come — your hole clenching around him causing him to groan in time with you. Your body goes slack against him, as he continues to pummel into you, although he does slow down, letting you ride the waves of your orgasm back down. He shifts slightly, pulling you up, and holding you by his grip on your waist and pussy as he kisses the sweat on your collarbone. Before abruptly shoving you back down onto the bed. Your face rubs against the fur as your arms give way, and you grab fistfuls to hold onto as he grips your hips, so tight you’re bound to bruise, and starts to pound away at you. You’re oversensitive and his rapid pace is a little uncomfortable, but as he starts to swear, and you can feel him drawing near he reaches down with his left hand, and nudges your folds open again. He rubs your clit at a pace that would normally have made you shove the guy off of you, so little attention given elsewhere, but that matches his own hips perfectly and is apparently just the right amount of abrasion to send you careening to the edge again. You convulse on his cock at almost the exact same moment you can feel him rapidly pulling out, to shoot his own cum across your ass and back.

"Now you got your own little white tail Bunny." He doesn’t let you rest. As soon as he’s stopped spurting he’s pushing you over, rolling you onto your back and diving between your legs. He tongues your sloppy, open, hole and he licks his way up and down your folds, before tongue-fucking into you. His fingers coming up to replace his tongue, scissoring into you, so that he can lick up to your clit, sucking on that little nub and sending your oversensitive self straight through to a third orgasm. You scream, unable to remain quiet any longer, clutching at his hair and holding him tight to you as you writhe against his mouth. He licks you out like a man possessed, like he’s been told it’s essential for the good of humanity, and you’ve never had someone do this to you before; you had no idea this was how this felt, but to have someone so dedicated to the task was a feeling almost as heady as the orgasm itself.

He flops back, resting his head back onto your inner thigh, and you pat gently at his head, still breathless and unable to speak as you blink away black spots in your vision. He’s breathing heavily and you can feel his sweaty forehead on your fingertips. You can’t believe it’s his soft, sweaty hair in your hands. God, you wished this plane would never land. He sits up, and looks down at you, patting at your pussy lightly, as you would a pet, affectionately. You look over at your clothes, wondering if you’ll even be able to contain your puffy folds in the tiny gusset of the corset teddy when he distracts you by leaning down and pressing a kiss against your forehead.

"If it’s alright with you, darling, I think I might request you on my crew every time I fly."

#elvis fic #elvis fanfic #elvis smut #elvis x reader #elvis x you #elvis presley smut #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley x you #elvis presley fanfiction

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